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<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=110 BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF" bgproperties="fixed" background="04900840dvldtc.gif"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B>The First Church of Holy Rock and Roll</B></FONT><FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#FFFFCC" FACE="Tempus Sans ITC" ><B> </B></FONT><B>    |     </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The First Church of Holy Rock and Roll"><U><B>home</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id28.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Commandments"><U>The Commandments</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id21.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Sermon"><U>The Sermon</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id19.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="New Reviews"><U>New Reviews</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id44.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Short Takes"><U>Short Takes</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id20.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Blasts from the Past"><U>Blasts from the Past</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id41.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U>Interviews</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id55.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Books That Rock!"><U>Books That Rock!</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id47.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Movies That Rock!"><U>Movies That Rock!</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id49.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="On the Front Line: Shimamoto Reports"><U>On the Front Line: Shimamoto Reports</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id53.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Dimitri Monroe: Letters from a BurntOut "><U>Dimitri Monroe: Letters from a Burnt-Out Recluse</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Josh Slates on Cinema"><U>Josh Slates on Cinema</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id56.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cravens RockORama"><U>Cravens' Rock-O-Rama</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id40.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Holy Mix Tape"><U>Holy Mix Tape</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id62.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="KCOUs Shake Em On Down! 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He or we?</B></div> <div> <B><IMG SRC="0aac8170.gif" border=0 width="200" height="279" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> <B>A hip mutha fuyer.</B></div> <div> <A HREF="http://www.asylumstreetspankers.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.asylumstreetspankers.com"><U><B><IMG SRC="0de86be0.gif" border=0 width="134" height="190" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></div> <div> <B>Wha...? See Spankers Web Site with a mere click!</B></div> </td> <td valign="top" height=370 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> Review Archive</div> <bR> <div>  <A NAME="white_stripes"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B><IMG SRC="232afc90.gif" border=0 width="175" height="201" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> <B>You'd sneer too if you had to wear red every show.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>The White Stripes: </B><I><B>White Blood Cells</B></I></div> <div> <B>(Sympathy for the Record Industry)</B></div> <bR> <div>      We are most definitely in a time of slim pickings in rock and roll--a fact, unfortunately, to which this site's recent attention to <I>not-exactly-rock-and-roll </I>attests--and, combined with  Our Rockin' Congregation's oft-demonstrated predilection for Next Big Things, that's a by-God dangerous situation. We want something to kick our asses so bad we'll settle for a mere approximation of the Real Thing. Why else would, say, aping the MC5 or Patti Smith, or, more specifically, trying to pass aura (read raw<I>-sounding</I>) as a substitute for pure, sincere expression (read <I>awopbopaloobopawopbamBOOM!</I>) be sung as cutting-edge when it oughtta be laffed outta town?</div> <div>      If you're reading this, I surely don't need to tell you about Detroit's White Stripes. Since feeding two stripped-down records (1999's <I>White Stripes</I>, 2000's <I>De Stijl</I>) to the starving hordes (and that's a way relative term, 'cause it ain't just <I>the music</I> that's shrunk like a spider on a hot stove), they've convinced a lot of us that they've got the nutrients we need to survive. </div> <div> <I>     A lot of us</I>. I myself have been unmoved: besides the profusion of gimmicks (unchanging peppermint-schemed stage gear, siblings-or-lovers relationship, drums-and-guit-only format), Jack White's singing reminded me alternately of puking infants and a teen-tonsilled Robert Plant writhing in the throes of groupie-tendered fellatio. No soul. Which, when applied to songs by Son House or Robert Johnson or Blind Willie McTell, equalled another major annoyance; just when echoes of Jon Spencer's snide minstrel irony had seemingly been vanquished from earshot--'bout fucking time!--they're back with a vengeance. Yep, the boy wrote his own stuff, too, but it was yechhy cute. Yep, the boy's guitar was "explosive" and "raw"--his'n about 100 others in the National Garage (personally, I'll take the Hard Feelings' John Schooley's, the Neckbones' Tyler Keith's, Tim Carroll's, or any of the Oblivians' any day). No, he didn't let his gal/sis sing--why the hell<I> not</I>? So, my response was, "What's the big deal?"</div> <div>     The new White Stripes release on Sympathy, <I>White Blood Cells</I>, has purt-near every  rock and roll rag in spasmodic rave mode, ensuring that major labels are gonna be doing back flips to sign the Newly Anointed Ones (already, the band's reportedly turned down fairly long green for a mere $20,000 from SFTRI--to their immense credit, if true, but what real rock and roller <I>doesn't</I> wanna get their shit across to the real masses, deep in their hearts...now really?). Even Grandpa Greil Marcus has weighed in with a plug in the pages of (va-va-voom!) <I>Salon</I>. As for the Reverend Coomers, he never gives up on <I>anybody</I>: anybody can see the light at any time, that's the nature of the beast, as much as it's forgotten by our schools, churches, families, and governments. Some folks never glimpse it, it's true, but that's no reason to give up hope for the whole <I>lot</I> of us. To the point: Is spasmodic rave mode the justifiable response?</div> <div>      Well, no. Though the sound's just as blunt as ever, with only a little pianner and acoustic folkstrum to teasingly signify the never-to-be-trusted "musical growth," the material's slouching toward heart-on-yer-sleeve pop reverie at its edges. Nothing wrong with that, per se, but a good chunk of such songs are of the teeny-bopper variety, and since the Jackster's in his twenties, it may not be his heart he's sporting on his red vestments. Reminds me of Big Star's <I>#1 Record</I>, where Alex Chilton, whose experiences even at that time surely had moved beyond holding hands at the malt shop, composed lyrics about walking his baby home from school. Cheese--scratch that, <I>processed cheese food</I>. Still a little too precious.</div> <div>      However, one can bite into just as juicy a chunk of winners here, such as the crunching, tortured lead cut, "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground," and "I'm Finding It Harder to Be a Gentleman," where White builds a bridge to that legendary mourner of manners, Ray Davies, whose quirky warble White's singing conjures at its best. "Fell in Love with a Girl," despite the generic title, would mop the floor with any guitar-driven love song being played on any frequency anywhere in America. A few quasi-political statements of stance also make the cut ("Union Forever" and "Offend in Every Way," which doesn't, unfortunately), and these, along with the above-mentioned and the rollicking "Hotel Yorba," show that the boy's got plenty of potential that's yet to be exploited. He's even gaining firmer control of his vocals. His writing and singing aren't unique and deft enough enough of the time to consistently avoid The Matthew Sweet Syndrome (blazing guitars disguise soft-headed words), but if he can lighten up on the schmaltz, he will be a<I> force</I>. At least he's moving away from blues covers--a very good sign.</div> <div>      Oh yeah: the drummer <I>kicks ass</I>. Let her sing one, bud. You did dedicate the record to Loretta Lynn, after all.</div> <bR> <div>       Next Big Thing? Lighten the fuck up. BUT--if the kids can ignore the pressure--they're gonna put out some records in the future that are <I>more</I> than just interesting or temporarily amazing, particularly if they can more personally complete the geometry that connects them with this sick, sad world and its ghosts, like McTell and Lynn and Davies. Then, forget the Next Big Thing. You'll have The Next Real Thing, which is what we need.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>White Stripes Live!</B> </div> <div> Blue Note, Friday, Sept. 7th, 2001</div> <div> by Jesse Cravens </div> <div>  <A NAME="live_stripes"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div>      My eardrums are swollen. Not necessarily because of the White Stripes (there were two opening bands, both loud and obnoxious), but they certainly contributed their fair share. The Whites displayed some admirable traits before their set, and I (although sorely in need of an aspirin) am suitably impressed that the hype hasn't turned them into ROCK-STARS quite yet. For one thing, their merchandise was cheap, something that is very nice for those of us who don't want to spend all twenty of our dollars on a t-shirt. Also, Meg (she signed my notes, even though I was shouting at her) and Jack were seen pacing in and out of the dance floor, mingling with the assembled Future of America with surprising ease. Of course, no one ever said Detroit didn't raise 'em all populist-like. When the Green Hornes (who abused waaaay too many old Blue Oyster Cult licks) left the stage, several abortive attempts at a "White Stripes" chant were fielded. None of them took, but probably because the audience was still reeling from Cincinnatti GUITARS!mania. </div> <div>      What impressed me about their live show was the sheer energy. I suppose that can be translated into some kind of "showmanship" analogy, but energy is really the only way I can describe it, and it was infectious as hell.  Jack White rammed the loud-fast-desperate blues down his audiences throat, and they damn well ate it up on credit alone! I mean, punks and emos (who were there JUST for something that was loud and fast) were seen dancing something besides the pogo! Christ be praised! Maybe it was the guitar-slinging, frentic and honest. Maybe it was the beat, rock-steady and awe-inspiring (Meg White's stage presence is as laconic as it is absolutely spellbinding). Maybe it was the lyrics (my personal favorite), but that wasn't likely. Jack White's voice would often go up into the "only dogs can hear" registers, making his words inaudible. Not to say that he's a bad singer. Unlike so many of his punky contemporaries that have voices only psychotics could love, White sings the hell out of his, evoking at his best moments an absolutly hilarious (yet aesthetically satisfying) Ray Davies and at his worst a (much-better-than) Robert Plant. </div> <div>      After the encore, the Whites vacated the stage. It was at that moment that the chants finally took hold of the audience, inspiring even this writer to join in. And that was sweet, sweet music.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>The Razzels: </B><I><B>Throttle</B></I><B> (Get Hip) </B><B> <A NAME="razzels"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> <B>by Ken Shimamoto</B></div> <bR> <div> I wanna thank the Razzels for lunch.</div> <bR> <div> I was sitting around the house, chatting with Peta online, trying to decide whether or not to go catch Mike Watt in Dallas (wound up not...too beat, waiting for my daughter to come home, no beer money), and wound up listening to a coupla promos I got in the mail (watch for those tell-tale signs of anthrax, oddly shaped parcels, grease stains, too many pieces of tape on the package). The first one was a typical Tim Kerr production - all live-sounding blare, with "free jazz" saxophonage. Feh. I took it off in the middle of the becoming-obligatory Stones "Exile on Main St." soundalike, and put this on.</div> <bR> <div> I was about to take it off when my daughter came home, along with her friend, the 17-year-old lead singer in my current band, who was in the middle of describing all the trouble she'd gotten into with the administration for writing an editorial in her school paper about students' rights (in the context of a discussion of the school dress code) when all of a sudden she asked, "Hey, who's THIS?" (gesturing toward the stereo).</div> <bR> <div> "The Razzels," I said. "A three-piece punk band from upstate New York...Buffalo, to be exact." (When I was six years old and going to school in Urbana, Illinois, for a year, I was asked what part of New York I was from. "Are you from the city?" my teacher asked. "Uh, no," I replied. "Then where?" I figured it'd be too hard to explain to them the particulars of my nowhere little town on Long Island, so I took a gander at the Empire State in the U.S. map on the wall and said, "Buffalo.")</div> <bR> <div> "It's their second album," I added helpfully.</div> <bR> <div> "They're pretty good," she said. She has the pipes (if not the control) of a young Grace Slick. This Thursday I'm gonna record our rehearsal so she can hear just how much work she has to do on HITTING THE NOTES.</div> <bR> <div> "Kinda OK, nondescript pop-punk," I sniffed, every bit the internationally renowned Internet scribe that I am. "Worth two bucks at Half Price Books."</div> <bR> <div> "Really?"</div> <bR> <div> "Yeah. CD Warehouse gives me four bucks for stuff they know they can sell; for the rest</div> <div> (including unsolicited promos - the kind Brian at CD Warehouse diplomatically refers to as 'too cool for our customers') I can usually get two at Half Price. You want it?"</div> <bR> <div> "Really?"</div> <bR> <div> "Yeah." </div> <bR> <div> "How much?"</div> <bR> <div> "Uh, four bucks."</div> <bR> <div> She reached in her wallet and forked over four crumpled bills. Hot damn, I thought ...lunch tomorrow!</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="263aaaa0.jpg" border=0 width="170" height="170" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div>  <A NAME="nuggets_2"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> <B>Rawkin’ All Over the World:</B></div> <div> <I><B>Nuggets II: Original Artyfacts from the British Empire and Beyond</B></I></div> <bR> <div>      Chances are you’ve heard by now that Rhino’s sequel to their titanic and ultra-essential <I>Nuggets </I>garagebox gathers rawky little Sixtiesongs from outside our borders, 109 of ‘em in all. Gary Stewart, Rhino’s helmsmen, didn’t want to do the obvious and sweep our oilstained floors for more (and probably less, though their two doo wop boxes don’t dip) inspired American amateurism; he wanted to illustrate a smashing, bashing global village at work. He couldn’t have picked a better time for this brainstorm, what with Japan, Sweden, and Australia currently waxing the hardest rawk in the world. So: should we have foreseen being pinned to the musical mat by fabulous foreigners, based on this box’s contents?</div> <div>      Not exactly. If I had to hie it to a deserted isle with one or the other, I’d have the first one in my rucksack. For one, it doesn’t fade on Disc 4. For another, its guitars and lyrics and (especially) singing bite down deeper. In addition, the little time-bomb surprises (I’m thinking specifically of the Golliwogs, the Monks, and the Nightcrawlers) are more plentifully spread, and the poppy stuff swerves to doucheville much less often. That being said, though, I’m not going to a deserted isle and neither are you (yet, and even though it sure feels like it at times), so save your samoleans or find someone to burn a copy from, ‘cause <I>Nuggets II </I>is extremely cool. The sheer volume of loud stuff you probably haven’t heard is enough justification for purchase, the inevitable 100-page book, written by experts like Mike Stax and Greg Shaw, will keep you busy, entertained, and enlightened for hours, and the sonic punch of the drums (Moon’s legacy?) and rhythm gits prove more than a match for their U.S. counterparts. Let’s tour the box, shall we?</div> <div>      Disc One leads off with the box’s secret weapon, the Creation, who were to the Who as the Count 5 were to the Yardbirds. Their “Making Time” and “Biff! Bang! Pow!” are two of my faves in the collection. One of the spiffy things about Box 1 was the appearance of future stars like Zevon and Fogerty, and Box 2 continues the tradition, only with a difference: here, future nimrods show they were once cool.<I> </I>The root-ends of none other than ELO, the Move and the Idle Race, cut some hard<I> </I>psychedelia in “I Can Hear the Grass Grow” and “Imposters of Life’s Magazine,” and even soon-to-be Yes guitar pussyoso Steve Howe contributes some actual mean stuff to Tomorrow’s “White Bicycle.” Oz’s Easybeats, whose “Friday on Your Mind” you probably know (it’s here if you don’t own it) and whose lil’ brothers in AC/DC you better love, contribute the fast-riffing “Sorry.” Les Fleur De Lys expertly approximate our own special three-chord petulance in “Mud In Your Eye.” The Pretty Things, for whom you have to go through fucking hoops just to hear their great shit otherwise, land three tracks on the box, the best of which appears here, “Midnight to Six.” It’s nice to know that Spain’s Los Bravos weren’t just one-cut wonders when they hit with “Black is Black” (which oughtta be here instead of, at the very least, Disc Four’s wretched “Dance Around the Maypole”) in ‘66; their “Going Nowhere” rocked even harder. And I better not forget the already-famous “125,” by the Haunted, which I bet they thought<I> </I>about for the first box but ruled out because it was made by Canucks. I’m not gonna do a track-by-track tick-off, but the opening disc is great fun. Give ‘er a 10!</div> <div>      Disc Two smacks you upside the head with The Misunderstood’s (<I>not</I> Billy Thorpe’s) “Children of the Sun,” fired by Glen Ross Campbell’s wild-ass guitar and Rick Moe’s go-for-broke skin-bashing (I’ll say it again: the goddam drumming that powers this set--maybe it’s just the production--is enough to make you go buy a kit and light into it), and Wimple Witch’s witchy “Save My Soul.” It’s nice to see the underrated John’s Children make the cut with “Desdemona” (she “pick[s] up her skirt and fl[ies]”)--though their pilled-up “Smashed, Blocked” is conspicuously missing (you’ll have to buy <I>Orgasm </I>or Richie Unterberger’s <I>Unknown Legends of Rock and Roll </I>for that mad masterpiece). Repeat appearances by the Pretty Things, The Move, and The Easybeats (“Friday On My Mind,” the ultimate working-stiff carrot-on-the-end-of-the- stick anthem) cut deep, and while you may question whether Van Morrison (representing Northern Ireland with the explosive “I Can Only Give You Everything”) and the Troggs are (odd to say this) obscure enough to be here, they fit right in; in fact, that the former doesn’t blow everything else on the disc all the way to Pluto says a helluva lot for the standards of the comp. Also of note: The Craig’s ugly “I Must Be Mad” needs to be covered pronto by somebody on Estrus or Crypt; Caleb’s nutty “Your Phrasing is Bad”’s phased guitar is all the way good; lil’ David Bowie does a limp Roger Daltrey impression (and reveals that that opportunistic eye was there from the gitgo) as Davy Jones on the otherwise-rocking “You’ve Got a Habit of Leaving”; limey douche-pop begins to creep into the proceedings with Rupert’s People’s “Reflections of Charles Brown” and The Mascots’ “Words Enough to Tell You.” Still, there’s enough to keep you bouncing around the house. A 9 for leaving a little splash upon entry, upgraded a half-point for ending tuff, with The Boots’ riff-notic “Gaby” and The Creation’s aforementioned “Biff! Bang! Pow!”</div> <div>      Just when your average big-box-behemoth starts to lose its erection, <I>Nuggets II</I> kicks into overdrive and careens toward a climax. Disc Three is really what your undeviating three-chord Stateside primitive is waiting for: it bristles with pugnacious riffs, anarchic production, and angry singing, with only a few sidetracks into unadulterated pop and psychedelia. Picks to click: Cuby and the Blizzards’ straight- shooting “Your Body and Not Your Soul” (from the Netherlands), Les Fleur De Lys’ dynamite cover of the Who’s “Circles,” The Matadors’ “Get Down from the Tree” (mad Czechs discover rock and roll!), Q’65’s raging-bull-in-a-china closet “Cry in the Night,” The Bluestars’ pure-punk “Social End Product” (Standells go to New Zealand), The Syndicats’ “Crawdaddy Simone” (a flat-out raving studio wig-out produced by none other than Joe Meek; Shel Talmy, George Martin, Giorgio Gomelsky, even Robert Stigwood twiddle the knobs on other selections here), The Missing Links’ “You’re Driving Me Insane (from Australia), and the provocatively titled “Who Dat?” from Canada’s “The Jury.” That run, the strongest on the whole set, is compressed into the opening half-hour. The middle of the disc ain’t so shabby, either. Everybody loves (but few own) Status Quo’s phase-crazy “Pictures of Matchstick Men.” The Guess Who were rockers before “These Eyes,” as “It’s My Pride” demonstrates. Several tracks, most notably The Elois’ “By My Side,” indulge in not necessarily painfully prolonged psychojams threaded with feedback (which is why they’re not necessarily painful). Then...it comes again, with four brief, mean little rawk tantrums in the last six tracks:  the accurately-named “The Train to Disaster” (exactly what the song sounds like--and that’s a compliment), by The Voice, The Slaves’ “Slaves Time” (from Austria--did these guys see The Monks perform?), The Red Squares’ “You Can Be My Baby,” and the Downliners Sect’s “Glendora.” Another 10 for Disc Three (I played it twice in a row myself!).</div> <div>      As I listen again to the final disc of <I>Nuggets II</I>, it occurs to me that I might have been too tough on it earlier in this review. It has its share of delights, many of them transcendentally zany (such as Japan’s The Mops, whose fuzzed-up “I’m Just a Mops” warns that “I don’t care of them/’Cuz I’m just a Mops”--shades of Thee Michelle Gun Elepant!--Uruguay’s Los Shakers, rocking their instruments furiously but barely clinging to English, and Brazil’s Os Mutantes, who...well...let’s just say you ain’t ever heard garage played like <I>this</I>). It opens aggressively (these guys know how to program openers!) with early Pretty Things (the <I>best</I> Pretty Things, to my mind) and one of Australia’s most popular early garage bands, The Atlantics, moves on to The Creation’s crunching, ominous “How Does It Feel to Feel,” The Mops, more Downliners Sect (coulda thrown us a few more of theirs, guys), Canada’s Ugly Ducklings, and Los Shakers, before that tributary of twee begins to trickle in. Twelve experts put this collection together, but damned if I can understand how dreck like “The Bitter Thoughts of Little Jane” and the indescribably horrid (I’ve mentioned it twice, so now you’ll <I>want</I> to hear it--caveat emptor, motherfuckers!) “Dance Around the Maypole” made the team while a few more a piece by The Downliners Sect, The Pretty Things, Los Bravos, The Creation, or John’s Children--or more obscure-but-rawkin’ stuff--were sent packing. But, hell, it’s a box set--you’re gonna bitch unless it’s <I>Star Time</I> you’re listening to. Anyhow, as you step lightly around the occasional cowpatties that bespatter the last third of Disc 4, don’t miss The Smokes’ rowdy, mopy, fantastically fuzzed “No More Now,” The Chants R&B’s cover of John Mayall’s “I’m Your Witchdoctor” (New Zealand makes few foolish moves on this set!), The Zipps’ concert-in-a-cave “Kicks and Chicks,” and a couple of  blasts from Germany, The Boots’ “But You’ll Never Do It, Babe” and The Rattles’ “It’s My Fault.” See--it really doesn’t sound that bad after all, does it? An 8.5 is pretty snazzy for the last of four discs.</div> <div>      There you have it. <I>Nuggets II</I> is a good deal for the price (it lists for about $59 at CDNow), though, if you know someone who’s got it, you’re lucky enough to be able to burn, and you can’t take the sillier strains of psychedelia, you could compress it to three discs that’ll never stop rattling your backbone (can’t you always?). The revelations for me were (again) the sheer volume of great stuff I’d never heard/heard of, the high aesthetic quality of the Who’s influence abroad, the knack of British producers for punching up a song’s rhythm, and--a related revelation, methinks--the itching suspicion (had it before with the Who) that power pop starts here. Like its predecessor, <I>Nuggets II</I> is chock full of great riffs, pissed vocals, surprise appearances, and nutty fun. Hey--ask for it for Capitalistmas, punko.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Tricky Woo: </B><B> <A NAME="tricky_woo_"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> <I><B>Les Sables Magiques</B></I><B> </B></div> <div> <B>(Tee Pee Records, POB 20307, NY, NY 10009-9991)</B></div> <div> by Ken Shimamoto</div> <bR> <div> A stunning surprise, this...a throwback to an era (ca. '68-'70 - oops, I'm dating myself now) of interesting, THOUGHT-PROVOKING rawk rekkids like the White Album, "Beggar's Banquet," Traffic's "Mr. Fantasy," or, uh, maybe the Pretty Things' "Parachute." From a Canadian band that I thought (based exclusively on some vid of 'em I'd seen) had pretty good garage-punk energy and not much else. This rec shows them as more of a ROCK'N'ROLL band...they actually vary their dynamics and develop their material. Look how wrong ya can be! </div> <div>      Maybe it's 'cos I was listening to "Double Nickels On the Dime" last night, but it strikes me as I listen to this today that these three guys are as good</div> <div> players as the Minutemen were (albeit in a very different style, although like D. Boon, singer/guitarist Andrew Dickson favors funky syncopations and snaky single-line</div> <div> workouts over power chords), and as atypical of their modern alternarock milieu as the Minutemen were of the punk world in which they operated. In terms of more recent stuff, it kinda reminds me of Norwegian space-rock guys Motorpsycho in its R&B-derived psychedelic abandon, except this is much more focused and dynamic.</div> <div>      There's a lot to like here - the songwriting is interesting and varied, ranging from mellow acoustic interludes (with strings!) to jazzy bits to jam-worthy riff-rock. Dickson uses a wide palette of diverse gtr textures, from pristine clean tones and countryish chicken-pickin' to wah and slide, to color the sound...often in the space of a single song. The riddim boyzzz follow wherever he leads and make the music whisper and scream. The voxxx (by Dickson and bassman Eric Larock) are as passionate and blues-drenched as Zen Guerrilla's.</div> <div>      This record is so good I can tell it's gonna spend a lot of time in my player in the days to come, so good it makes me wanna go back and investigate their earlier work, starting with "Sometimes I Cry" from back in '99, high praise indeed. Forget Barenaked Ladies, these guys are the best non-hockey playing import from the frozen North since Scott Young's boy pointed his hearse for L.A.</div> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="gary"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="23ec8f20.jpg" border=0 width="200" height="242" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>Gary Stewart: King of the Whiskey Vibrato</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Buy This Record NOW!!!!</B></div> <div> <B>Gary Stewart: </B><I><B>Out of Hand/Your Place or Mine</B></I></div> <div> <B>(Koch Records)</B></div> <bR> <div>      There's no greater <I>living</I> tragedy in American music than the obscurity of Gary Stewart's work. "Who?" you ask. <I>Only </I>the wildest and most intense honky-tonk singer of the last quarter century. <I>Only</I> the penultimate poet of bottom-of-the-glass, last-cigarette sinful wages. <I>Only </I>a performer so powerful neither country choirs nor Jordanaires could drown his laser vibrato. Excuse the hyperbole, but, dammit, anybody that knows me knows I swear by George Jones, whose genius is hard to exaggerate, and Mr. Stewart's stuff--though he's suffered two long silences, one brought on by a combination of industry idiocy, consumer apathy, and coke 'n' whiskey, the other current and mysterious--<I>cuts his </I>(we're talking post-'75 Possum, of course, still no mean feat). He's had two NASTY best-ofs go outta print already, with a third probably on the way, but some sensate individual at Koch Records has seen fit to issue Gary's two best albums, 1975's <I>Out of Hand</I> and 1977's <I>Your Place or Mine</I>, together on one CD. Buy it <I>now</I> if you've got blood in your veins and a head full of brains.</div> <div>      "If he's so damn good," you're asking now, "why wasn't he famous?" Well, he <I>was</I>. He actually scored several hit singles on the country chart for RCA, including a #1 with "(I've Got This) Drinkin' Thing," the lead cut here, and a more desolate barroom lament can't be found. The song epitomizes his classic ballads, of which no fewer than six are included here: with quiet intensity, Stewart drags his heart kicking and screaming through Wayne "The Letter" Carson's verses ("If I wait up at home/She'll only ask me questions/She'd probably tell the truth/So I don't even ask/So I sit here on this barstool/Feelin' helpless/And wonder just how long/A man can last") before <I>exploding</I> into the chorus ("I've got this drinking thing/To keep from thinkin' things/'Bout where you been/Who ya been with/And what you done!"), his Jerry Lee-like wild country tenor razoring through layers of backup sugar (fortunately, Stewart's longtime producer Roy Dea, usually kept the ornamentation confined to the choruses). Later on downdisc, your socks will also be knocked off by "Drinkin' Thing"'s twin, "She's Actin' Single (I'm Drinkin' Doubles)," where Gary's delivery of the line "My heart is breaking/Like the tiny bubbles") vies with <I>pre-</I>'75 Possum. If there's any explanation as to why the man didn't conquer the world, it may be that the torn whiskey vibrato that graces these blood-lettings in song's clothing was a little much for the music-as-background crowd, and it's in prime form on this cut. </div> <div>      I wouldn't be writing about Stewart if he couldn't rock and roll. Though he's most often in weeper mode here, "Out of Hand" and "Your Place or Mine" deliver ten times the energy-jolt of your average country-rocker. The latter celebrates a naughty dabbling that liberates the old boy from a static marriage ("I never intended/For it to go this far/Now I don't think I can get off/From where we are/Some time to waste/So just a taste/Was all that I had planned..."); the former's sung as the protagonist knee-walks out of a bar, his equally drunken gal in a head lock. Sin's never far away from his mind, it's just that the fast ones, unsurprisingly, are about living it up, and the slow ones are about living it down. One wonders why the Killer himself didn't latch on to any of these songs, though he wouldn't have been able to match Stewart's careening desperation.</div> <div>      This release is one of the great 2-on-1's, along with X's <I>Los Angeles/Wild Gift</I> and Howlin' Wolf's <I>Howlin' Wolf/Moanin' in the Moonlight</I>. There's but one or two mild cuts, and you DON'T want to listen to it if you've had your heart stomped--you'll just do more damage. And as soon as you buy it, move on to the still-available <I>Essential Gary Stewart</I>, where you can sample the bleakest, bitterest divorce song in country music history, "Quits," as well as "Single Again" ("Now he's got you/And I've got two/Divorce lawyers on my back") and "Whiskey Trip." Better yet is the apparently out-of-print <I>Gary's Greatest</I>, which combines his best RCA music with the cream of his comeback on Hightone, including a long look into the abyss titled "An Empty Glass." It also doesn't cheat on Stewart rockers like "Little Junior" ("You mothers and fathers better be on guard/And keep your little girl in the yard...") and obscurities like "She's Got a Drinking Problem" ("...and it's me"). And for you garage sale/E-Bay junkies, stay alert for <I>You're Not the Woman You Used to Be</I>, a Kapp LP Gary disassociated himself from but which includes wonderful performances of <I>truly</I> nutball rockabilly songs--many written by Stewart--including "Sweet Tater and Cisco," which features a gang bang, "The Snuff Queen" (the traditional country name for groupies), "Big Bertha, the Truck Driving Queen," and "Caffeine, Nicotine, Benzedrine" ("...and wish me luck!").</div> <div>      This man is a god, and deserves the box-set treatment with heavy promo. That's a pipe dream, I know. At any rate, if you're thirsty for soul-searing singing, you can do no better than park your money right here.</div> <div> <B> <A NAME="mccoury"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B><IMG SRC="2492cc40.jpg" border=0 width="300" height="196" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Bluegrass Revelation Uncloisters The Reverend:</B></div> <div> <B>Del McCoury and Family</B></div> <div> <B>Live at Chevy Music Hall, Steelville, Missouri</B></div> <bR> <div>      I might as well confess. I fucking hate live music. Besides the fact that any band with heart and soul avoids the local landscape like the plague, besides the fact that, when somebody great actually does show up, half the audience is there to be seen in their post-slacker duds and yell at each other at the bar (at one of the few shows I've attended in recent years, Steve Earle yelled at just such a coolclot, "Yeah, I remember <I>my </I>first beer"--blissfully ignorant of a show going on, they kept yelling at each other), besides the fact that I am an asshole magnet extraordinaire...I'd just as soon get some real rawkers together for cards and beer inside The Church itself and crank up the vastly superior studio recording. I'm not even sure I'm gonna check out the White Stripes next month for $5.</div> <div>     But when my ace boon coon Deacon Pike offered Mrs. Coomers and I free tickets and a ride to a Friday the13th show in the mid-Missouri boonies, we didn't turn 'em down. Why? 'Cause they were <I>free</I>, motherfucker, and the honorable Deacon Pike and Mrs.Coomers are damned good company. Plus there's just so much of the inside of  The First Church of Holy Rock and Roll that the good Reverend can stand looking at for too long. Plus the featured act was Del McCoury and his crack bluegrass band, playing in the middle of Missouri bluegrass country.</div> <div>      It's not that we didn't have our misgivings. Though every album McCoury's put out since the late '80s has been a killer diller, as is true with a lot of bluegrass artists they're SUPER PROS, thus perhaps given to doing ho-hum "Xerox" shows. Also, besides a few TV appearances we'd never seen 'em live: Would they play more than 45 minutes? Would they lean too heavily on Jesus Christ and instrumental band member showcases? Though an asshole magnet is much less likely to attract among good common folk (I'm not shitting you here), would the Steelville asshole magnets attract us? Finally, though we packed the new McCoury Family album as we loaded up the official Church van, we'd yet to hear it. After a string of miraculously excellent albums and some major outside exposure thanks to Steve Earle (who supposedly Del's washed his hands of 'cause he says "fuck" too much on stage, but who we believe has become such a big shot (again!!) that Del couldn't stand being around him), would the mundanely titled <I>Del and the Boys </I>be the inevitable eventual dog, and would we get treated to a double dose of it? The mental hell of uncloistering yourself...it's a wonder we ever do.</div> <div>      The show left us wondering whether we should really get out more. Surrounded by a bunch of humble, eager fans who often knew as much about the music as McCoury did, and acted damned committed to it as well, we experienced the aural equivalent to getting our ashes hauled. On record, McCoury's lost-dog-lonesome tenor is penetrating, as instantly recognizable and affecting as Willie, Hag, George or John; live, it's a thin, high, hot ray of concentrated hurt right between the eyes. The Reverend generally looks askance at anything modern religion touches, but when Del dug deep into Bill Monroe's "Get Down On Your Knees and Pray," I damn near did. Feh on the Christian concept of sin, but the way McCoury sang, I could feel in my bones the reality that, yep, we are capable of such horrible acts our mothers would disown us, and that redemption is something you just gotta beg for sometimes, from someone, somehow. On record, the band's expert and usually inspired; live, fired by son Ronnie's gangster mandolin, they vie with the Scruggs-Flatt edition of Monroe's Bluegrass Boys as the best mountain music unit I've ever put an ear to. The skeptical rawker might view these guys' speedy instrumental virtuosity as anathema, but PUH-leeeeeeze: you know you like it when the music's<I> fast</I>. Think Sonic's break on "American Ruse," Bob Mould's on "Punch Drunk," Alvin Lee's climax on "Goin' Home," Chuck's on "Too Much Monkey Business." Though Ronnie isn't about mess, he ain't about clean, either; he roughed up his solos just enough to give 'em that sandpaper texture we adore. When an audience member called out for another Monroe classic, "Rawhide," an instrumental Big Mon used to wield like a cat-o'-nine-tails, Del initially demurred: smart guy. But we pushed, and he set the band loose. Ronnie shook the tune like a dirty ol' rug, leaving it like you'd never heard it before. Rob McCoury's jack-of-all-styles banjo and Jason Carter's haunted fiddle made a lasting impression as well.</div> <div>      The two-hour set, over which Papa presided with genial good humor and a grinning pride in his boys, his band, and their music, shone with gems extracted mostly from their last three albums. Among the many highlights were "Henry Walker," a Mike O'Reilly tune about the triumph of native intelligence over modern law enforcement techniques which updates the Harry Smith anthology, and Ray Price's "I'll Be There" (both from 1996's masterful <I>The Cold Hard Facts</I>); the creepy, cautionary <I>Invasion of the Body Snatchers</I>-like "City of Stone," and one of their many off-the-wall covers, the Lovin' Spoonful's "Nashville Cats" (both from 1999's <I>The Family</I>; and a perfectly cherry-picked bunch from the solid new record: Richard Thompson's "1952 Vincent Black Lightning" (unlike your garden-variety bluegrass unit, the McCourys have a taste for rebellion), "Learnin' the Blues," (a cover of--you guessed it!--Frank Sinatra), and "Recovering Pharisee," an I'm-saved song that casts a cold eye on judging others (sounds radical, don't it?). Interesting, specific, varied songs put across with intense vocal and instrumental conviction, the kind that had us muttering to ourselves and shaking our heads. Not what we expected from "folk music," and a helluva lot more than we've been getting from "rawk music" lately.</div> <div>      After the show, the three of us couldn't believe what we'd seen. Deacon Pike, dazed, remarked, "I <I>loved </I>'em before the show; I didn't expect to love 'em even <I>more</I> afterwards!" We bought four CDs plus other merch between us. I even asked for...<I>an autograph</I>! We motormouthed all the way home, played more of their music during the entirety of the two-hour drive back, and <I>kept playing it</I> after we got home. In fact, we went to sleep to it. I woke up and e-mailed all the church elders to make sure they NEVER missed a McCoury Family show.</div> <div>      You might think the extremity of our reactions were the result of sensory deprivation. I'd buy that--if I weren't writing a month after the fact. All I know is the White Stripes have their work cut out for them.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="1d08af20.jpg" border=0 width="138" height="242" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>Billy Joe, in happier times.</B></div> <div>  <A NAME="shaverii"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> <B>This Time, They Gave Him a Mountain:</B></div> <div> <B>Shaver's </B><I><B>The Earth Rolls On </B></I><B>(New West)</B></div> <bR> <div>      If you don't know Billy Joe Shaver, you certainly know at least a few of his timeless honky tonk compositions: "Georgia On A Fast Train," "Honky Tonk Heroes," "(I'm Just an) Old Chunk of Coal," "Black Rose," "Restless Wind," "Ride Me Down Easy," "You Asked Me To," "Fit to Kill (And Goin' Out In Style)," and "It Was Fun While It Lasted" are just a few of 'em. Take a tour of them, then read up on the ups and downs of his life, and you'll witness one of the best examples of the old adage that you have to live a little to write something durable.</div> <div>     For the better part of his career, Shaver was best served when icons like Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Tom T. Hall, John Anderson, and Sir Doug covered his songs. His uncertain vocal delivery (better than Kris, worse than Waylon) and slightly folk-oriented musical leanings frequently worked against the grit and hard-earned wisdom of his words, as one can hear on the frustrating Razor and Tie comp <I>Restless Wind: The Legendary Billy Joe Shaver 1973-1987</I> (still ever-so-gingerly recommended).</div> <div>      Then something <I>just right</I> happened to his music: his son Eddie. The boy's loud, raw, blues-suffused guitar cut deep, adding a shock of reality that fit his dad's songs like a pair of favorite socks. The best place to check the results out is the now-hard-to-find<B> </B><A HREF="id52_shaver.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Blasts from the Past Archive"><U><I><B>Unshaven: Live at Smith's Olde Bar</B></I></U></A><A HREF="id52_shaver.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Blasts from the Past Archive"><U><B> (Zoo)</B></U></A>, where the two performed miraculous CPR on the cream of Billy Joe's back catalog and made one wonder, "What the hell have I been missing?" <I>Unshaven </I>and the band's other albums didn't sell diddly and barely got reviewed, but the word was out that <I>The Earth Rolls On, </I>completed in late 2000, might just fix that.</div> <div>      </div> <div>      Unfortunately, Eddie Shaver shuffled off this mortal coil, ushered out by a shot of junk, on New Year's Eve 2000. It's a goddam shame, because <I>The Earth Rolls On</I> is the best earthy thing to hit the ear in 2001. Not only has Billy Joe put together his best set of new songs since Waylon's <I>Honky Tonk Heroes </I>in the mid-'70s, but Eddie's guitar (and singing, on the moving "Blood is Thicker Than Water") provides the marrow to make 'em live and stand unbreakable. Talk about heart-breaking. </div> <div>     The record leads off with the chunk-a-chunking, love-affirming "Love is So Sweet." No, the title doesn't bode well, but the cracks and crevices in Shaver's voice, rendered in glorious detail by Ray Kennedy's post-Earle production, and the homely, homespun lyrics ("Love/Is so sweet/It makes you bounce when you walk down the street") lift it to glory. It's followed by "Evergreen Fields," the tale of an old man whose "seasons are numbered by three." He's angling towards that everlasting sleep, but the song's a call to get out in the sunlight, however harsh it may be. Eddie delivers a crackling solo to light a fire under the codger's ass; you expect a return to the lyric, put the kid (OK, he was coming up on 39) says all that needs to be said with fingers and strings.</div> <div>      Next up is "Hard-Headed Heart" (they're not hard to come by, "just like a frog slides off a log"), the further adventures, musically and lyrically, of Shaver's famous "Honky Tonk  Hero," who's viewed with a shade of apology by the composer. Again, Eddie leads his father through the song with snapping six-string lines, in a near role-reversal--lead guitarist as Dutch Uncle, a conceit which'll pick up some conceptual force as the album proceeds, then some tragic weight by the end. </div> <div>      After visits to a "New York City Girl" ("She played a guitar/Like a man between her knees") and the ol' canon (the <I>definitive</I> "Restless Wind"), the Shavers dive headfirst into some slightly naughty 12-bar--where Eddie always shone--on "Sail of My Soul." Like his father's singing, Eddie's guitar glories (man, this present tense is killin' me) in the ecstasies of simplicity: no showing or jacking off, just goosing the nooks and crannies of the everyday--once more with feeling. He's gonna be missed, by those lucky enough to know him. " "You're Too Much for Me" hews to the autumnal themes prevalent throughout the record, if it ain't exactly special, but it's "Blood is Thicker Than Water" that impales your heart on a spike. Pop's having woman problems, the kid nails his ass ("I seen you puking out your guts/And running with sluts/When you were married to my mother"; even harder, "I need a friend/I'm your son/And you're always gonna be my father"), then Dad retreats to Jesus' eminent (?) return. In light of what would follow the completion of the record, it's almost unbearable.</div> <div>      Right at the point where most modern albums start sucking bad gas, the old pros reach deep inside for a strong finish. "It's Not Over Till It's Over" is made-to-order for Sir Doug, 'cept he's dead, too; it's a shining, simple rocker about not cashing it in early, powered by some nasty Eddie slide and some imitation-Augie Farfisa. "Hearts a' Bustin'" is just some powerful emoting that shows up the current emo crowd (Elliot Smith, et al) for the fakers and spoiled babies they are. "Leavin' Amarillo" is another course ("She's got an ass about 13 axehandles wide/And to stay here with her would be suicide"; if that don't move you, how 'bout "Screw you/You ain't worth passin' thru!"?), bottlenecked blues that seems to be about a woman, then levels a pithy shot at Nashville: "There's a whole buncha cookie-cutters waitin' up in Tennessee/They're making stars every day/And one of 'em could be me/I may buy me a hat and learn to sing through my nose/And I may even buy me some sequined clothes/But I'm leavin' Amariller and I ain't coming back again!"  Amazing, but he went through <I>that </I>once before; if you haven't heard the story of his "apprenticeship" with Bobby Bare in the early '70s, you <I>gotta</I>. "I Don't Seem to Fit Anywhere" ask the question, If he was an outlaw <I>then</I>, when George Jones was one of the naysayers, what the hell is he now, in the world of Faith Hill and Brad Paisley? The record closes on a turbulent note, Eddie slant-quoting "Paint It, Black" as the song opens, with the title tune, which on paper's about gone-love but when it hits the heart and ear is clearly about time (or the fucking universe) not caring a whit about the pain life itself inflicts on you.  I say without a bit of sentimentality that the stinging notes Eddie plays to carry the song out--the last recorded ones he'd play--will bring real tears to your eyes. Don't know how Billy Joe can listen back to it today, to tell you the truth.</div> <bR> <div>      This is a <I>great</I> album, regardless of the tragedy that gives it an extra layer of meaning.  In its immediacy and naked emotion, it reminds me of Dylan's <I>Time Out of Mind</I>, only it's more immediate, more naked, and a helluva lot realer. If in this world of fiberglass, you're looking for a gem--here you go. Say a prayer for the departed, and hope the living digs in one more time.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Times New Roman" ><IMG SRC="1a9ba180.jpg" border=0 width="186" height="280" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></FONT></div> <div> <B>Inside a Satellite.</B></div> <div> <B>(photo by Danny Glick)</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>The Dream We All Have:</B></div> <div> <B>The Old 97’s </B><I><B>Satellite Rides </B></I><B>(Elektra)</B></div> <bR> <div>      What’s happened to the Old 97’s recently represents one of my favorite archetypes in rock and roll: ultracool specialty band grows--plays better, writes smarter--becomes more open to the whole wide world, pisses off its cult audience (“Sell-outs!”--translation: “You’re only good if <I>we </I>like you!”), and makes the greatest albums of its career. You only have to look at previous examples of this archetype to see how ridiculously pertinacious the good ol’ cult’s viewpoint is: Dylan (fake-folk protester evolves into electrifying surrealist ), Stones (white-boy blues purists into, well, uh, the Stones), the Clash (pilled-up punks into global humanists), the Replacements (falling-down drunk roots thrashers into leaning-into-a-headwind power poppers), and Nirvana (post-metal indie sludgerockers into, well, uh, Nirvana). That’s just a few. Not to disparage the early output of any of these giants; try saying no to the import version of <I>The Clash</I> and it’ll knock your front teeth out, and <I>The Rolling Stones Now! </I>is what every band of white-boy purists shoots for and never hits. It’s just that calling albums like <I>Highway 61 Revisited </I>or <I>London Calling</I> or <I>Nevermind </I>sell-outs is like calling Tiger Woods a hype. In the words of Allen Ginsberg (speaking of Dylan plugging in), the artists in question “sold out to God.”</div> <div>      The Old 97’s ‘99 release <I>Fight Songs</I> was the first album I’d heard since <I>can you fly? </I>or <I>In Utero </I>that I literally played days on end without tire, mainly because it was studded with hooky but spiky gems that would have been chart-toppers in a perfect world. The bells (and lyrics) of “Oppenheimer” were like a sudden, surprising erection. “What We Talk About” harked back to the tough love songs of <I>Rubber Soul</I> and remained standing upon comparison.  “Murder (Or a Heartattack)” rode an indelible chorus as it mourned runaway love (or was it a pet?). Though Rhett Miller’s vocals occasionally courted wimpiness, Ken Bethea’s guitar smacked ‘em upside the adenoids if Miller’s own darkly-shaded and painfully vivid lyrics didn’t beat it to the task. I couldn’t imagine programming out one cut if I put it in right now, but neither would I categorize any as <I>alt-country</I>. Exciting, evocative, and addictive rock and roll designed for the great popular audience that’s out there--yeah. Purists said feh, but feh on them: the impure always have more fun.</div> <div>      Which brings us to <I>Satellite Rides </I>and the hard reality that the follow-up to such records as we’re speaking of is really the better indication of either godhood or mere mortality (think of <I>Blonde on Blonde</I> and <I>The Basement Tapes</I>, the amazing run of Stones records that followed <I>Aftermath</I>, <I>Tim</I> and <I>Pleased to Meet Me</I>, or <I>In Utero</I>...or think of <I>Sandinista!</I> and <I>Combat Rock</I>). The new one passes the test by a hair. Like its predecessor, it’s rife with beaten ‘n’ bruised love songs the catchiness of which reminds me of prime Steely Dan: you hum along cheerfully until you’re caught up short by the content. “King of All the World” rolls out on a primo guitar line--and take a look at that title--but the guy’s pondering wandering out of a picture window at song’s end. “Rollerskate Skinny”’ features one of Miller’s trademark erotic metaphors (“Do you wanna meet up at the Picwood Bowl/We can knock nine down and leave one in the hole”) and compares good love to kicking your feet up and getting high, but the girl can’t make a commitment. “Designs on You” and “Book of Poems” close the record in hummably effervescent style, but in the former Miller’s trying to talk someone else’s fiancee into bed, and in the latter, well, he’s got a feeling that book of poems (yet another seduction card from a serial lady killer with multiple decks) won’t be enough. This tension and complexity is the stuff from which  durable rock and roll is made, and it seems to be getting easier for Miller. Even bassist Murray Hammond pitches in with “A Bird in a Cage” (“at least it’s <I>your </I>cage”); there’s gossip about the front man splitting, of course, but the whole is still greater than the sum of its parts. In the rockaroll world, the difference between <I>tough and witty</I> and <I>wimpy and</I> (merely) <I>clever</I> is often a crackling backbeat and a loud, ugly guitar.</div> <div>      What keeps <I>Satellite Rides </I>from achieving the level of consistent artistry of <I>Fight Songs </I>and moving beyond it is the growing preciousness of Miller’s singing. At times, it’s so laden with self-involvement that it screams out “callow, spoiled middle-class white boy.” Ain’t nothing particularly wrong with white, folks--no self-hate here. It’s just that at its extremes--look around--it’s so in and of its own willed-to-win fortress-world. Rock and roll was designed to correct that, not reinforce it. The “yeahs” and “right on, right on”s of “Weightless” nearly trigger projectile vomiting every time I hear ‘em (though Bethea’s guitar break is absolutely ace, it ain’t enough), and a couple of other songs are pock-marked by the same tendency. Could be the boy’s getting laid too much or reading too many of his own reviews (the Steve Earle Syndrome), though he has taken a few potshots from the <I>No Depression </I>crowd. He better get his shit together if he thinks he’s heading for rock and roll’s Elysian Fields. Jim Morrison’s still wondering why he can’t get in.</div> <div>      Speaking of the <I>No Depression </I>crowd, the Old 97’s revisit their roots not only on <I>Satellite Rides’</I>’ “Am I Too Late,” but on a loud, rowdy, limited-edition live CD that serves as a mini best-of (no extra charge--way to go, guys). Pretty cagey, since they’re keeping one toe in the roots-pond and doing their best to counteract the inevitable backlash effects of the serious hype the record’s getting from Elektra.  Me, I’m glad they’re getting label support and hope they break a hit off the record--’bout time long green backed something good. And let’s get outta the purist cave, take off our blinders, and savor a great band in flower. Face it: it’s the dream we all have.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="217fafa0.jpg" border=0 width="250" height="250" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>The Mirror Bodes No Good</B></div> <div>  <A NAME="lucinda"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> <B>Lucinda Williams: </B><I><B>Essence </B></I><B>(Uni/Lost Highway)</B></div> <div> I've been listening to Williams since 1988--in fact, my wife and I courted to <I>Lucinda Williams</I> back in the day--so this ain't reactionary backlash. It also isn't "Now that she's <I>yours</I>, she ain't <I>mine</I> no more" hipster/cultster bullshit, because I've worn out many an ear trying to spread the gospel. But the liner photo of Lucinda adjusting her cowboy hat in the mirror does not bode well--Narcissus is hell on singer-songwriters. And sure enough, the album's loaded with self-involvement, oversinging, and mope (yep, the last couple of albums have had their share of depressive cuts, it's true, but somehow they opened veins, whereas these just inject 'em with liquid codeine). Of course, she's scattered a couple of gems in the torpid tide: "Get Right With God"'s a song of rebel spirituality we damn sure need--plus, whaddya know, it RAWKS--and the title song puts both PJ Harvey and Liz Phair in a roots-rock headlock and teaches 'em a few lessons about eros. Let's hope she slaps herself upside the head quick.</div> <div> <B>Maria Muldaur: </B><I><B>Richland Woman Blues </B></I><B>(Stony Plain import) </B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" > <A NAME="maria"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></FONT></div> <div> Most readers of this page will remember Muldaur from her '70s atrocity "Midnight at the Oasis," but before and aft she more than capably applied her big voice and open heart to blues music. Lo and behold, she's delivered the best record of the post-Harry Smith <I>Anthology </I>folk revival; I'd call it a companion record to David Jo's record, except she blows his minstrel ass away with her simple, impassioned soul singing. The material ranges from Mississippi John Hurt to a few dips into the Memphis Minnie and Bessie Smith songbooks to Blind Willie Johnson (on whose "Soul of a Man" duet partner Taj Mahal does a spot-on imitation of the author), and there's at least one guest per cut. The latter should be a bad sign, but Mahal, Alvin Youngblood Hart, Roy Rogers (the master slide guitarist), and Bonnie Raitt (who serves much-needed notice that she ain't just some mega-sellin' corporate rockstar) all invest such commitment in the selections that everybody's pushed to an inspired level. Even Dave Matthews just shuts up and plays solid piano. Play it back to back with <I>Essence </I>and see which one you go back to first. </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="226b6d70.jpg" border=0 width="438" height="215" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>The Strokes: </B><I><B>The</B></I><B> </B><I><B>Modern Age </B></I><B>(XL EP) </B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" > <A NAME="strokes"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></FONT></div> <div> Hey!!! It's some good non-genre rock and roll! Just a guy who's in love with <I>barely</I> post-Velvets Lou Reed (think "Wild Child") whining/snarling/jibing at the old relationship racket, with terrific driving guitar accompaniment. It's from the Big Apple, too. Let's hope they have more than an EP's worth of material--this ain't the Eighties, izzit?</div> <div> <B>Ramones: </B><I><B>Leave Home </B></I><B>(Rhino expanded edition)</B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="ramones"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <div> Warner just can't quit repackaging the Ramones. Now they're trotting out the first four albums, with original artwork and lyrics and bonus cuts and Bill Inglot remastering (remastering?), for you to buy all over again. Well, <I>this </I>one's worth it, thanks to a half-hour '76 show at the Roxy in LA that's tacked-on. Do we really need another live Ramones album, you ask, and I don't blame you. <I>It's Alive</I>, if you can find it, is a goddam punk rock bullet train; <I>Loco Live, </I>Ramones as rock (versus punk) band; <I>We're Outta Here</I>, a mere souvenir. However, 1976 Ramones is the guys in prime DIY mode: they don't quite have their shit together, which creates a bit of an insecure and thus more exciting aura. You can <I>really </I>here why kids heard 'em and started bands the next day. So lay those greenbacks down one LAST time, brethren, and hope some of the profits are going to cancer research.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="265b9c30.jpg" border=0 width="185" height="195" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0">              <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ></FONT>   <IMG SRC="267aeaf0.jpg" border=0 width="174" height="175" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>Bachmann: "I'll whup your ass like pattin' for a dance"              Malkmus: "Not with an acoustic, you won't."  </B>                                                                                          </div> <div>                 </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Indie Celebrity Death Match Dud:</B></div> <bR> <div> <I><B>Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks</B></I></div> <div> <B>vs. </B></div> <div> <B>Eric Bachmann/Crooked Fingers</B><I><B>' Bring on the Snakes</B></I></div> <div>      For the last week, I've been carrying around a cassette of these two records, just dying to find time to listen to 'em in depth, praying they'd deliver a fantasy of mine into reality.</div> <div>      I've never been a big fan of Malkmus.  He as much as anybody represents what I call the "Merit Scholar" contingent of today's rawk scene: spoiled, too clever for its own good, revoltingly cute, contemptuous of anybody outside of its <I>crap</I>tic in-jokes and deliberate obscurity (excellent for concealing a lack of anything to say, and currying favor with big-gun critics).  Yeah, I know that, in rock and roll, it takes all kinds, even precious smarties,  but for me, it also <I>has to reach out </I>rather than wall out (a typical Pavement album reminds me of nothing so much as a covenant neighborhood). When Stevie dissed the Smashing Pumpkins and Stone Temple Pilots on <I>Crooked Rain</I>, everyone about pissed themselves giggling, but no matter how much both bands might have sucked, they cast lifelines out to the kids in their audiences, an activity I've always believed Malkmus thought was corny, or beneath him (talk about a "rock star"!). If you're gonna pick on other bands, you better be sure they ain't got NOTHIN' to do with The Rawk: compare the above dig to Tonio K's legendary verbal assassination ("I wish I was as mellow/As for instance Jackson Browne/But 'Fountain of Sorrow' my ass, motherfucker/I hope you wind up in the ground") and it suddenly doesn't seem so "gifted." I have to admit, though, that Malkmus' guitar has made a <I>very </I>strong impression on me; when he's plugged in and plugged up, he actually does some fierce connecting. But the last Pavement albums seemed concentrated with ballads--<I>ballads</I>--and I can't think of anything in music I'd least like to hear than sour, gnomic Mensa-tivity. Where's Tonio K when you really need him?</div> <div>      Eric Bachmann, however, is another story. While he and his former band Archers of Loaf share much with Malkmus and his crew (high IQ, stop-and-start structures, non sequitur lyrics, a love of dissonance for its own sake, major indie cred), they always<I> made a difference</I> to me. For one, they had a penchant for swelling rock anthems, and even when the lyrics were free-associative, the songs felt like VICTORY! (It may be corny, but I'd rather win than sit and mope and navel-gaze). Since their classic <I>Vee Vee </I>was released in '95, "Harnessed in Slums" has been ringing in my ears (if we're talking desert island here, I'd trade all my Pavement records--curiously, given my loathing, I damn near have them all--for <I>Vee Vee</I> and the <I>vs. The Greatest of All Time </I>EP). I'll bet three consecutive days haven't passed since I bought it without me consciously or unconsciously mouthing its rabble-rousing lines: "...Thugs and scum and punks and freaks/They're harnessed in slums but they wanna be free." For another, Bachmann wasn't afraid of clarity, and was one funny SOB when he wanted to be. "The Greatest of All Time" might be the greatest song about Indie Land ever written, a laff riot despite a lynching in one verse and a plane crash in another (which take the lives of the front men of the world's worst rock and roll band and the greatest of all time, respectively). "Power walker/Power walker/Why don't you fucking run?"--less world-historic, just as funny. Finally, and most importantly for me, Bachmann's singing-- hoarse, croaking, fatigued, wry--was the <I>perfect </I>antidote to Malkmus' strangled, self-regard-slathered, Lou Reedy quaver. I've never been able to put my finger on it, but that voice just has my number, so much so that it still makes me hang on every second of the lengthy title dirge that closes out <I>White Trash Heroes</I>, the Archers' last studio album before the break-up. The closest I've been able to come to explaining it to myself is that I miss Richard Butler, and Bachmann sounds like a sincerer, smarter version of the old Psych Furs front man.</div> <div>      Which brings us to the fantasy (you still with me?): though Bachmann had already done a couple of solo projects (two quirky, mostly-instrumental albums as Barry Black, and the essentially one-man Crooked Fingers), the roughly simultaneous release of <I>Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks</I> and the 2nd Crooked Fingers album, <I>Bring on the Snakes</I>,<I> </I>got me wondering--would Bachmann knock Malkmus to the mat in an East Coast vs. West Coast indie-rock square-off? As I carried that cassette around last week, I prayed the answer would be an anthemic "YES!"</div> <div> <B><U>Round One:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "The Rotting Strip"</B></div> <div>      Bachmann rides a lava flow of dissonantly-charged cathedral-drone, a mournful but rocking "end of the affair" piece, with lyrical gems sprinkled like grass seeds: "...We'll kick the booze and blow/And one day go make something of ourselves"; "We'd take what we want/When we knew what we wanted/When we wished we had something to lose"; "You were a fine young thing/Crimped in your red vinyl jeans." Mournful, yeah, but rocking, soulful, specific.</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Black Book"</B></div> <div> <B>     </B>An ominous, indecipherable (of course) rocker, with that trademark now-squawking, now-moaning, now-overdriven guitar and deep jungle sound effects. Dual gits like Television. A good, solid start, but...</div> <div> <B>Round goes to Bachmann. 1-0.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Two:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "Devil's Train"</B></div> <div>      Some pretty pickin', with those omnipresent keyboards, a fascination since <I>White Trash Heroes</I>, moodily shadowing the line all the way. That weird voice is getting weirder: Richard Butler under the influence of Leonard Cohen, as sung by...whuh?...yep!...<I>Neil Diamond</I>! I kid you not--and it sounds <I>good</I>. Themes  emerging: dipsomania and loss of identity.  More nice lines (no cryptology here): "...Drank too fast...fell into a coma state/And dreamt of everything you hate"; "...Now the ocean fills your lungs...drowning in a sea of strangers."</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Phantasies"</B></div> <div>      A chirpy, chipper piece of nonsense, with an insufferable cute falsetto chorus hook. Musically and lyrically, it's straight from the VU (circa "Foggy Notion") trick bag. The tempo shifts and deteriorating structure are straight from the Pavement trick bag. Malkmus = Pavement?</div> <div> <B>Round goes to Bachmann. 2-0.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Three:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "Surrender is Treason"</B></div> <div>      More pickin' (in a bed of keys)? Two dirges in a row ain't good strategy, champ, but at least you have a game plan: exploring those themes, keepin' it real, trying to connect in more ways than one. More decadence ("...Wasting your flesh/To salvage your soul"), more lurking separation from self ("...Be what they want/Or be what you say"), but...hey, let's pick up the tempo. He's also exploring that 2nd- person viewpoint, interesting...but it needs to be more than that.</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Jo Jo's Jacket"</B></div> <div> <B>     </B>Also known as "The Yul Brynner Song," sure to be quoted to death (I'll probably be the first or second in line) by every rawk scribe in the country. Again, he's chipper, <I>faux</I>-charming, cute, quite a contrast to his somber opponent, and it's starting to make a difference. Plus he's definitely exercising his electric guitar and annoyingly deft way with a melody. A  Dylan quote at the bell, eh? The guy was a bit of a cryptic writer himself...but <I>worth</I> the brow-furrowing and digging. </div> <div> <B>Round goes to Malkmus, decisively. 2-1.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Four:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "Sad Love"</B></div> <div> <B>     </B>That title bodes no good. <I>Another </I>dirge. OK, I'm bending over backwards for rationales here: the Buckleys are gone, we don't need another (talk about Jackson Browne! and Bachmann's from North Carolina...well, James Taylor County's not far away), but maybe we got a song cycle or a valiant struggle with mental chaos (ala Skip Spence) or hymns to existential romantic despair (Cohen again). Musically, Bachmann's still writhing miserably about in a puddle of acoustic melody and codeine wasteland keybs. You gonna make a move, or what?</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Church on White"</B></div> <div> <B>     </B>Even his ballad (not his best punch) has the guitar turned on.</div> <div> <B>Round goes narrowly to Malkmus. 2-2.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Five:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "Doctors of Deliverance"</B></div> <div>      At first, it seems that help has arrived, fat bass organflow keeping afloat another torpid 2nd-person narrative about a love object who's "tearing at the skin that betrayed..." (heroin?). The tempo swifter, it sounds about to break into Archer-Anthem territory, but no: Roy Bittan organ swirls. Even the voice is melting into a pedestrian whine. The kid's in trouble.</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "The Hook"</B></div> <div>      Not really a thrilling tussle so far, but, by God, this is nice, <I>really clever</I>--sometimes you just gotta give Malkmus his props. "The Hook" is right, in more ways than one: amusing story of pirate kidnap, musical lift right from Elton John's super Seventies smash, "Island Girl," thematically apropos as well. Add in a hilariously horrible "Tumbling Dice" guitar solo intro, and Bachmann's got a knee on the mat! This isn't my idea of a fantasy made flesh, folks!</div> <div> <B>Round goes to Malkmus. 3-2.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Six:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "Every Dull Moment"</B></div> <div>      Eric! Eric! You can blast the blues away with <I>noise</I>! You oughtta know that! That tympani or whatever it is ain't enough. And that title says it <I>all too clearly</I>. Sure you wanna go on?</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Discretion Grove"</B></div> <div>      Just coastin'. Why not? He's only "rocking" here.</div> <div> <B>Round goes to Malkmus. 4-2.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Seven:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "Here Come the Snakes"</B></div> <div>      His head's still clear, it's his legs that ain't steady. Really, Bachmann's done some of his best writing on this record, and he's really sustained some ideas. That turncoat skin? He's just shed it "to start again." That second-person sez she's an angel; Eric knows she was "a liar/'Cause [she] was burning long before/[She] crept into this fire." But the music just ain't happening. Some cool little micromelodies, but they're wet-blanketed. </div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Troubbble"</B></div> <div>      Malkmus comes out of the corner with a flurry of oddball backtalking guitar noise, with a mocking kiddie xylophone. Hookier than Paul McCartney on monkey-gland shots. Hooks left and right--and it's another knockdown.</div> <div> <B>Round goes to Malkmus. 5-2.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Round Eight:</U></B></div> <div> <B>Bachmann/Crooked Fingers: "There's A Blue Light"</B></div> <div> <B>     </B>Stick a fork in his ass and turn him over. But Bachmann does go out on a note of hope: thrown in the water, floating down to the blue light on the ocean's floor, he's "burning away these dead days/Poisoning [his] sorrow 'til it slips away." He's got that right, because you gotta go through that depression to put yourself (your<I> self</I>) back together. Made concrete with guitar and pen, though, it isn't always great art (is it ever?), and it's not gonna win you the Indie 500.</div> <div> <B>Malkmus/Jicks: "Jenny and the Ess-Dog" </B></div> <div> <B>     </B>A few more effortless hooks...and it's over. Another amusing, coherent, <I>decipherable </I>tale, a hopeful note for the victor, too. Too bad Jenny had to get rid of the toe rings, though. Whimsy-rock at its finest, with guitar muscle. And the cham-peen is...</div> <div> <B>Malkmus, 6 rounds to 2</B>.</div> <div>      Some fantasy, huh? Though this was certainly the Leonard-Duran "No Mas" fight for the Indie Kingdom, I'm sure Bachmann's only down, not out. Malkmus surprised me and earned some serious respect, though he's still too smart for his own good, and not smart enough to be compelled to <I>say something</I>. Now...let's see him offer a title shot to some crafty but unsung indie (and major) veteran like Ed Hamell, or a currently unsigned ex-champ like Wayne Kramer. Might be, uh, <I>too difficult</I> to pull that one off (my new fantasy?).  But long as he's wielding that witty (and juiced) six-string, I'll pay attention. Better pony up with the backroom noise boys....</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B><IMG SRC="268acaa0.jpg" border=0 width="172" height="170" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"><IMG SRC="269abaa0.jpg" border=0 width="171" height="170" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#FF00FF" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B>A Trashbrats Smorgasbord:</B></FONT> <A NAME="trashbrats"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> <I><B>American Disaster</B></I></div> <div> <I><B>Songs in the Key of F U</B></I></div> <div> <B>Brian O'blivion's </B><I><B>Badly Beaten...but Still Conscious</B></I></div> <bR> <div>      Surely you're growing tired of being bludgeoned with studio-perfected slab rock. Surely you miss dissolution, mess, perverse fashion choices, Chuck Berry and Johnny Thunders guitar steals, goofy optimism in the face of a yawning void, sloppy melodies, and surging tempos, these things having formerly been the essence of white-boy rock and roll. Yep, there are well-known bands (who shall remain nameless according to the John Waters Law: "You wanna kill something? Ignore it.") who pretend to drink from this teeming river, but they're no less freeze-dried than the latest Nashville hat act or airbrush-eroticized nubile. It's a cold, hard world out there, and these mannequins just make it harder.                                 </div> <div>      Which is why I dig Detroit's Trash Brats. Perfectly named, these Motor City rebels beat Green Day, Blink 182, Offspring--Shit! I named 'em!--and their ilk at punkpop coming and going, while honoring the best aspects of glam rock, primarily a willingness to make an utter but charming fool out of oneself in rebellion against the sensible world and a preference for psychic and romantic chaos over order.  What's more rock and roll than that, I ask you?</div> <div>      The boys have a new record out called <I>American Disaster </I>(on Storm Records), which blows out of the gate with the put-up-yer-dukes challenge of "Rocket to Heaven" and doesn't let up til a couple of slow ones late in the record. Among the many highlights of this noisy little collection are "Imitation Generation" (they ain't kidding), "Sentenced Man" (feel that way, too, guys), "A Nice Girl to Visit (But Your Wouldn't Want to Live with Her)" (love the line about designer tits, love the breakneck Thunders rip), the raving "Must Be the Cocaine" (surprisingly, satire not celebration), and the relentlessly hooky "Who Put the Words in Your Mouth?"  </div> <div>      Not to belabor the point, but the 'Brats ain't perfect: they're silly, sloppy, derivative, fucked-up, but...but...but: I don't fucking find myself being suspicious of their motives and sincerity, like I do with about 98% of the shit I listen to involuntarily each day. They're alive as can be, they've found something they like and they're sticking to it, they've got a sense of humor about themselves and this junk called rock and roll, and they're gonna do it 'til they die. Also, they have a secret weapon on six-string named Ricky Rat in back and a ballsy, cross-dressing clown named Brian O'Blivion in front to hold off all comers.                                       </div> <div>      They've been doing this shit for a long time, too! On the terrific comp <I>Songs in the Key of F U</I>, you'll be flat knocked out by 12 years' worth of fast, catchy, assy punktoons (and some convincing ballads) you'll swear you should have heard. The Brats can cover the Stooges and come out alive and pinch rock's big fat butt while still celebrating its lifestyle (when <I>these </I>guys mention suicide, they always seem to be suppressing giggles). And through 22 songs, they prove that they haven't merely survived (it doesn't get much <I>mere-</I>er than that): they've <I>triumphed</I>. But not so much that you shouldn't seek out both these records now and buy buy buy.</div> <div>      O'Blivion's just put out an accurately-titled solo record on Brazen Overtures Records. Can't quite say I'd recommend this one, though, as I said before, the motherfucker has balls.  <I>Badly Beaten </I>opens with a born-to-losin' little rocker called "Financially Embarrassed," which I'd sub in for one of the ballads on <I>American Disaster</I>, then proceeds to dive headfirst into a country-folk bag (covers Johnny Rodriguez <I>and </I>a 19th century poem called "Mortality"!). Hmmmmmmm. He really doesn't have the vocal chops or the songwriting pizzazz to pull this off, but I'm sure he knew it would be insane to try...and that's why he did it.  I'd love to hear about half of these Trashbratted, but he must be hearing that to death right now.</div> <div>      <I>Real</I> rockers never die--they just look into the abyss, point, and laugh. Sometimes they jump in; sometimes they just pour some whiskey over the edge, plug in, and--like the Trash Brats--wail. </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div>  <A HREF="http://www.trashbrats.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.trashbrats.com"><U><B>(Visit the Trash Brats at www.trashbrats.com)</B></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="1" COLOR="#0000FF" FACE="Arial" ><A HREF="http://www.thebellrays.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.thebellrays.com"><U><B><IMG SRC="12a7a0f0.gif" border=0 width="378" height="271" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></FONT><B></B></div> <div> <B>The Bellrays: Daring You to Resist the Revolution (click to visit their site)</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Blastin' Full-on with the Bellrays:</B></div> <div> <I><B>Grand Fury </B></I><B>(Upper Cut/Vital Gesture)</B></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000033" FACE="Arial" ><B>     </B></FONT><I>Grand Fury </I>is rock and roll's last-minute reward to the faithful who gritted their teeth through 2000, something to get drunk on while deadwood floats on downstream and another dam (cold-ass corporate concrete, steel-reinforced) is being built to hold back the flow of democratic life. Fuck me--I can't lay off the heavy-handed political metaphors. But dammit: I'm tryin' to fight off depression, and I bet you are, too.</div> <div>      Riding a thick, loud wave of guitarstorm, Bellrays vocalist Lisa Kekaula knows how we feel. Caught in a moment that won't end, clawing through evil mornings, doing battle with stupid fuckin' people, steppin' lightly down the sidewalks of Snake City, she doesn't swallow a drop of enmity: This woman's yawp is a cathartic wonder. Imagine mid-'60s Tina kidnapped by the MC5 and braced by  Stockholm Syndrome (a musical Tania...that's it) and you have an idea why so many rawk-lifers are hanging "Next Big Thing" signs on this band.</div> <div>      That's a heavy burden to carry. To their credit, their knees aren't buckling much on this release. Tony Fate's riffs just keep on coming, and don't so much narrow into solos as expand into cumulus clouds of noise that threaten to engulf Kekaula's vocals, but never quite do. Ray Chin's drums shift easily from forcebeat to freebeat when the music's dynamics require it. </div> <div>      Fortunately, the Bellrays understand the value of ebb and flow, and don't consider a descent into quiet or an ascent into chaos equivalent to wank, as do so many mavens of Guitar USA. In fact, a real sign of progress from their pretty damn satisfying 1999 release <I>Let It Blast</I> is the almost-soul "Have a Little Faith in Me," which proves that Lisa can do more than howl and the band more than blast.</div> <div>      The band's songwriting has also grown a few steps away from the <I>Deee</I>-troit "Future Now" nostalgia/propaganda of their debut effort (as much as it fit the turbulence of the MC5's music, it was still bullshit, glaringly so as time has passed).</div> <div> There's no decrease in political wrath; it informs nearly every song. It's just that it seems a little more personal, a little more real than last time out. You get the feeling that, unlike The 5, who, after inspiring you to think progressively, would inevitably interrupt your train of thought with displays of what pussymasters they were--"Kick Out the Jams" <I>feels and sounds </I>like social revolution, but check the lyrics!--the Bellrays think less about fucking than they do about fucking up the System. Which has been known to fuck bands up, actually, but I imagine that if and when Kekaula gets around to exploring her sex life (and I bet she does), it'll be just what the band needs to go all the way (so to speak). What she has to say will<I> have</I> to be more interesting than "Miss X" or "Let Me Try." Also, the lyrics are a little too vague to suit me; I mean, we're all "Stupid Fuckin' People" a lot of the time. You start getting specific, people start suspecting you of having a program, and may hold you to it. That's what makes political rock and roll so tough to pull off.  But let's give the kids a chance to grow, OK?</div> <div>      They're not The Next Big Thing yet (and, really, do you <I>want </I>them to be?), but, by God, they're alive and loud and raging against the dying of the light. Gotta mention that they're racially and (obviously) sexually integrated and it <I>does signify something good </I>(unlike Dubya's Cabinet). You wanna throw off the Inauguration Blues and put on your game face? Look no further, brothers and sisters.</div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="16382820.jpg" border=0 width="130" height="130" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="detroit_rock_hangover"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Detroit Rock Hangover:</B></div> <div> <B>I-94 Records’</B><I><B> Drunk on Rock </B></I><B>Compilations</B></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B>     </B></FONT>Jim Rinn is a man with a mission: Save the world from digitalized, soulless, corporate-taint sprout-rock by shoving the metallic legacy of the Motor City right up its ass with the fuse lit. Besides recording like-minded rawkrats and putting out their albums on his fabulous label, I-94 Records (visit this independent music mecca at <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#6633CC" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="http://community.webtv.net/i94rec/I94Recordings" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://community.webtv.net/i94rec/I94Rec"><U>http://community.webtv.net/i94rec/I94Recordings</U></A>)</FONT>, his vessels for this urgent insurrection are two stuffed-to-bursting compilations, <I>Drunk On Rock, Volume 1 </I>and <I>2</I>. Perfect for sweeping those Grammy cobwebs out yer<B> </B>memory--believe it.</div> <div>      The beauty of these comps is they convince one that rock and roll ain’t dead by a long shot--there’s plenty of hard-working, underrecognized, and explosive combos out there waiting to charge onto the scene. 52 cuts, 52 different artists (the Kevin K. Band appear twice, once in a backing role), 52 songs that never once go soft or navel-gaze.  Of course, a few need a <I>little </I>more minor-league seasoning, but that just adds to their charm. However, some have no doubt already battered their way into your earshot, The Bell Rays, Electric Frankenstein, Nashville Pussy, the Trash Brats, Jeff Dahl, Texas Terri (the female Ig?) and the Stiff Ones, and the Chinese Millionaires, for example, and I don’t think any of their tunes are available on their records. In between those two poles are multiple surprises like Dimitri Monroe and the Naked Flames’ anthemic “Nostalgia Kills” (somebody sign these guys!), the Hookers’ “Hell Bent and Glory Bound,” and the Golden Arms’ “Street Trash.” </div> <div>      The stylistic attack of these songs is also surprising in its variation. For some, it may be as difficult as guessing a Ramones song within three notes, but, let’s face it, those dullards are <I>never</I> gonna get it anyway.  We have flat-out three-chord punk rock (biggest surprise for me--some of it’s even a little <I>poppy</I>, and that’s a compliment coming from this Buzzcocks lover), metallic left-right Deee-troit combinations, born-to-lose-beautifully glam-orous declamations, a splash of straight metal, and a few laff-rock<B> </B>riots. We have some neato covers (Dahl’s “Born to Lose,” Rocket 455’s “Cock in My Pocket,” Nashville Pussy’s “Sock It To Me, Baby”), come-hither band names (the Candy Snatchers, the Short Fuses, the Morning Shakes, the Wonderfools, the Clone Defects, the Dimestore Halos, all of whom live up to their handles), and four killer live cuts.</div> <div> In short, what we have is what we so often don’t: FUN IN THE NAME OF ROCK!!!!</div> <div>      Do yourself, the magnanimous Mr. Rinn, and our great nation a favor, and drop a twenty for both these smorgasbords of noise (there's a limited supply, so act now, brethren). Load up on whatever gets you through the day, hop in the oil-burner, slip these into the deck, roll down your windows, turn up the volume, and...let everybody know real rock and roll never dies!</div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="http://www.merlehaggard.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.merlehaggard.com"><U><B><IMG SRC="0d387870.gif" border=0 width="135" height="135" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></div> <div> <B>Still kickin' out the footlights.</B></div> <div> <B>(Click picture to visit Hag's website!)</B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="hag"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> <B>Head Singin’ Lives!</B></div> <div> <B>Merle Haggard: </B><I><B>If I Could Only Fly </B></I><B>(Anti-/Epitaph)</B></div> <bR> <div>     <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Times New Roman" > It’s no wonder a lot of folks hate country music.  Every calendar cowboy and cowgirl on the radio sounds interchangeable with the one before. Their “songs” appear to be written by slumming ad agents and played by Nashville’s version of Toto (steel and fiddle so clean and by-the-numbers they must have been digitally downloaded from the Hollywood Central Casting Symphony Orchestra website). It’s music designed specifically to avoid disturbance, which, if you know anything about country’s history, is a sign that foxes are in the henhouse.</FONT></div> <div>      That’s why this indie album, by a 63-year-old ex-con, quadruple divorce and bypass survivor, and country legend who’s been riding on his laurels for long about two decades, will shock the shit outta the unsuspecting (including those already familiar with Merle’s work). It’s <I>alive</I>, and there’s nothing more disturbing than that in this day and age. Right out of the gate, Hag, whiskey- and nicotine-soaked voice caught in aural zoom and negotiating every emotional nook and cranny of the lyric, confesses to “watching while some old friends do a line/Holding back the want to end my own addicted mind.” By the end of the song (the best original he’s written since maybe “Kern River” in the mid-’80s), after he’s mourned his roaring days (while looking askance at <I>Cops</I> and sparring with his kids over his smoking), one can’t help but ask: “Can he <I>possibly </I>keep this up for an entire record?” </div> <div>      He does. If you’ve ever sat mesmerized listening to primo Capitol-period Sinatra (say, <I>In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning</I>), shaking your head in disbelief at the lethal combination of brains, vocal presence, and (to twist an acting phrase) a<I> complete</I> inhabiting of the lyrics, you have an idea of the power of <I>If I Could Only Fly</I>.  </div> <div>      Big difference between Ol’ Blue Eyes and the Branded Man is Hag himself’s written every song but two here (a “traditional” rewrite of “Deep Elem Blues” called “Honky Tonky Mama” and the title song, maybe the weakest on the album)--makes inhabiting those lyrics damned easy. They mostly focus on his love for his wife and kids, which might not initially get your blood up, but when they concern things like explaining to the rugrats that you’ve been in jail, coping with the ol’ marital age difference (and the fact that you’re grizzled and ugly, while she’s coveted by those calendar cowboys), and contemplating coming off the road--your true home for over 35 years--for good, you realize this ain’t <I>The Family Circus</I>. Plus, in the ones that aren’t about husband- and fatherhood, he loses his “brand new padded shoes,” mixes his liquors, and gets arrested; warns his mama that, while he’s “still up there riding every night,” he’s wearing a jimmy hat or she’s just gonna have to leave; and blames his rough and rowdy ways on learning the E chord from his Uncle John. Is that undomesticated enough for you?</div> <div>      More important, and more intoxicating, is the intimate, immediate, and uncluttered way the recording (producer uncredited: initials MH?) captures Merle’s famous head-singing and country-swing band.  Those listeners familiar with the production work of Ray Kennedy (Steve Earle), Rick Rubin (Johnny Cash), and Daniel Lanois (Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan) will detect their influence in the quality of <I>If I Could Only Fly</I>’s right-in-your-living room miking.  This is what the dipsticks in Nashville just don’t get: one of the lasting qualities of great country music is the skill with which a regular guy with seemingly unimpressive pipes--Ernest Tubb comes to mind as the classic example--can think his way through a good lyric right into your heart.  No punch-ins or “air-brushing” necessary; democratic as hell, as close to the real thing as you can get, and perfect to get drunk and sing along with (and maybe it’s <I>then</I> you can <I>really</I> appreciate guys like Tubb, Frizzell, Williams, Nelson, Cash, Jones, and Haggard: seems so easy, but you can’t come within shouting distance of ‘em, drunk <I>or </I>sober).  Whether it’s a ballad, a swing tune, or a light Tin Pan Alley-style country pop number, Merle’s not only comfortable but in full control.  His little vibrato curls, baritone shifts, and subtle changes in volume and delivery make several of the weaker songs here worthy of repeated listening [<I>read</I> the lyrics of “(Think About a) Lullaby” or “Crazy Moon” or “Turn to Me” and you’ll see what I mean].      </div> <div>      And the band.  Yes, it’s the eternal Strangers--America’s finest Western Swing Band for the past quarter-century--swinging easy behind him.  Poor health has cost the band the great guitarist Roy Nichols, and Biff Adams drums on only two songs here. But Nichols’ replacement Redd Volkaert sounds (here and live) like he learned at the foot of the master, young quintuple-threat Abe Manuel, Jr. keeps the band’s blood pumping, and crafty veterans Norm Hamlet (steel--REAL steel) and Don Markham (gloriously old-school saxophone--almost shockingly so “Honky Tonky Mama”) make their presence more than felt. Their playing’s as crafty and natural as the man in front.</div> <div>      This record belongs in the company of Dylan’s <I>Time Out of Mind</I>, Cash’s <I>American Recordings</I>, and Nelson’s <I>Teatro </I>and <I>Me and the Drummer</I> as a stellar example of not only the timelessness of head singing (somebody give George Jones this treatment--pronto!), not only the durability of the iconoclast as a vital American icon, but as a reminder that smart sumbitches get <I>better</I> with age (it's actually the <I>second </I>"September of My Years" album he's done, and the first was a winner, too: '79's <I>Serving 90 Proof</I>, on MCA).  These singers have always challenged their audiences, and this might be the toughest one they’ve ever tossed our way. And let’s not forget: it’s no accident that, on each of these recordings, a stubborn producer, or an independent label with higher expectations and the possibility of new converts, or an alternative environment (<I>If I Could Only Fly </I>was recorded in Haggard’s own studio, ironically located in Music City itself) jolted these guys into performances strong enough to stand with those of their urgent youth. Getting out of our comfort zones--and getting <I>disturbed</I>--is something we could <I>all </I>use.</div> <bR> <div>  <A NAME="atdi"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="http://www.atthedrive-in.net" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.atthedrive-in.net"><U><B><IMG SRC="0d420c80.jpg" border=0 width="288" height="200" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></div> <div> <B>ATDI: Clipping the puppet strings.</B></div> <div> <B>(Click on the picture to learn more.)</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Answering the Call</B></div> <div> <B>At the Drive-In: </B><I><B>Relationship of Command </B></I><B>(Grand Royal)</B></div> <bR> <div>      Talk about weird hype. With a legion of bands here and in Sweden, notably the Bellrays and the Hellacopters, steadfastly and unapologetically treading perhaps too precisely in the musical footsteps of the MC5, along comes a bunch of freaks from El Paso to claim the rock media’s “new MC5” crown.  They don’t even <I>sound </I>like the 5!  But they also don’t sound like <I>Texans</I>.  And they definitely don’t sound <I>Hispanic </I>(4 of the 5 are). What the fuck?</div> <div>      Forget the MC5. Though At the Drive-In’s Omar Rodriguez and Jim Ward do play guitars that blast, they’re also super precise, battering-ram solid, morphing into Big Black-cum-Rage slabs of <I>mechanical</I> sound, as befits the songs’ complex (and often surprisingly exciting) dynamics. In contrast, the 5 roared straight out of the three-chord, verse-chorus garage, occasionally exploding into free-jazz wig-outs powered by the ecstatic, sloppily <I>human</I> rave-ups of Kramer and “Sonic” Smith. Also, Rob Tyner sang from the gut; Cedric Bixler sings mostly from the adenoids (when he’s on, he’s Cobain-cathartic; when he’s not, he’s Farrell-whiny). But here’s a much more significant difference: though Brother Wayne Kramer has remained committed to political thinking since the MC5’s demise in ‘72, the MC5 was as much (if not more) about <I>getting off</I> and <I>getting high</I> than <I>getting over</I> on The Man. You’ve got to hand it to ATDI--their sights are about as locked-in as they can be on the insidious control mechanisms that have been perverting this country’s promise since, hell, Plymouth Rock.  If they’re the new <I>anything</I>--and I’m the last person in the world that would normally venture this (see<FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#0000FF" FACE="Times New Roman" > <A HREF="id21.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Sermon"><U>this month’s sermon</U></A></FONT>, and remember, I said “<I>if</I>”)--they’re the new Minutemen (musical precision + iconoclastic structures + political dedication + marginalized educated-regular-guy persona). Just wish they’d rethink the haircuts.</div> <div>      In other words, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say, <I>believe the hype</I>, no matter how confused it is. We need more rabble-rousers for sure: as the band itself writes, we’re addicted to “sleepwalk capsules’ (a title), and “circus carn[ies are] guarding the gates of heaven.”  Though they’re more oblique than I’m normally inclined to enjoy (the influence of Fugazi and Ian McKaye, an anti-pleasure revolutionary if there ever was one), most of the lyrics will connect with anyone who’s ever glimpsed the controllers’ ever-more-arrogantly-flaunted puppet strings. Watt and Boon themselves--though we have the benefit of 15 years’ worth of hindsight--didn’t scribble any more accessibly, though they <I>were</I> a helluva lot less abstract (more so as they got more songs--and life--under their belts).  And, though their structures do sound meticulously mapped-out, the fire in their playing, particularly the guitarists’ ability to pull off dramatic shifts in register (reminiscent of the long-gone That Petrol Emotion, a pretty damn good political band themselves) and volume, supplies the urgency those abstract lyrics so desperately need. On first listen, some will complain that ATDI is a Rage clone; however, though they’re clearly inspired by the band that plucked them from obscurity, they’ve got a lot more weapons and moves in their arsenal.  </div> <div>      Saviors? No. But they’ve definitely chosen to be part of the solution, and they <I>can</I> kick out the jams. Give ‘em time and room to grow, and they may find a buzz and howl wholly their own.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="0d520c80.jpg" border=0 width="288" height="200" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>At the Drive-In: Sweating for you!</B></div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="0d6aaaa0.jpg" border=0 width="170" height="170" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="talib"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> <B>Food For Thought</B></div> <div> <B>Talib Kweli & Hi-Tek: </B><I><B>Reflections Eternal--Train of Thought </B></I><B>(Rawkus)</B></div> <bR> <div>      Amazingly, I was dancing to “Rapper’s Delight” in ‘79, in the bowels of a cultural bunker called southwest Missouri.  Made a hip Indian friend who had recently been uprooted from NYC when her surgeon father opened a practice in our town, and she carried some revolutionary shit with her that she happily laid on our ignant asses. So, though I never took up breakdancing, stayed out of sweat suits and Adidas, and have never to this day busted a rhyme in earnest, I’ve attended the altar of hip-hop since damn near the beginning. It hasn’t been easy.</div> <div>      I currently have <I>zero </I>friends my age (my students are a different story) with any interest in current rap music, the last having more or less bailed a few years ago (for the <I>more reliable</I> climes of opera, free jazz, and French Canadian folk music) for the same reason I’ve been left hanging by my fingernails on its cliffs  myself:  the genre’s slavish conformity to the zeitgeist stereotypes of pimps, playas, criminals, and hos, to ends-justify-the-means capitalism, to misogyny, to homophobia, to racism, to the instant obsolescence that defeats even the most imaginative beat junkies--in short, its embrace of the worst legacies of white America. <I>Fucking depressing</I>. Was it worth wading through the muck for the next Del or PE or Coup or Digital Underground album? To feel like a schmuck ‘cause <I>nobody else you knew </I>gave a shit? Yeah, I know better, but when it comes down to it, I’ll pick community over isolation everytime.</div> <div>      The folks at Rawkus have given us hope. From the <I>Soundbombing </I>comps to Company Flow to Thirstin’ Howl, the label seems to be a refuge for folks who want to pull their boots outta the muck.  <I>Mos Def & Talib Kweli are Black Star</I> (1998) was the label’s call to arms. Mos Def got most of the props for its success, but, with the release of its “sequel,” Kweli and Hi-Tek’s <I>Reflection Eternal--Train of Thought</I>, it’s apparent that Talib was just as responsible. At a relatively waste- (and profanity-) free 69+ minutes (nearly twice the length of its predecessor), it’s another hip-hop tour de force: smart lyrics intent on redefining what it means to be black in this country (“Ghetto Afterlife”), hard, spare, funky beats (“Move Somethin’”) that James Brown proved long ago were <I>eternal</I> (if you can hear the Jungle Brothers’ <I>Straight Out the Jungle</I> in your head, it’s one of the sources of this record’s sound),<I><B> </B></I>straight-up challenges to that aforementioned monolithic zeitgeist (“Some Kind of Wonderful,” “On My Way,” “For Women”), flat-out joy in rhythm and language and natural beauty unsullied by defeatism (“African Dream”), and ice-cold shots of lyricism<I><B> </B></I>(“Good Mourning”).  </div> <div>      If you’ve given up on hip hop, you gave up too soon. Rawkus has raised the bar, and only by supporting Kweli, Hi-Tek, and its other artists will we be able to wrest it from the grip of the hater players.  </div> <div>      Ever get the feeling things are the same all over?</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="http://www.furious.com/perfect/tjsa.html" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.furious.com/perfect/tjsa.html"><U><IMG SRC="0d8c28c0.jpg" border=0 width="450" height="396" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></U></A></div> <div> <B>Click on the cover to read Perfect Sound Forever's</B></div> <div> <B>interview with Great Plains </B><I><B>auteur </B></I><B>Ron House.</B><B> <A NAME="great_plains"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Friends That Last: Great Plains’ </B><I><B>Length of Growth (1981-1989)</B></I></div> <bR> <div>      Hard to imagine hundreds (much less thousands, or millions) of rockaroll denizens waiting intensely and impatiently for nearly a decade for someone to reissue the works of Columbus, Ohio’s Great Plains (who?), but, dammit, that’s what I’ve been doing, and finally it’s happened. Old 3C/TMIV’s release of a super-cheap <I>2 CD set</I> (which in itself is pretty hilarious) is twice as much as I could have hoped for, and, aside from a curious omission (“Chuck Berry’s Orphan”), it delivers the goods--50 challenging songs that demonstrate that great rock and roll can be about <I>anything under the sun</I>.</div> <div>      Ron House (currently the pilot of Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments) is certainly one of the most literate songwriters ever to rock a garage and, while that sounds like the kiss of death, believe me, it ain’t. House is far from limited to big idears and esoteric references; he’s as sharp as “barbarians” like the Replacements when it comes to good ol’ rock and roll subjects like sex (“Physical Fact”) and booze (“Long and Slow Decline”) and rock and roll itself (“Letter to a Fanzine,” which includes the philosophical refrain, “Why do punk rock guys/Go out with New Wave girls?”). More importantly, when a guy’s reading and observation leads him to songs like “Rutherford B. Hayes” (about* being a <I>big</I> loser--and it mentions <I>Woody </I>Hayes, too!), “Martin Luther King and Martin Luther Drinking” (about a meeting between two of House’s heroes), “Black Like Me” (about Panthers holed up with <I>Highway 61 Revisited</I>), “Fertile Crescent” (about the birth of civilization and...dancing), or “The Wind Blows, The Law Breaks” (about, well, the impulse to knock shit down with a rock and roll song), and the songs are funny as well as smart, you know he’s in no danger of being pretentious. As House sings in “Pretty Dictionary” (and the quote’s also emblazoned on the CD’s jacket), “Without a book in my hand/I’m a desperate man.” </div> <div>      Speaking of desperate, House’s vocal style recalls that of a drunk with morning-after DTs and fucked-up tonsils who just keeps nattering on and on and on, until you suddenly realize he’s making more than sense. He sometimes makes Richard Hell sound like Al Green, but, like another gutter-wiseass with a wet-rat mewl named Bob Forrest, his conviction and humor (which applies more than liberally to himself) force you to <I>identify with him</I>. Where he moves past Hell and Forrest is when his volume and desperation swell with the climactic chorus-tides of many of the stronger songs on the collection (listen to, for example, “The Wind Blows, the Law Breaks”)--no matter how many beers he’s downed in the studio, or how many existential laments he’s gobbled up with his eyes and brains, he never seems <I>alienated from his own emotions</I>. I don’t know about you, but that’s the rock and roll shit I NEED. Right <I>now</I>, man.</div> <div>      For many of you out there, words and vocals aren’t nearly enough. What about the music? Well, Great Plains didn’t really power-chord or punk-rawk like Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments do. Occasionally, yeah, but more often, driven by organ and folk-rawky rhythm chords, they’re straight out the <I>Nuggets </I>garage. They’re not exactly hooky--if they were, House’s attack’d be a lot easier sell to the tire-kickers; if they were, though, they’d be a whole lot less scruffy and charming--but, upon repeated listening, catchy bits and pieces rise up through the modest production and implant themselves in your memory. One way to look at it is they were either incapable of or maybe even conceptually disinterested in dramatic “rock” structures; if you’re familiar with House’s take on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the latter possibility isn’t that far-fetched at all. Folks, it’s just very honest three-chord rock and roll...with some intelligent, hilarious, and dark words attached. What are you waiting for?</div> <div>      A special treat here is the song “Dick Clark,” which--<I>I think</I>--is the greatest song ever written by a front man to his band. Admittedly, I don’t know that many to begin with, but it’s positively inspirational. They want to be on the auction block, “naked at the buy, sell, and trade,” but he frees them from the need for fame. They want to throttle him, but they still follow his orders: “Leave it to me/Let Dick Clark sort out the details.” Really, it’s the story, I’m sure, of a thousand bands within this collection’s chronological scope, pre-indie rock termites infesting the mantle above Reagan’s living room fireplace. Almost brings a tear to yer eye....</div> <div>      Great Plains reminds me of a lot of my friends: they aren’t initially <I>easy</I> to get next to (too many people craft their personas for easy social access, anyhow), but, with time and familiarity, they become positively addictive. And...<I>they last</I>. A big salute to Old3C/TMIV for giving Great Plains the <I>chance</I> to last.</div> <bR> <div> *(Note: Most of House’s songs are “about” a helluva a lot more than they’re about, if you get my drift. Check out the man himself in<FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#FF0000" FACE="Times New Roman" > </FONT><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#0000FF" FACE="Times New Roman" ><U>Perfect Sound Forever's interview</U></FONT>.).<FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#FF0000" FACE="Times New Roman" > </FONT></div> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="1" CELLSPACING="1" WIDTH="527" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="VOID" RULES="NONE" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=CENTER HEIGHT= 20 WIDTH="523"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="20" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="523" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></tD> </tR> <tR> <tD VALIGN=CENTER HEIGHT= 267 WIDTH="523"><div> <B>Click on picture to visit Old 3C Records!</B></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="http://www.old3c.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.old3c.com"><U><B><IMG SRC="09629bc0.jpg" border=0 width="297" height="188" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></div> <div> <B>Great Plains on Fire!!!!</B></div> <div> <B>(photo by Marie Gibbons)</B></div> </tD> </tR> <tR> <tD VALIGN=CENTER HEIGHT= 22 WIDTH="523"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="22" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="523" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <IMG SRC="095aaaa0.jpg" border=0 width="170" height="170" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>God's in the gutbucket</B><B> <A NAME="carter"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> <B>Hornin' In: James Carter’s </B><I><B>Layin' in the Cut</B></I><B> and </B><I><B>Chasin' the Gypsy</B></I><B> (Atlantic)</B></div> <div>      Rockers don't come to jazz easily. Buddy Holly dubbed it music "for the stay-at-homes." "The Girl from Ipanema" beat the Beatles out of a Grammy in '64, and--despite Stan Getz's presence--was pretty damn close to elevator music to any ears that had learned to love Little Richard. Miles Davis' experiments with electric instruments, while mind-expanding in themselves, led to fusion, which produced--make that <I>produces</I>--some of the most godawfully soulless music known to man. One might well wonder whether the 15-minute rock drum solo sprang from jazzy origins, and very few extended rock compositions of any kind have really worked ("Sister Ray" and "Dark Star" are the only ones that come immediately to mind). Summer of Love denizens never would have committed aural crimes via Indian scales had John Coltrane not fallen for them--and made something you’d actually want to hear from them--first. To a true Rawk fan, Sting's embrace of Branford Marsalis merely confirmed his or her belief that jazz flirtation was a sign of dipshithood. Tune into nearly any jazz station today on your radio or digital cable box, and inhale the stank of mediocrity. Or take it from garage rock maven John Schooley, singer/songwriter/axegrinder for Sympathy's Hard Feelings: <I>"It's wank."</I> </div> <div>      To be fair, though, a lot of rockers don't realize that some of their music's deepest roots wind deep into jazz soil they may have yet to dig into. Nearly every black godfather of rock and roll--Bo, Chuck, Richard, Brothers Ray and James--name Louis Jordan and the Nat King Cole Trio as prime influences, and they belonged to the world of swing (best get hip if you ain't already, folks). Count Basie's late-'30s band, among others, birthed rhythm and blues. Cats like Charlie Christian and (I'm cheating here, but Western swing was seriously jazz-dosed) Bob Dunn of Milton Brown's Brownies--the first guitarist to wreak distortion and call it good--knew what to do when they plugged their guitars into amps. And the post-WWII jazz tenorists, most of them swing band graduates, gave to early rock and roll that <I>dirrrrrrrty</I>, insanely repetitive, squealing, honking, rutting sound that guitarists from Link Wray to Johnny Guitar Watson to Guitar Slim would soon too completely co-opt.</div> <div>      These tenor saxophonists--Gene Ammons, Don Byas, Illinois Jacquet, Buddy Tate, Lockjaw Davis, Ben Webster (not exactly household names, huh kids?)--are the spiritual fathers of a jazz artist who has been providing skeptical rockers their best window into "black classical music" since Ornette and Miles were alchemizing rock, R&B, and blues rhythms. Not only that, but, more importantly, he's returning qualities to American music the lack of which has been consistently mourned by aficionados during much of the last 20 years: a bold, dazzling, audacious showmanship, a sense of fun, an omnivorous passion for its own diverse, mind-bogglingly rich history, and an unerring aim at the motherboard of its listeners' sexuality.</div> <div>      <I>Really.</I></div> <div>      The name is Carter. James Carter.</div> <div>      Barely 30, with 5 albums as a leader already under his belt and numerous show-stealing guest appearances on other recordings (most notably on Verve's twin <I>Kansas City</I> soundtracks), Carter, with characteristic bravado, has simultaneously released <I>Chasin' the Gypsy</I>, a hard-swinging acoustic tribute to Django Reinhardt, and <I>Layin' in the Cut</I>, an electric gutbucket R&B extravanganza. He's a one-man Amtrak (his "whistles" include not only tenor, alto, and soprano, but bass and f mezzo sax, as well as bass clarinet), and there's never been a better time for people who love wild, loud, lewd, booting noise to get on the train and ride. </div> <div> <I>     Chasin'the Gypsy</I> exemplifies Carter's strong traditionalist streak. This is a man who's recorded an entire album of duets with two 80-year-olds and three 50-year-olds who've inspired him (<I>Conversin'with the Elders</I>), portrayed Webster onscreen (in <I>Kansas City</I>), and rejuvenated the rep of Byas by covering no less than three of his compositions ("Worried and Blue" on <I>JC on the Set</I>, "1944 Stomp" on the endlessly seductive <I>The Real Quietstorm</I>, and "Don's Idea" on <I>In Carterian</I> <I>Fashion</I>)--spectacularly, of course. He's also a man whose tone's straight outta the juke joint; he'll remind Rawk fanatics of King Curtis (of "Yakety Yak" fame), Sam "The Man" Taylor (the maniac blowin' in the middle of Screamin' Jay's "I Put a Spell on You" and numerous Atlantic R&B standards), and Big Jay McNeely.</div> <div>      On <I>Gypsy</I>, working not only with, in the Reinhardt-Grappelli roles, violinist Regina Carter and guitarists Jay Berliner (who played on <I>Astral Weeks</I> and Mingus' <I>The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady</I>) and Romero Lubambo but also an accordianist, Carter honors Reinhardt's continental feel and romantic, easeful, yet aggressive style. While doing so, he never lifts his foot from the brass rail of that juke joint bar. In short, this is a make-out album with teeth. When's the last time the domain of rock and roll could boast a make-out album <I>of any kind</I>? His entry on bass sax on the classic "Nuages" makes a physical impact (like the jazz equivalent of Miami hip-hop), enough to make one's netherhairs stand on end. On "Django's Castle" he demonstrates why, despite all the laurels thus far heaped on him for his speed and gymnastics, he may the best balladeer in jazz under 50, murmuring and moaning and slithering erotically around the melody. He turns "Heavy Artillery" into a funky street-corner strut (one thing Django <I>wasn't</I> was funky). And, though the record for the most part shies away from the brisk tempos Reinhardt often favored, the two Carters go on a high-speed thrill ride of co-improvisation on the title track and "Avalon." Even JC's few detractors, who argue that he's a hot dog who knows no restraint (maybe--but he's <I>feelin'</I> it, havin' fun and knockin' heads back with it, and jazz <I>and</I> rock and roll both need a heavy, prolonged prescription of that, for sure), will be impressed at the masterly control he exhibits over his talent and the concept.</div> <div>      Carter's a traditionalist, but he just <I>loves</I> to fuck with jazz's accepted design, as you may already have inferred from the previous paragraph. He served early apprenticeships with Wynton Marsalis (when JC was a mere 17) and Lester Bowie. That's like a young rocker breaking in under the wing of both Thurston and Scotty Moore. His very approach, in fact, may suggest what American music needs more of if it is to stay alive. <I>Layin'in the Cut</I> is a seriously <I>funked</I> jazz album, and that's a compliment. And when the drummer, bassist, and one of the guitarists are Coleman-schooled harmelodicists, the other guitarist's made his name with the Lounge Lizards and Tom Waits, and the horn man is, uh, James Carter, the jazz-funk design is gonna get fucked with...fortunately.</div> <div>      The resulting music doesn't have the disorienting, disembodied <I>je ne sais</I> <I>quois</I> of Coleman's Prime Time compositions; it's much more accessible to Rawk ears, with Carter doing just what the title describes. Four of the songs are co-composed, which suggests a jam session but sounds like four extraordinarily responsive improvisers creating a thinking-man's groove (imagine the JBs with a light Beefheart buzz, or "Pick Up the Pieces" on strong opiates). Also, Carter tends to steal the show no matter what lineup he's in, but here he's more or less equal partners with guitarists Jef Lee Johnson (of Ronald Shannon Jackson's Decoding Society) and Marc Ribot (whose stunning Los Cubanos Postizos albums you need to get familiar with). Johnson and Ribot's sparring gets quite nasty and noisy at times, inviting memories of Quine, Hazel, and (Nile) Rodgers , and the rhythm section of Jamaaladeen Tacuma and G. Calvin Weston (on bass and drums, respectively) flow like an interstellar version of Chic or the Funk Brothers.</div> <div>      The title cut (barb-wired with serious six-string violence and a reed-popping coda) and "Motown Mash" (James Jamerson is grinning in his grave) get the album off to a sweaty start. Carter exercises his slow chops on "Requiem for Hartford Ave.", then takes us on a stomach-churning subway ride through "Terminal B" (like Duke Ellington, the man loves songs of locomotion and plays the <I>shit</I> out of them; sample "Caravan" on <I>JC on the Set</I>, "Take the 'A' Train" on <I>Jurassic Classics</I>, or "Front Seat Frisco," from Ronald Shannon Jackson's <I>What Spirit Say</I>). Only the closing "GP" is a little slick, and even it has its pleasures.</div> <div>      Alright, Rawk fans: time to <I>drink up</I>. Carter's music is sexier, bolder, crazier, funkier--shit, more earthily beautiful--than any rock and roll I can think of right now. That's why it <I>is</I> rock and roll--in spirit if not in form. A lot of jazz is; the best of it is wild, wonderful water, and the well is mighty deep. If you take a chance and these two records are a tonic to you, try the man's other recordings as a leader (each referred to in the above paragraphs). They're all good, if you know what I mean. One foot in the honky tonk, the other in space, with rhythm the bridge--just the way we like it, right? </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>JC: Side-Trippin'</B></div> <div>      Carter is one of the first musicians in many years whose guest appearances even warrant serious attention. What follows is a "consumer guide" for the curious who need to mind their wallets. The selections are in roughly descending order of quality, but that’s relatively speaking, of course.</div> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: Soundtrack to the film </U></B><I><B><U>Kansas City</U></B></I><B><U> (Verve</U></B><B>)--</B>He doesn't play on every cut here, but, portraying tenor great Ben Webster, Carter's input raises this collection of '30s KC swing classics above typical soundtrack level. Cut on location in a bar--and sounds it!</div> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: </U></B><I><B><U>Kansas City After Dark</U></B></I><B><U> (Verve)</U></B>--The second volume of fabulous recordings from a movie that sucked. The much-anticipated battles between JC and fellow (but lesser) sax wunderkind Joshua Redman that didn't show up in the film are here. Redman escapes with his life...barely.</div> <div> <I><B><U>Saxemble</U></B></I><B><U> (Qwest</U></B><B>)</B>--A blazing orgy of energy jazz and honky-tonky bar-walking wailing, courtesy of six saxes (Carter, fellow Detroiter Cassius Richmond, the explosive Alex Harding, crafty veteran Frank Lowe, Bobby LaVell, and Michael Marcus) accompanied solely by a woman's funky drumming.</div> <div> <B><U>Rodney Whitaker: </U></B><I><B><U>Children of the Light</U></B></I><B><U> (Koch) and </U></B><I><B><U>Hidden Kingdom</U></B></I> <B><U>(DIW)</U></B>--These two recordings document not only the gifts of one of the best young bassists in jazz, but also the phenomenal young talent bursting out of the Motor City. Carter's wild solos on the majority of each album's cuts provide most of the highlights.</div> <div> <B><U>Benny Golson: </U></B><I><B><U>Tenor Legacy</U></B></I><B><U> (Arkadia Jazz)</U></B>--Carter's always been reverent towards the old guard, and here he teams up with a master composer/arranger on 4 tenor classics. "Cry Me a River" is a hair-raising ballad performance, and they even dare a run at "My Favorite Things."</div> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: </U></B><I><B><U>Eastwood After Hours--Live at Carnegie Hall</U></B></I><B><U> (Malpaso/Warner</U></B> <B><U>Brothers)</U></B>--Folks familiar with <I>Bird</I>, <I>Last of the Blue Devils</I>, <I>Straight, No Chaser</I>, and the scores for the Dirty Harry movies know Big Clint's a jazzbo, and masters young and old paid him tribute for his support at this concert. Carter engages in another titanic battle with Redman at the end of disc one, and once again shows off his gift for balladry on a string-backed "Laura" early on disc two. Look for the rebroadcast on PBS.</div> <div> <I><B><U>Cyrus Chestnut</U></B></I><B><U> (Atlantic)</U></B>--JC appears on the three best cuts here, all Chestnut compositions that stick to the ribs. Those who doubt Carter's ability to "contol his outburts" will be surprised at his discipline here!</div> <div> <B><U>D.D. Jackson: </U></B><I><B><U>Paired Down</U></B></I><B><U> (Justin Time) and </U></B><I><B><U>Anthem</U></B></I><B><U> (BMG)</U></B>--Another collaboration with a pianist, this one dubbed essential to jazz's future by no less than David Murray. The former features an electrifying resurrection of "I Got Rhythm," the chords of which were the foundation of an untold number of bebop classics. </div> <div> <B><U>Ginger Baker and The Denver Jazz Quartet: </U></B><I><B><U>Coward of the County</U></B></I> <B><U>(Atlantic)</U></B>--Baker's jazz is actually better than his allegedly legendary rock and roll output with Cream. Carter's nasty yet gospelly baritone lifts three cuts here to better-than-better status.</div> <div>  <A NAME="the_kolloquial_king"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id41.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U><B>The Kolloquial King</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id41.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U><I><B>Charlie Burton: One Man's Trash</B></I></U></A><A HREF="id41.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U><B> (Buldog/SOB)</B></U></A></div> <div> <B>(click to read a super-exclusive interview with </B></div> <div> <B>The Man himself!)</B></div> <bR> <div> A little quiz for you smart-ass First Church rock-kids:</div> <bR> <div> <B>a)</B> Who wrote what may well be the greatest song ever about Elvis Presley, "Breathe For Me, Presley,” ‘bout the EMTs who couldn’t quite rescue him?</div> <bR> <div> <B>b) </B>Who rolled Beethoven back over and actually made him <I>shake </I>(as opposed to disco or pomp-waltz) in “(You’re Not Playing Fair) Elise”?</div> <bR> <div> <B>c) </B>Who--for over a decade--put out killer rock and roll albums glorifying the endless colloquialisms of American English solely <I>on his own</I> <I>label</I> (Wild), ultra-indie and lo-fi when neither was cool?</div> <bR> <div> <B>d) </B>Who’s the shit-hottest rock and roll export from Nebraska since Wynonie Harris?</div> <bR> <div> <B>e) </B>Who finally let the secrets of garage-rock outta the bag (“Without My Woman (I’d Be a Hopeless Sack of Shit),” “One Man’s Trash (is Another Man’s Treasure), “Garage Sale,” and “(Can’t Find My) Niche”)?</div> <bR> <div> <B>f) </B>Who chronicled the dangers of doggies (“Rabies Shot”), hereditary heart disease (“Bum Ticker”), and wildlife (“Roadkill”) before it was hip to do so?</div> <bR> <div> <B>g) </B>Who replaced James Brown as the King of Rock and Roll Parentheses?</div> <bR> <div> <B>h) </B>Who--after alla that--still cannot be stopped?</div> <bR> <div>      The answer to all of the above is the grand ol’ man of Midwestern rock and roll, one of the funniest men in show business, <B>Mister Charlie Burton</B>, currently front man for Austin’s 12-Steppers and beneficiary of a fabulous career retrospective, <I>One Man’s Trash: The Charlie Burton Story (1977-1999), </I>courtesy of Bulldog Records. The comp couldn’t come at a better time: not only does it give fans of Burton and the 12-Steppers’ <I>way cool </I>previous LP <I>Rustic Fixer-Upper</I> a chance to catch up on 23 years of crafty songwriting, it’s a virtual primer (for an “art form” that needs it) for how conviction and unpretentiousness (and major laffs) add up to real live human rock and roll.</div> <div>      Nobody in our music has so reveled in the wit of casual American speech than Burton. What a cool way to juice your “rocky road of love” songs than to bequeath titles upon them like “All-Time Low,” “I, 4-1, Don’t Care,” “”Is That Wishful Thinking (on My Part)?”, “Even as We Speak,” “(I Wanna See You) Something Fierce,” or “(Is this Love) Or What?”! Charlie’s even written a song about staying on top of your vernacular game (“Words Don’t Mean Words”), in which Gramma and Grandpa struggle in public with “crack,” “gay,” and “bad,” much to Charlie’s embarrassment. Language, though, doesn’t begin to get at the breadth of observation he packs into his songs (see above quiz). He’s the lunch-bucket equivalent of Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments’ lit-fired Ron House (who also keeps on proving you can write a rock and roll song about anything, though he’s never used the word “metastasized” in one), and, if any prospective rock and roll wordslinger out there needs a fire stoked under him, <I>One Man’s Trash</I>’ll do the trick. </div> <div>      Though the 12-Steppers lean toward country-rock, Burton’s earlier bands, the Cut-Outs and the Hiccups, were simply what we used to call in the old days a hard-driving little rock and roll unit. 4/4 rhythms, garagey rhythm guit, tasteful but sharp lead, solid drumming, with the ability to slow ‘er down for a change of pace. A great example of these by-now rare virtues is the Cut-Outs’ playing on ‘82’s aforementioned “Breath For Me, Presley,” which opens with a drum crack that sets the guitars racing for the “finish line” with the ambulance that’s hauling Elvis down to the hospital in the lyrics. I’ve put this cut on about 50 mix tapes I’ve made for friends (including on each of the ones I made for my eight groomsmen) over the last 15 years, and they never fail to sit up straight and say, “That’s what <I>we</I> need to be sounding like...right <I>there</I>!” As far as Charlie’s singing goes, you wouldn’t call him a honey-throated crooner or nuthin’; on the other hand, would Chris Rock be funny if he spoke like Harry Belafonte? Here’s a comparison that Charlie probably wouldn’t like, but fits: Huey Lewis de-petrified and de-squared.</div> <div>      A nice sidelight to the release of <I>One Man’s Trash</I> is the amazing continued availability of a couple of the original albums on which these songs originally appeared. <I>Green Cheese</I>, a foolishly discarded DJ copy of which I picked up used for $3.99 the weekend Charlie and the Hiccups opened for the Replacements here in Columbia, and--shitty sound mix (probably intentional) and all--tore the vaunted ‘Mats a new asshole, includes Burton gems such as “Major Turn-Off,” with the classic line “I’m lookin’ for a girl who’s looking for a guy/Like me, sadder “Budweiser”/But anymore the chicks these days/Are lookin’ for Orel Hershiser,” “Party Trained,” “Brand New Mom,” “Bummin’ Hard,” and a cover of Merle Travis’ title song. It’s also the source of two songs mentioned in the quiz above, “Without My Woman” and “Elise.” <I>Puke Point at the Juke Joint</I> is one of my all-time favorite live albums (with one of my all-time favorite titles and cover photographs) because, besides cramming a 20-song greatest hits set into 70+ minutes (including a Collins Kids cover with musical quotes from every guitar band from the Yardbirds to Guns and Roses!), the shit that makes live shows <I>live </I>ain’t edited out! The show begins with Charlie promising that he and the band will personally make love to the entire audience (there’s four in the band...and not too many in the audience, as the audio mercilessly reveals) and, as the boys get drunker and drunker, the patter gets funnier and funnier (though you’ll be hard-pressed to hear many laughs, which, considering the bit about Elvis’ favorite chili recipe, is pretty fucking surprising...well, they <I>are </I>playing a dive in Omaha). The music, however, doesn’t degrade into roots-slop--it’s a killer show. Unfortunately, unless my memory ain’t serving me today, it was the band’s last show and the beginning of a long (but thankfully temporary) for Burton.</div> <div>      Check out Charlie’s website, <I>The Charlie Burton Hype’r Space</I> (not bad for a supposed lunch-bucket rocker:<FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#0000FF" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton"><U> </U></A><A HREF="http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton"><U><U>http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton</U></U></A><A HREF="http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.bulldogrecords.com/burton"><U>)</U></A></FONT>, for more info on <I>One Man’s Trash</I> and the rest of his groovy oeuvry. The man is an ever-lovin’ national treasure and needs to make many more records, so let’s get out there and make sure he does! </div> <div>  <A NAME="springsteen"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>BORING STORIES: </B></div> <div> <B>Springsteen Live at Kiel Center, St. Louis</B></div> <div>      Sitting at a booth in a Bob Evans, the tension was ping-ponging between the four of us. Morning-after concert discussion--somebody finally asked the question I was fearing: "So what did you think of the show?" One might well wonder why it had taken nearly twelve post-show hours for someone to bring it up.  </div> <div>      It had all started when, during a drunken evening, one of us had suggested a road trip to St. Lou to take in a Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band extravaganza. Nicole and I, long-time fans (perhaps an understatement in my case: Bruce was one of the reasons this music is my life), had never witnessed one of the great Rawk spectacles, and our two friends were among the benighted, but ready to dive in, in part as a birthday present for one of 'em.</div> <div>      I labored hours over a 3-cassette comp to prepare them, and, in the making, I found myself pretty damn re-amazed at the Mighty Greaser's hard-fought hacking through lots of dark forests to keep his audience honest and his own bad self lean, mean and relevant. Not for him the fate of the protagonist of "Glory Days"; he's long displayed a gift for getting inside beautiful losers to show us how to keep winning, or at least hold life to a draw. So I was primed to finally <I>be there</I>, and had every reason, given what his work had to say, to expect, well, more progress. Progress: a tangly concept any serious Rawk-lifer has to grapple with daily. Either it's the end-all be-all in the face of rot, anathema to the Rawk ethic, or it's the fucking hemlock that kills the basic feels-so-right urges that legions of garage rockers and die-hard rockabillies strive to strangle out of their axes. Where was Springsteen?</div> <div>      Motorheads don't generally have ten guitars waiting in the wings, each on labelled stands with different tunings for different songs. On the other hand, Springsteen's musical set-up--"big" horn, a willingness to use synthesizers and Spector-operatic piano, an odd aversion to expressing himself consistently, particularly through riffs, on guitar--doesn't exactly lend itself to primitive noise (Wouldn't it be fascinating, though, to hear him <I>really</I> strip his shit down, not like a <I>Nebraska</I> or <I>The Ghost of Tom Joad</I>, which were "folk" albums, but like, say, <I>Pink Flag</I>, or <I>Ramones</I>, or even <I>New York</I>? It'd certainly cut down on the pomp 'n' corn--if he's reflective enough to notice, it's, uh, <I>shtick</I>). That leaves writing. Surely he'd been writing. And there's been no shortage of raw material for a working class hero to mold into an <I>epater le bourgeousie</I> for his increasingly comfortable, always snow-white audience, not in these here times.</div> <div>      So what'd we get? Sitting in the mezzanine, lined up straight-away center stage (a $45 ticket that would have been more than a third of his typical protagonist's weekly salary--a very optimistic estimate, at that), we got: </div> <div> 1) <I>Muddy sound</I>: 4 guitars (it's nice to get the gang together, but come on: platoon some o' the bastards!) doing nothing much but strumming and grinding those plodding, unfunky-white-guy rhythms. Even Bruce's and Miami Steve's occasional solos were either arena-rocky or out-of-tune. </div> <div> 2) <I>Umpteen VERY marginally-differentiated "Big Man" solos</I>--the show/tour may be about loyalty and friendship, but my god, hasn't the motherfucker grown a few chops? Maybe jazz and '50s r&b has spoiled me (not to mention Randy Newman's devastating parody on <I>Trouble</I> <I>In</I> <I>Paradise</I>'s "Life is Good"), maybe they are a bar band, but millionaires get paid to make some hard decisions. </div> <div> 3) <I>90% 1985-and-earlier catalog, arranged exactly the way they were</I> <I>played 1985-and-earlier</I>. Even a bottlenecked "Born in the USA" was a by-the-numbers recreation of the demo version on <I>Tracks</I>. The only faintly new song was a Weavers-esque Guthrie-rewrite called "This Train," which might be described as Springsteen's "Forever Young," one of the worst things in Dylan's ouevre. And since I've mentioned the grouchy old fart, who spent years in limbo squeezing dollars from <I>his </I>back catalogue only to come roaring back again--heard "Things Have Changed," from the <I>Wonder Boys </I>soundtrack yet, or <I>Time Out of Mind</I>? Nicole and I took a smoke break with a suspiciously large segment of the upstairs concertgoers and came to a mutual appeciation of Uncle Bawb, who, with the previously mentioned exception, hasn't really ever given a shit about giving the public what it wants. OK, he's disgusted, but, hey, who <I>isn’t</I>? And with about 10 years on Bruce, he sure isn't showing signs of taking a fall-back position. </div> <div> 4) <I>A dearth of spontanaeity</I>. The only two moments that raised my short hairs to half-mast were the only radical rearrangement, of <I>Tunnel of Love</I>’s "If I Should Fall Behind," where 3 E-Streeters got a verse, including Mrs. Bruce, who sounded <I>a lot </I>like Ronnie Spector--the chick should definitely sing more--and a weird Springsteen somersault in the middle of the third encore, as if to say, "OK, can I go now?" Actually, the old man didn't really move too much throughout the 3-hour show--yep, he still does 'em, and he did sing pretty well, I admit. But a rock and roll show <I>must</I> be alive. Working hard ain't enough. I'm sure Phil Collins sweats.</div> <div>      So, to crystallize it, he had nothing to say, other than, "These are my boys" (and they definitely got more props than the woman) and "I'm still here, but the Muse is all gone." Where can he go from here? Hell, <I>lots</I> of places. How about a four-piece, or even a trio? How about taking on the WTO? How about collaborating with Patti, his wife (ala <I>Double Fantasy</I>)? Can his kids play yet (remember Old Skull)? He could get back to his roots--amazingly, he's never done that before (perhaps to his credit, but it sure worked for McCartney). Or duet with Ed Hamell. The possibilities are much more open than he may think.</div> <div>      Back to Bob Evans. I said my piece (see above). One of our guests turned to the other and said, "I don't feel like <I>sharing</I> right now...we'll talk when we get home." Pissed my ass off--nobody can disagree anymore, and they don't know what they're missing. True argument is the road to enlightenment. Perhaps Bruce won a new fan--albiet a 25-year-old that wasn't familiar with him in 2000. Where's she been? Is it unfair to expect the former "future of rock and roll" to at least function in the present, even if he is still donating major proceeds to our country's food banks? Doesn't he look in the mirror and sometimes realize that he's fallen victim to Blue Oyster Cult Syndrome--becoming what he used to shake by the lapels? He used to hope he wouldn't sit around thinking about 'em, but all he seemed to be beseiging his audience with at this show was boring stories from his glory days.<FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#FF0000" FACE="Times New Roman" > </FONT></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Short Takes:</B></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Times New Roman" ><IMG SRC="18d4d140.gif" border=0 width="333" height="276" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></FONT></div> <div> <B>Commitment and Juice: Thee Michelle Gun Elephant</B></div> <div> <B><U>Thee Michelle Gun Elephant: </U></B><I><B><U>Gear Blues </U></B></I><B><U>(Alive/Total Energy)</U></B></div> <div> The ol' Rev's slow on the draw on this 2000 release--that name scared me off--but fuggit: it's the most unequivocally explosive piece of straight-up rock and roll I've heard in a few years! And it's from Japan, of course. With a vocalist who gleefully rolls his R's and L's like Johnny Rotten and sings as if he's storming the Imperial Fortress, a guitarist drunk on East Bay Ray's guitar hook on "Holiday in Cambodia," and songs neither melody- nor jam-shy (and when I say jam, I mean in the "Kick Out the ..." sense), the band has that same against-the-wind yet unyielding essence as the long-gone Adverts. Who knows what the front man's singing about, in his <I>very </I>pidgen English? It could be evil wimmen, for all we know; he's better off if so, because he <I>sounds</I> as if he's hollering "Fire!" in a packed theatre. And who cares if the riffs are all recombined from the ol' rock and roll  packin' trunk? They're played with such intense commitment and overflowing, overdriven, ever-loving <I>juice</I> they make the Crypt Clique sound like so many garage-rock Totos. Picks to click: the nose-punchin' opener "West Cabaret Drive" and the riffsong-expanding-into-jam "Soul Warp."</div> <div> <B><U>Vernon Oxford: </U></B><I><B><U>Let Me Sing You a Song </U></B></I><B><U>(Westside import)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><U> <A NAME="oxford"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></FONT></div> <div> Oxford is <I>country</I>. His natural Arky drawl, mildly intense vibrato (gentler than Gary Stewart's or Stoney Edwards'), and predilection for the common touch (in songs like "Watermelon Time in Georgia," "Move To Town in the Fall," "Baby Sister," "Babies Stop Your Cryin'," "Let's Take a Cold Shower," and "Don't Let a Little Thing Like That Stand in Your Way)") could cause even George Jones fans mild embarrassment. But this is what they mean when they call country music "white soul music." Nothing dramatic or tragic, just a lived life rendered by a sentient being with a real voice: heroic humility, I'll call it. Billed as "The '60s Victor Recordings," six songs actually date from the '70s, and apparently he's still spinning out his modest honky-tonk.</div> <div> <B> <A NAME="schooley"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#003300" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B><U>John Schooley and his One-Man Band: "Rock and Roll Party with the One Man Band" b/w "The Square" (Ball 45)</U></B></FONT><B><U> <A NAME="schooley_1"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> The long-awaited sequel to Schooley's classic Goner 7" (Billy Childish's "Pretty Baby" b/w "Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo") is another DIY blowout sure to show up on a specialty comp in 2020 (if our kids are lucky). There's nothing the Hard Feelings ramrod loves more than a short, brutal, screaming rock and roll wigout, and the A serves up a doozy, a near-industrial, insanely repetitive riff that growls and bites down like a rabid mastiff (John's vocals sound like he's trapped in the dog's guts). Overside, John crosses Link Wray's "Big City After Dark" with Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" as he impales a mossback on his guitar neck.  Fun shit! (Ball Records, PO Box 152, Gardiner, ME (!!!) 04345) P.S. Check out the Hard Feelings' <I>Fought Back and Lost </I>LP on Sympathy for the Record Industry, one of the best rock and roll records of the year.</div> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: </U></B><I><B><U>Free the West Memphis 3 </U></B></I><B><U>(Koch)</U></B><FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="wm3"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <div> Anybody who's seen either of the <I>Paradise Lost </I>documentaries, which grimly record not only a major miscarriage of justice (way too emblematic of times that ain't gonna get better) but all the reasons you'll need to fight the death penalty, will want to contribute to the cause by buying this stellar benefit comp. Though it sorely misses cuts from Slayer and Metallica, beloved by the imprisoned three, the widely varied crew enlisted evoke the not-so-benighted no-hope mentality of different-thinking lost kids literally trapped in a cultural desert (read Donna Gaines' prophetic<I>Teenage Wasteland </I>for more)...just off the banks of the river another misfit kid named Huck used as a "getaway car." Though the music is mostly post-Nirvana metal with appropriately ominous overtones, it's kicked off by Steve Earle making like Dock Boggs ("The Truth"),  broken up by a Joe Strummer reggae and a Tom Waits ballad, and galvanized by the most daring piece of music Kim Deal's ever produced, an almost avant-rock cover of Pantera's "Fucking Hostile." Elsewhere, Eddie Vedder covers X with passion and without oversing, L7 come roaring back from limbo, the Supersuckers knock it off and play from the heart on their best song ever, John Doe comes alive, and Nashville Pussy ram their head up against AC/DC and wind up in a neck brace. See <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#990000" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="http://www.wm3.org" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.wm3.org"><U><B>http://www.wm3.org</B></U></A><B> </B></FONT>for more on the West Memphis 3.</div> <div> <B><U>Asylum Street Spankers: </U></B><I><B><U>...Present “Spanker Madness” </U></B></I><B><U>(Spanks-a-Lot)</U></B><FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="spankers"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <div> A <I>Basement Tapes</I> for potheads and beeraholics. Loose in the studio anyway, the Spankers smoked and slurped themselves out of their heads at this friendly jam session, got their writing rolling, and turned the knobs into the red. More than 10 musicians strong, wielding instruments as diverse as baritone ukelele, kazoo, saw, washboard, and the scrap metal in the back of their buddy’s truck (all acoustic, by the way), the band puts across songs like “High as You Can Be, indie song-of-the-year ”(Staring at a) Blade of Grass,” the gloriously sarcastic “Winning the War on Drugs,” Wake and Bake,” and “It’s Dry Down Here” as if they’re battle cries or political anthems. In their home state of Texas, they are.  See ‘em live if you know what’s good for you.</div> <div> <B><U>Donner Party: </U></B><I><B><U>Complete Recordings 1987-1989 </U></B></I><B><U>(Innerstate)</U></B><FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B><U> <A NAME="donners"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></FONT></div> <div> Likely as not, you missed ‘em the first time around.  Don’t make the same mistake twice. Besides having one of the greatest names in rock and roll history, these San Franciscans wrote lyrics worthy of the moniker, fusing the best of early REM, Camper Van Beethoven, and They Might Be Giants in the music they backed ‘em with. Fixated on death (“When You Die Your Eyes Pop Out,” “Boxfull of Bones,” “John Wilkes Booth”) and birth (“What a Gush of Matter Into Life is Here,” “Blue Starch for Baby’s New Tooth,” “When I Was a Baby”), making arguments against everything in between (“Why Bother?”, “Sickness”), they also seemed destined for The Cult Hall of Fame.  According to the notes, however, even lead singer and guitarist Sam Coomes had “all but forgotten” about these recordings.  Not everything on this terrifically priced 2-CD set is essential, but it’s a great document of a time when hundreds of great bands across the country played for gas money to the next gig.</div> <div> <B><U>The Legendary Marvin Pontiac: </U></B><I><B><U>Greatest Hits</U></B></I><B><U> (Strange & Beautiful Music)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="marvin"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Skip Spence, the Monks, Gino Washington, Real Kids...it's amazing how deep the well of Rawk's forgotten innovators goes in the wake of reissue frenzy. Mr. Pontiac certainly is the apotheosis of this trend: judging from the music on this compilation, which spans the '50s, '60s, and '70s, Marvin virtually invented semipop, indie rock, cut-and-paste hip-hoppy post mod, neo-Brecht/Weillian storytelling, Afro-New Wave, Johnston/Erickson asylum-based lyrical fingerpainting...hell, even roots rock! It turns out that the kind suppliers of the ecstatic packaging blurbs (Cohen, Flea, Beck, Iggy, Bowie, Angelique Kidjo, and--heh heh--John Lurie), plus numerous other figures who'll come to your mind (I thought of the Heads, Waits, Giant Sand, and--heh heh--the Lounge Lizards) weren't so clever as we thought; they were diggin' <I>this</I> man from the git-go. From filthy, mangy, horny blues ("I'm a Doggy") to simmering, regretful tale-spinning ("Pancakes" ), from farming tributes ("Small Car") to obsessive insults of his own strange body parts, from visionary anthems ("Bring Me Rocks") to protest ("No Kids"), Pontiac simply had hip shit locked up--and he predated the Pistols and Dylan. Too bad a bus hit him. He'd be a heckuva guest on <I>Fishing with John</I>. </div> <div> <B><U>Willie Nelson & the Offenders: </U></B><I><B><U>Me and the Drummer</U></B></I><B><U> (Luck) </U></B><B><U> <A NAME="willie"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Nelson is such an institution one forgets how amazing he is. Pushing 70, he sings and picks (despite arthritis) with more intelligence and soul than artists 1/3 his age, and effortlessly, it seems. His last four albums--<I>Spirit</I> (all new compositions, conceptualized, no less), <I>Just One Love</I> (laden with unexpected covers, "barely" produced by Nashville legend Grady Martin),<I> Teatro</I> (a  transplanting of his lesser-known compositions into an atmospheric bed of Latin roses planted by Daniel Lanois), and <I>Night and Day</I> (a Western Swing-ing instrumental tribute to Django Reinhardt and the cream of Tin Pan Alley)--are small masterpieces, an artistic consistency few musicians of any age can match, and two of them were released on indie labels (Justice, Pedernales, Luck; maybe that's why Hag signed to Epitaph), not exactly havens for the geriatric. This recording makes five. Willie's reconvened his ace band of deep honky-tonkers from the late-'60s (it's a relief to hear him sans Mickey Raphael's omnipresent harmonica) to continue his exploration of the more obscure reaches of his songbook. Though I don't recognize a few titles--with no publishing dates, it's hard to know if they're new or really obscure--Nelson's renditions of "Home Motel," "I Let My Mind Wander," "Rainy Day Blues," "A Moment Isn't Very Long," and "What a Way to Live," songs even Nelson devotees may not know, definitely improve on the originals by adding deeper crevices of wisdom and more wickedly crooked wrinkles of experience. Maybe it's just better microphones; maybe it's 30 extra years of living. All I know is that it's easy on the ears, in the classic sense of that phrase, and that Willie's a miracle.</div> <div> <B><U>Cheetah Chrome: </U></B><I><B><U>Dead Boy Alive in Detroit </U></B></I><B><U>(D. U. I.)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" > <A NAME="cheet_rev"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></FONT></div> <div> Documented herein is Cheetah's set at Detroit's infamous Lili's 21 Club in '99, his guitar in (to my ears) even finer form than in his wayward days with the Dead Boys. On nearly every cut, his solos achieve a careening, almost-out-of-control momentum that's been missing from rock and roll for awhile. Besides revisiting some DB faves ("Ain't Nothin' to Do," "Caught with the Meat in Your Mouth," "Sonic Reducer," and--particularly well-rendered--"Poison Lady"), he digs into the Rocket from The Tombs songbook (the seldom-heard "So Cold," a set highlight ) and essays some nice new originals ("No Credit," "Nothing," "The One That Got Away," and "Love Song to Death," each cut with some real, moving desperation). A ripping bonus track, "Still Wanna Die," dates from '79. The vocals are a<I> little</I> rough, but, hey, that's rock and roll. The point is, the man's very much alive, contrary to the rumors he addresses on stage, and living in, of all places, Nashville. Get more of the story in <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" > <A NAME="cheet_int"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></FONT><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#0000FF" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="id41_street_walkin__cheetah.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U><B>The First Church's interview</B></U></A></FONT><A HREF="id41_street_walkin__cheetah.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U> </U></A>with Cheetah. <B>Contact D. U. I. at P. O. Box 46073, Mt. Clemens, MI 48046.</B></div> <div> <B>John Anderson: </B><I><B>Nobody's Got It All </B></I><B>(Columbia)</B><B> <A NAME="john"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> Anderson's one of those special artists who expertly walks the tightrope between mass acceptance and core substance. He's always leaned unapologetically towards the rock side of country-rock (in fact, he was a guiltless prophet of today's big-drum country-pop), where his tastes in good stuff like the Georgia Satellites can get him on the air while scoring points with rawkers like us.  His warm, good-humored, instantly identifiable tenor megatwang not only defies Nashville's processing machine but goes down like hot buttered rum; if you're sitting around mourning Lefty Frizzell, you have no excuse to. When he's had problems, it's been with material; though he can thicken creamed corn like George Jones, he's also a sucker for bland shit that Al Green couldn't salvage. That's not the problem on this brand-spanking-new release, the best thing he's put out since <I>Seminole Wind</I>. In fact, it showcases his strengths better than anything since the early-'80s <I>All the People Are Talking</I>. Fun corn--an Anderson specialty-- ("You Ain't Hurt Nothin' Yet," co-written by an NRBQer, and "Baby's Gone Home to Mama," which mentions Nostradamus), sad corn ("The Call," about the ones you hate to get and make, and "Go to Town"), eco/socioprotest ("I Ain't Afraid of Dyin'" and "5 Generations of Rock County Wilsons"), icono-covers ("Atlantic City") and up-and-comer covers (Chris Knight's "It Ain't Easy Being Me"), and, of course, the<I> inexplicable</I> (Dennis Linde's "The Big Revival," about snake-handling, in which John hollers "Praise the Lord/...and pass me a copperhead"). Sure he's on a major label, sure he's corny, sure there's a few--<I>a few</I>--generic cuts here. But if you claim you can resist this you're fooling yourself. Really, it's like saying you hate ice cream. But if you need your rebel button pressed, when a guy puts out an anti-Dubya record on Sony Nashville, it ain't an everyday thing, folks. </div> <div> <B>Luna: </B><I><B>Live </B></I><B>(The Arena Rock Recording Company) </B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" > <A NAME="luna"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></FONT></div> <div> I'll make this short and sweet: if you're not a gaping, google-eyed Luna nut like myself (and Joe Levy, whose liners are the best and truest I've read in years), well, by God you <I>should</I> be, but we're not all perfect, so here's the first great musical gift of 2001. Essentially a best-of set, this captures the band in its purest six-string resplendence, with thorny raw edges and pumped-up volume adding bite and dissonance sometimes missing from the studio versions--a special message to skeptics who cry "Wimp!" My only quibble is they should have documented their revelatory way with covers (maybe something from Television's <I>Adventure</I> or the Dream Syndicate's <I>The Days of Wine and Roses</I>). But for most of you in the congregation, this is the only Luna album you'll ever need: a cold shot of musical single-malt Scotch.</div> <div> <B><U>Steve Earle: </U></B><I><B><U>Transcendental Blues</U></B></I><B><U> (Artemis/E-Squared)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="earle"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      As is inevitable with any songwriting machine--and Steve's been giving Jon Langford a run for his money lately--Earle's supply of brilliant details is starting to thin noticeably. Not only that, but he tries to pass off a cliché or two (or three) in nearly every song. Then again, maybe he just doesn't give a shit about specifics; maybe he's way into form. Poptunes, garage rockers, "instant" folksongs, ballads from mountain to modern, Dylan-cum-Rodgers rambles--the man knows his shit backwards and forwards. So if you're a formalist yourself, this is a feast. Me, I expect chocolate-covered assortment to have surprises inside 'em, no matter how perfectly the shell's formed. Also, I worry that Steve's lumbering through a familiar minefield that blew off a few of his artistic limbs after the success of "Guitar Town": Springsteen-itis (corniness, oversinging, self-importance, excessive musical and thematic recycling). You have to hand it to him, though. He's quit milking his criminal past and bad boy image for cred, and, after years in The Pit, he's got much more than a dark side to communicate from: for the second straight record, he frequently sounds downright garrulous! I must admit, too, that several songs are growing on me: two that sound written for <I>The Mountain</I> (and which would have fit in just fine), two garage-rockin' poptunes that ought to be turned loose on the airwaves, and one touching tribute from a fuckup to his family, two members of which sing and play on the song. Recommended? Just barely. </div> <div> <B><U>Ray Condo and the Ricochets: </U></B><I><B><U>High & Wild</U></B></I><B><U> (Joaquin)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="condo"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      If you're not yet hip to the Ricochet Rhythm--why you sleepin', brother? The band that makes BR5-49 sound like the Crewcuts of rockabilly, the band that's ONLY the best roots-rock unit in the world, the <I>only </I>band that can cover Count Basie, Cole Porter, Gene Vincent, and Mose Allison like they wrote the songs themselves--on a single album--unleash their third straight stellar album here, and are one the verge of world conquest (check out the guest book on their web page--www.raycondo.com--if you don't believe me). Nobody I've ever heard has blended hillbilly bop, jazz, western swing, and Tin Pan Alley soul (that's definitely the word, the way Condo sings; he can hang with Holiday and Sinatra, and that ain't no joke) with this much easeful mastery, but it's not formal connect-the-dots paint-by-numbers: their performance has the spontaneity and looseness of a late-'30s Kansas City jam session at 3 a.m. Who cares if they don't write their own stuff? Their choice of material from the catalogue of the aforementioned legends would take most folks some digging to find, and they <I>always</I> have more obscure history lessons to teach. When's the last time you dug Red Allen? The Crystal Springs Ramblers? Connie Francis? Jimmy & Johnny? They make 'em all their own, too, like Jerry Lee and the Stones used to do in their prime (Ray even quotes Maurice Chevalier in the middle of "What Is This Thing Called Love?") And if you think that you're "'billied out," that you know your Starday, Sun, Federal, and Capitol hepcats backwards and forwards, tell me: who's Glen Barber? For the third straight album, the Ricochets make a hall-of-fame case for the mystery man behind absolute classics like "Ice Water," "Shadow My Baby," "Feeling No Pain," and (on this album) "High and Wild." This writer awaits "Atom Bomb," and a compilation on their impressive indie label. Even if you don't give a shit for archaeology, there's still a band of 5 virtuosos (not only can Condo swing the phone book with his larynx, he plays one helluva of a lovely, lazy alto sax) to contend with. Whether you’re cloistered at home or playin' the wall at a club, they're gonna make those two left feet move like they’re the bastard appendages of James Brown and Elvis Presley's sci-fi offspring. </div> <div> <B><U>Otha Turner and the Afrossippi All-Stars: </U></B><I><B><U>From Senegal to Senatobia</U></B></I><B><U> (Birdman)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="otha_turner"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      If you've never heard a fife & drum band from the hills south of Graceland issuing from your speakers at 4 a.m., you oughtta. If you haven't heard one augmented by three African drummers and a kora player, it isn't exactly your fault. According to Memphis-legend Jim Dickinson's liners, "World Boogie is coming!" This modern field recording mates the "endless boogie" of Junior Kimbrough with what may be its sources; it's the perfect launching pad for an atavistic late-night, early-morning trance, just the medicine to lock out the flotsam and jetsam of bad alternative/boy-band echoes. The half-time music for the football game of your dreams. </div> <div> <B><U>Lampchop: </U></B><I><B><U>Nixon</U></B></I><B><U> (Merge)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="lambchop"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Forget <I>The Soft Bulletin</I>. This is weirder, catchier, more original and committed. Have to confess, I'm no Lampchop aficionado (though sometimes drummer Paul Burch's <I>Pan-American Flash </I>is already a lost classic of neo-Americana). Have to confess, I don't know what the hell Kurt Wagner's whispering and murmuring about, or what it has to do with Tricky Dick. Have to confess, I'm not sure what it has to do with rawk. Have to confess...I love it. Burt Bacharach meets Vic Chestnut in Arthur Lee's prison cell. And it came from Nashville. </div> <div> <B><U>Lou Reed: </U></B><I><B><U>Ecstasy</U></B></I><B><U> (Reprise)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="ecstasy"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Not too surprisingly, Lou and Laurie didn't turn into the John and Yoko of Art Rock...though--despite the turbulent details of this album--there may still be time. Reed's never been accused of having a utopian streak or a consistent faith in or need for l-o-v-e, and those things help. Still, this break-up document is his strongest music since <I>New York</I> and most moving, naked writing since the 1-2 punch of <I>The Blue Mask </I>and <I>Legendary Hearts</I>. He blames his relationship problems on infidelity, domesticity, discord, the temptation and pressure to procreate, even--shockingly!--New York itself (he considers the option of a pastoral life as an expatriate in one of the best songs), and returns again and again to the elusiveness of "that feeling." What is love? More (and less) than ecstasy. And while much of the thrills of his performance come from gory details and guitar storms, the most relevatory moments are a bittersweet yet generous look back at his life-saving marriage of the '80s, a very vulnerable plea to be released from his current romantic chains, and an 18-minute ugly hymn of gratitude to his own powers of survival that's not a little gory itself. It's a bit uneven; the call to black liberation is somewhat awkward, and "Rock Minuet," another of his patented street vignettes, belongs on another album if you're insistent upon concept. Lou's verbosity always treads the line between fascinating and boring, and you might fall on either side of that line here. But I say it will repay your sustained attention, and then there's the band, anchored by Fernando Saunders' amazing singing bass and, as always, two buzzing sandpaper guitars. Encourage the continued growth of another old fart (who, unlike fellow legend Bob Dylan, still seems to be alive below the belt), and lay your money down. </div> <div> <B><U>Rahsaan Roland Kirk and John Cage: </U></B><I><B><U>Sound???</U></B></I><B><U> (Rhapsody Films VHS)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="rahsaancage"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      A truly amazing piece of late-’60s experimentalism, and an in-your-face challenge to conventional notions of music and performance. Kirk is captured in full bloom, becoming a one-man, three-horn r&b band on "Three for the Festival," handing out whistles to the audience for some group improv, playing a duet with a wolf at the London Zoo, fucking around with a tape recorder, making you sad he isn't (and wasn't) a household word. Cage seems outrageously pretentious at first, but then you start laughing, and then you start thinking, "He's right!" Especially when he theorizes that most people's ears are in their mouths, as evidenced by their tendency to start talking right when the music starts. And especially when he theorizes while slipping down a kiddie slide. Grab this while you can--only 27 minutes, but worth every whacky, wonderful, beautiful minute.</div> <div> <B><U>Hamell on Trial: </U></B><I><B><U>Choochtown</U></B></I><B><U> (Such-a-Punch)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="choochtown"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      One of rock's best-kept secrets: Ed Hamell can outstrum, outspew, and outspin any postmod folkie in the biz (played back to back with Dan Bern, he shows up the Iowa flash for the too-cute, too-derivative, too-self-impressed flawed diamond he is--yeah, I got took, too) and he holds his own with Waits on street life and Reed on New Yawk. Plus, he's developing an arsenal of different ways to put his shit across. This, his third release, is less spotty; in fact, it's a kinda-koncept album, with characters and locales floating in and out of his compulsive narratives that deftly shift viewpoints and tone. He's equal parts funny and we-mean-it-man about folks (and a country) who just can't help fucking themselves up despite their immense gifts and energy. He's bald, chubby, and ugly...and--like Pat Todd--he oughtta be a goddam star. If ya get it and dig it, you're gonna be pleased with <I>The Chord is Mightier Than The Sword </I>and <I>Big As Life</I>, even if they're patchier. </div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Straight Life</U></B></I><B><U>, by Art and Laurie Pepper (Da Capo)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="pepper"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      A one-of-a-kind music autobiography: no bullshit repentance for delicious sins, no "do-what-I say, not-what-I did" warnings, no meticulous image-crafting...just the life of a man who was bad every which way you define it, buzzing hot like a stripped electrical wire. Pepper, <I>the </I>white bebopper according to ace jazz critic Gary Giddins, played like a son of Prez and Bird (check out ...<I>Meets the Rhythm Section</I>, <I>+11</I>, or <I>Winter Moon</I>) and lived the life of an incorrigible junkie, spending nearly a quarter of his life in prison, then raging back onto the jazz scene after a 15-year absence from the studio with a style that synthesized West Coast be-bop with middle-period 'Trane. Alternately cowardly and brave, tender and cruel, racist and hip, admirable and despicable, he makes you wonder what other books of this kind could have been like without the usual deceptions. You certainly do not have to be a jazz fan to love this; in fact, he writes more about junkiedom, life in prison, and his fucked-up "family" life than he does his music. </div> <div> <B><U>Supersuckers: </U></B><I><B><U>The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World</U></B></I><B><U> (Sub Pop)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="supersuckers"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      I have often hated this band, for "rocking" rather than <I>rawking</I>, for never being as funny and clever as they obviously think they are about the rock cliches they traffic in (see the title), for exploiting those cliches as a way to conceal a lack of content. But this compilation has me thinking twice, which is what comps should be all about. With most of the boring and “stoopid” moments trimmed, it leaves you with the impression that this band would like nothing more than to get you drunk, seduce you with some power chords and attitude, and leave you to wake up the next morning moaning about your bruised tailbone. Quibble: cut  the unconvincing "country" shit, and add "The 19th Most Powerful Woman In Rock and Roll"</div> <div> <B><U>Luna: </U></B><I><B><U>The Days of Our Nights</U></B></I><B><U> (Jericho)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="lunadays"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      How many Luna albums does one need? If you're me, as many as possible. I wasn't convinced myself at first. I never liked Galaxy 500 much, and wimpiness is supposed to be the antithesis of this page. Four things nailed me in short order: the amazing <I>Slide</I> ep, with its oddball, Feelies-like cover versions; a live show here in Columbia that made both my friend and I, who were just slumming, and who had a combined 60+ years of The Rawk under our belts, pinch ourselves to make sure we were actually there, hearing magical (I use that word very rarely) guitar improvs that stiffened the hair on our balls; the codeine-dream of <I>Penthouse</I>; and their way-cool cover of Donovan's "Season of the Witch" on the <I>I Shot Andy Warhol </I>soundtrack. This well-travelled release, finally seeing the light of day, is more of the same: strangely soothing nerd vocals, trippy--yep, often dippy--lyrics, six-string bliss that catches one up short, and unlikely cover versions (Sheryl Crow beat 'em to "Sweet Child O' Mine, but their version should make you forget hers). </div> <div> <B><U>The Bicycle Thief: </U></B><I><B><U>You Come and Go Like a Pop Song</U></B></I><B><U> (Goldenvoice)</U></B>  <A NAME="bicycle"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div>      Nothing special musically about this. It's just some relieving news (to me, at least) of the continued existence of the great, eternally conflicted, wet-rat/termite/cockroach hybrid, gnarly-white-souled songwriter of the late-’80s and early-’90s, Bob Forrest. He still fucking hates himself, he still hasn't given up his bad habits, he's still big-hearted and smart enough to know what he and the world are doing to his (and other folks'--no small thing) life, he's still trying to punch himself outta the same old paper bag; in other words, he just might be a lot like you and me. I can't help loving him as he picks at those same old scabs--at least he finds himself responsible ("I feel horrible/I got what I wanted though"). Can't promise you you'll feel the same, but his survival deserves your attention. Was a time when Thelonious Monster had the cachet of a Pavement, and Bob was the reason. </div> <div> <I><B><U>The Clash</U></B></I><B><U> (British version, remastered/Sony)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="importclash"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      It's been harder than hell to find this for 20 years, so...hurray! Nasty, funny, fast, eloquent, explosive, smart--ain't shit to stand up to its assault today, that's for sure. Sony coulda thrown in the lyrics, but most of the best ones stand out, like "Black man gotta lotta problems/But he don't mind throwin' bricks/White man go to school/Where they teach ya how to be thick/And everybody's doin'/Just what they're told to/And nobody wants/TO GO TO JAILLLLLLLLL!" The greatest debut album in rock and roll history, and anybody that says otherwise is just ignorant or full of shit. As Lester Bangs wrote (more or less), pour a pot of strong coffee down your neck, boost the treble, and press play--if your life doesn't change, your day sure as hell will...unless you're <I>dead</I>. </div> <div> <B><U>Lazy Cowgirls: </U></B><I><B><U>Broken-Hearted on Valentine's Day</U></B></I><B><U> (Sympathy for the Record Industry EP)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="cowgirls"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      EPs get cut-out <I>fast </I>these days. This is almost 2 years old, but it's headed to the dustbin, and you need to act fast. Everybody and his mother's been trying to hook me on the Cowgirls; beyond "Goddam Bottle," which my loveable editor laid on me over a couple of goddam bottles, I've never been that impressed--until this. Blazing original, hot obscure Holly cover, rocked-up Cash cover, mournful title song, over before it gets boring and blaring. Seems to me that the Cowgirls are really the only neo-garage band that truly appreciate the riffing of Chuck Berry <I>and</I> the flat-out velocity of Little Richard, and they stir it up with the fucked-up good times of the Heartbreakers. <I>Ragged Soul</I>, here I come. </div> <div> <B><U>Dolly Parton: </U></B><I><B><U>The Grass is Blue</U></B></I><B><U> (Blue Eye/Sugar Hill)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="dolly"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Why'd it take so long for <I>this</I> to happen? That remarkably pure but paradoxically <I>real</I> voice--in a realm occupied only by Al Green, George Jones, and Aretha Franklin--grown just a touch huskier, delivering classics by the Louvins, Lester Flatt, Johnny Cash, and the always-reliable public domain as well as her own, her sister's, and even Billy Joel's newer and lesser known shit, backed by an all-star bluegrass band? The idea's almost too good to be true, and, though the album isn't quite as good as it oughtta be (the non-classic material is just that), it's definitely breathing down Alison Krauss’and Del McCoury's necks. If you've never imagined there was more to her beyond the twin-peaked hillybilly stereotype of most of her TV and movie roles...check it out, now! </div> <div> <B><U>Ronnie Spector: </U></B><I><B><U>She Talks to Rainbows</U></B></I><B><U> (Kill Rock Stars)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="spector"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      The voice is undiminished--that quaver still yanks the heart strings hard, and doesn't go easy on the libido, either. Of the 5 songs on this ep, only the first three--a Ramones, Beach Boys, and Johnny Thunders cover, respectively--- are must-hear, and they couldn't be better chosen (Wilson wrote " Don't Worry Baby" for her, and the other two fit her street-dream myth like tight leather pants). With a little more time, commitment, imagination and money, this coulda been an album that never let up. But invest your money anyway, so she'll get another shot at it. Joey Ramone produced, wrote, and sang, and deserves another shot, too.</div> <div> <B><U>The Clash: </U></B><I><B><U>From Here to Eternity Live</U></B></I><B><U> (Sony/Epic)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="liveclash"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Fuck nostalgia. This ain't as good as it's said to be, definitely not as good as the live album that's I bet is still gathering dust in the vaults. It certainly ain't bad. But, for one, it's too predictable--the song selection looks like a Sony exec's idea of the Clash's best (how could any real fan be satisfied without a live version of "White Riot"?) and there are no surprises (compare Television 's <I>The Blow Up, </I>with its exploding cover versions and improved songs from a forgotten album). For another, the sound is far too often boomy, echoey, cavernous--the sound of the arena, the Clash's hell. And maybe i'm just pissed off, but Strummer at times seems to suffering from Lou Reed Syndrome: boredom with classic songs he's sung and played one too many times (only "London Calling" sounds like it's still straightening his short and curlies, and at least "Magnificent Seven" is loose, as opposed to incredibly white, as it is on <I>Sandinista!</I>). Finally, only 4 songs date from 1977-1978, when the band attacked like a rabid pit bull on crystal meth suppositories. Leave it to Sony to keep sticking it to one of the greatest rock and roll bands of all-time, while claiming respect and historical significance. Bootleg mongers--don’t sell the farm. </div> <div> <B><U>Pere Ubu: </U></B><I><B><U>Apocalypse Now</U></B></I><B><U> (Thirsty Ear)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="ubu"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      You want a live souvenir? Here it is, with the artists in full control. Songs from "boring" Ubu albums sound classic or near-classic here, and, consequently, you don't get the impression that all the band's worthwhile work was done in its cacophonous, reckless youth. That doesn't keep 'em from firing up a terrific "Non-alignment Pact" and covering --briefly but scintillatingly--"I Wanna Be Your Dog". The main reason to stuff your stocking with this, though, is it gives you a clear idea of what it's like to see Ubu live by fully documenting David Thomas' humor, intelligence, and spontaneity as a front man. This recording and the band it celebrates are alive: <I>From Here to Eternity Live</I> and the Clash are dead.</div> <div> <B><U>Dewey Redman, Cecil Taylor, and Elvin Jones: </U></B><I><B><U>Momentum Space</U></B></I><B><U> (Verve)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="deweycecilelvin"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      This ain't Rawk. However, it does suggest to Rawkers that old age doesn't mean making life easy for the folks who neither understood nor liked you to begin with. What's represented here are the three schools of avant-jazz ruckus-raising: Redman, 68, from the Ornette Coleman College of Near-Absolute Democracy; Taylor, 70, a seminary unto himself of uncompromised total creative expression; and Jones, 72, the headmaster of the University of Natural Rhythm--the professor of Thunder and Lightning!--whose drums guided hundreds of John Coltrane's epic journeys into the spiritual unknown. One thing they <I>aren't</I> is static. Alone, duetting, and trioing, they make an argument for lifelong musical freedom, beauty, cooperation, and youth (they're still very busy being born) that every noise-making whippersnapper oughtta listen to , but probably won't and might not even be equipped to.</div> <div> <B><U>Handsome Boy Modeling School: </U></B><I><B><U>so...how's your girl</U></B></I><B><U> (Tommy Boy)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="handsome"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Prince Paul is the Thelonious Monk of hip hop: instantly recognizable, possessed of a compulsive sense of history, innately hilarious, and musically disruptive. He might not flow as well as the High Priest of Bebop, but his conceptual intelligence makes up for it. Regarded together with <I>Psychoanalysis: What Is It?</I> and <I>Prince of Thieves</I>, this album firmly places him at the head of the rap vanguard; in fact, he may be alone in a genre that prefers cannibalization to innovation. Of those three records, this is the lightest: imagine Tricky divested of gloom and pretension, stoned to the gills and staring at re-runs of <I>Get a Life</I> on a tape loop. But, as with Prince Paul's other records, there's <I>nothing like it</I>, so do yourself a favor.</div> <div> <B><U>Warren Zevon: </U></B><I><B><U>Life'll Kill Ya</U></B></I><B><U> (Artemis)</U></B>  <A NAME="zevon"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div>      Speaking of survivors, didja know Zevon's on the Rhino <I>Nuggets</I> box--not once, but twice? Impressive, but the photo and haircut on the cover of this one do not bode well. As usual, the album's uneven, but, also as usual, there's some very strong stuff here, poured by a songwriter who really has no imitators (Stanard Ridgeway used to try, but you gotta have, as Kinky Friedman sez, the balls of a pawnshop to hang with the "Z"). Though he puts way too much mileage on repeated verses and choruses, and stomps along like his fellow no-funkers Neil and Bruce, you can tell from titles like "I Was In the House When the House Burned Down," "Life'll Kill Ya," and--especially--"My Shit's Fucked Up" that his cold-eyed muse is cooperating with him. Even so, the best songs might be the tender but realistic love song "Don't Let Us Get Sick" and the downbeat cover of "Back in the High Life Again" (he <I>aces</I> it, perhaps because he's  hit deeper bottoms than Winwood).</div> <div> <B><U>Paul McCartney: </U></B><I><B><U>Run Devil Run</U></B></I><B><U> (Capitol)</U></B>  <A NAME="paul"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div>      The only reason I'm reviewing this is that I'd imagine anybody who would read this page would also tend to be too bored to puke at a new McCartney album, and would be too smart to fall for any "return to form/best album in years" hype (it's been used by Capitol before on this guy). Problem is...<B>THIS</B> <B>FUCKING RAWKS!</B> And the ballads are affecting! And the covers coulda been chosen by somebody on Crypt ("Coquette"? "She Said Yeah"? "Movie Magg"????? "Party"? "Shake A Hand"?)! And he writes a classic himself ("Run Devil Run")! And the guitarists are from pre-Buckingham/Nicks Fleetwood Mac and Pink Floyd! Call the fucking Pope--we got a goddam miracle here! </div> <div> <B><U>Gino Washington: </U></B><I><B><U>Out of This World </U></B></I><B><U>(Norton)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="gino"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> <B>     </B>The Andre Williams Renaissance does us another solid with this great compilation of sides waxed by a forgotten R&B ace from the Motor City.  Gino (who boasts a fabulous falsetto cry), the drummer, backup singers, clappers, horn section, and guitarist persistently battle for control over these songs, and the effect is exhilarating, another good argument against technocractic production values.  What would be trifles on other comps are here elevated to exciting genre exercises (if you’re unconvinced, you can buy the vinyl and suffer only once or twice per side--check out the absurd croaking on “Do the Frog”), and the kid could <I>definitely </I>put across a slow one (“Puppet on a String” is a dark classic after the manner of Aaron Neville’s “Over You”).  It’s almost as if some great Motown talent got away and jumped off the assembly line down into the basement.  </div> <div> <B><U>The Crust Brothers: </U></B><I><B><U>Marquee Mark </U></B></I><B><U>(Telemomo)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="crust"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> <B>     </B>If the idea of a supergroup of indie Merit Scholars (including valedictorian Steve Malkmus) covering <I>The Basement Tapes </I>strikes you as aurally appetizing as a spinach ice cream cone, believe me, I understand.  The musicians involved would seem to have no more affinity for weird American <I>roots</I> music than, say, Trent Reznor.  Nor would they seem to have the requisite soul; cryptic and obscure they do in their sleep, but if you spend a couple of days drilling into the original artyfacts, you’ll eventually strike meaning and emotional the likes of which Malkmus could only mock.  Funny thing here is...<I>it works</I>.  Though strangled vocalizing abounds, the music rocks, and even the singing seems to indicate the boys know the texts pretty damn well.  Lynryd Skynryd and Marvin Gaye get the treatment as well, and one of the originals stands up.  Who know? Maybe <I>Perfect Sound Forvever</I> will be <I>The Basement Tapes </I>of 2025?</div> <div> <B><U>The Del McCoury Band: </U></B><I><B><U>The Family </U></B></I><B><U>(DNA/Ceili)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="family"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Where other bluegrass bands are satisfied with simply aping Bill Monroe formally, McCoury and his boys strive to match his emotional intensity, depth, and breadth of taste.  Much more often that not, they succeed.  McCoury’s piercing high lonesome tenor can credibly project humor, piety, regret, loss, joy, and, most importantly, <I>terror </I>(helps to mitigate the purity and religiosity that’s omnipresent in most mountain music; when Del sings about God, he sounds like he’s just seen the Devil).  That range is one reason his music should be accessible to most curious rock and roll ears.  Another is his knack for imaginative covers (the Lovin’ Spoonful here, Robert Cray, Jerry Lee, George Jones, Tom Petty, Willie Nelson, and Lefty Frizzell elsewhere).  Finally, these folks can <I>pick</I> a little bit, too; it wasn’t for nothing that Steve Earle hooked up with ‘em for <I>The Mountain</I>.  If this one moves you, move on to the previous two, which are gonna be seen as classics once 20 years have passed: <I>The Cold Hard Facts</I> and <I>A Deeper Shade of Blue</I>, each summed up nicely by their titles.</div> <div> <B><U>Lounge Lizards: </U></B><I><B><U>Queen of All Ears</U></B></I><B><U>/John Lurie, et al: Soundtrack to </U></B><I><B><U>Fishing with John</U></B></I><B><U> (Strange and Beautiful Music)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="lizards"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Who <I>buys </I>John Lurie albums? The multiple millions who don’t don’t know what they’re missing, and what they’re missing’s in the name of his label. Funny, funky, exotic, cosmopolitan, cheesy, even virtuosic, it’s totally <I>sui generis</I>.  Imagine Ornette Coleman dancing in his head with Henry Mancini, and you pretty much have it.  The Lizards’ personnel seems in constant flux (other than John and his brother Evan, but, despite the addition here of slide guitar and cello, they sound just like themselves.  If you’re digging <I>Fishing with John </I>on the Independent Film Channel, you <I>must have</I> the soundtrack, which preserves many highlights (Tom Waits’ improvised sea chantey, for example, and “Shark Drive,” the Lizards instro that powers Lurie and Jim Jarmusch to Montauk) and holds together better than much less weird film music.</div> <div> <B><U>The Coup: </U></B><I><B><U>Steal This Album </U></B></I><B><U>(Dogday)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="coup"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Boots Riley refuses to lose.  Completely out of fashion as always--a death wish in hip-hop--funkin’ his Marxist analyses with original drum programs and Pam the Funkstress’ old-school scratches, bravely staring down the fatalistic philosophies of playas nationwide, he’s a classic American naysayer.  Song titles like “Me and Jesus the Pimp in a ‘79 Granada Last Night,” “20,000 Gun Salute,” and “The Repo Man Sings For You,” and album titles like <I>Genocide and Juice</I> and <I>Kill Your Landlord</I> illustrate how far out of step he is, and how direct his politics are.  Basically, he’s been exploring this subject matter since <I>way</I> before <I>Prince of Thieves</I> was a gleam in Prince Paul’s eye. If you’re unmoved by the Rawkus contingent or the Detroit crackers...try <I>this</I>.</div> <div> <B><U>Hank Penny: </U></B><I><B><U>Hollywood Western Swing 1944-1947 </U></B></I><B><U>(Krazy Kat import)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="penny"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Spade Cooley, Tex Williams, and various members of the Wills Royal Family ruled post-WWII West Coast Western swing, if you go by the history books.  However, with the major exception of King Bob’s 10-volume <I>Tiffany Transcriptions</I>, Hank Penny’s output holds up the best.  This is the first Penny collection to return to circulation in a loooooong time (from Portugal, of all places, but that’s Western swing appeal for you), and it’s terrific.  Not only was Hank an excellent songwriter and surprising songpicker, but he had a nose for the nasty novelty, and he worked with only the best guitarists:  Joaquin Murphy and Noel Boggs on steel, and Merle Travis and Roy Lanham on lead.  Their work highlights these 26 tracks.  Now Rhino or Razor & Tie need to get on the stick and reissue Penny’s late-’40s, early-’50s work, where his country covers of R&B anticipated none other than...The Rawk.</div> <div> <B><U>Detroit Cobras: </U></B><I><B><U>Mink Rat or Rabbit </U></B></I><B><U>(Sympathy for the Record Industry)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="cobras"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      ‘90s neogarage takes it to the fantasy Chitlin’ Circuit of its collective mind. You can just <I>see</I> the chicken wire--particularly ‘cause a chick’s in front--but who’s gonna throw the bottles?  Even though it exists in isolation, it’s still a pretty damn good party record, though even the terrific Eddie Floyd cover that birthed the title (“Hittin’ on Nothin’”) wouldn’t pass muster at a frat house today.  </div> <div> <B><U>Pristeens: </U></B><I><B><U>Scandal, Controversy, and Romance </U></B></I><B><U>(Almo)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="pristeens"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Richard Gotteher may not strike you as a household name in the world of Rawk, but not only was he a Strangelove (or “I Want Candy” and “Night Time” fame), but he’s produced numerous cool records that nobody bought:  Blondie’s<I> Plastic Letters</I>, Richard Hell and the Voidoids’ <I>Blank Generation</I>, and the Royal Crescent Mob’s <I>Spin the World</I>, just to mention a few.  This record honors its predecessors.  Three woman and a boy from NYC play some good ol’ pop-garage shit, dig up and refinish two past obscure classics (Wreckless Eric’s “The Whole Wide World,” which has been dying for the treatment, and “Sorrow,” written in the psychedelic ‘60s by...the producer), write two future obscure classics themselves (“The Hound,” the progressively more disastrous lyrics of which “climax” with “I just <I>fucked</I>/the meanest boy in town,” and the title song), and essay a gender-appropriate rewrite of the Beach Boys’ “Let Me Run Wild.”  This record was unaccompanied by underground hype, it’s pose-free, and it’s from the Big Apple, all three reasons why it’s been ignored, I guess.  Don’t make the same mistake as those supposed aficionados who don’t realize that they’re slaves to the <I>indie</I>-stry.</div> <div> <B><U>Ray Condo & the Hardrock Goners: </U></B><I><B><U>Hillbilly Holiday </U></B></I><B><U>and </U></B><I><B><U>Condo Country</U></B></I><B><U> (Fury import)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="goners"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      This is pre-Ricochet Condo, fronting another Canadian band a half-decade ago, one that stirred some Acadian flavor into his potent, musically omniverous roots rock. These two CDs feature a whopping 46 tunes, mostly excavated from vaults most specialists don’t know exist, and while the performances don’t approach the confidence, virtuosity, or relaxed swing of the Ricochets, they’re wild and motorvating for sure. You’ll get a charge from “High Voltage” and “Push-Button Boogie” and “Blast Off,” and immoral notions from “Catty Town” and “The Sinister Urge” and “Barroom Crazy” (all covers, don’t ask me of whom)--what more could you ask? And if white-trash esoterica just doesn’t cut it with you, Ray was serving up ballsy demonstrations of Everyman Soul on Tin Pan Alley classics <I>even then</I>, here with “Lover, Come Back to Me” and “Pocketful of Dreams.”</div> <div> <B><U>Shane MacGowan & the Popes: </U></B><I><B><U>The Crock of Gold </U></B></I><B><U>(ZTT import)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="shane"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      Coming off a classic solo album with rejuvenated vocals and stunning writing that didn’t sell diddley, the snaggle-pussed paddy punk-poet has apparently been rewarded by being banished to music-biz hell, from the looks of that label name.  No matter:  you can’t keep a snaggle-pussed paddy punk-poet down.  As always, he sings traditional Irish rebel songs like 3-chord classics and writes his own to call and usually raise the bet.  And as always, he’s got some major stones in his drawers: puts “paddy” (formerly a perjorative term for Irishman, but not the way he wears it with pride here) in the first three titles (all winners), and essays an extended Celtic-dub fusion (???)...which <I>works</I>.  Support legends while they’re alive, ‘cause this one’s insistent on meeting the Maker early.  (Note: This was recorded in ‘97, but I haven’t talked to any local fan who’s ever seen, much less heard it.)</div> <div> <B><U>Ditchdiggers: </U></B><I><B><U>Light and Salvation </U></B></I><B><U>(Go Kat Go)</U></B><B> </B><B> <A NAME="ditchdiggers"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div>      The spirit of the <I>first </I>alt-country movement lives on in the music of this ragged Atlanta outfit.  Names like Sid Griffin, Country Dick Montana, Dan Stuart, Steve Wynn, Jim Podrasky, or Chip and Tony Kinman (maybe Jason Ringenberg, but I doubt it) aren’t likely to turn up on a VH1 <I>Where Are They Now?</I> special, but, in their day, they sang long, loud, and hard from their reckless country souls, drunk on beer and life, scared shitless by Reagan...and wonderfully sloppy.  That’s not a caveat:  today’s fantasy honky-tonkers worry too much about getting the sound just right and too little about getting The Spirit.  I try to listen to Son Volt and Wilco, but my mind always wanders; they yearn to please Gram’s ghost, but don’t seem to realize that it was in moments when Parsons <I>didn’t quite hit the note</I> that he broke listeners’ hearts.  He was a dilettante just like they are, but he had <I>something to say</I> about the collision of country and city  that fucking <I>hurt </I>him, and you can hear it in his best songs.  I don’t want to raise expectation too high for <I>this</I> recording, but these guys couldn’t care less about pleasing a haint: it’s their own feelings and confusion and good times they’re trying to honor.  There’s nothing on any rubber-stamp <I>No Depression</I>-approved alt-country album (excepting Steve’s and Lucinda’s, but they ain’t <I>alt</I>-country--they predate the <I>first</I> round of alt-country by nearly a decade!) to match the passionate, rowdy enthusiasm of this record’s “Holy Roller” or “Blue Mama Cool,” Chris Gray’s defrocked-preacher-on-a-bender vocals, or Bryan Stuart’s shape-shifting shit-sharp rock and roll guitar.  You want a modern honky tonk, complete with spilled beer, ashes on the table, used condoms in the alley, broken glass, broken strings, and broken hearts? Step right in.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>REISSUE ALERT!</B></div> <div> <B><U>Lou Reed: </U></B><I><B><U>The Blue Mask</U></B></I><B><U> (RCA)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="blue_mask"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      It's about time this masterpiece was put back into circulation; it makes everything new I've been listening to lately seem ridiculous. Though Lou's often been boring and pompous over the past half-decade--<I>professorial</I> is an adjective that’s been pejoratively bandied about in the press--this record reveals why one of Rawk's greatest singers, songwriters, and guitarists is still with us. Half a wailing expulsion of his celebrated but self-nurtured demons, half an almost embarrassingly honest celebration of the peace and romance that rewarded such bravery, it's got redemptive riches galore for any despair-stricken modern man or woman. It's just as classic instrumentally: besides being a showcase for the amazingly compassionate post-Jamerson bass of Fernando Saunders, it's a guitar orgy, with Robert Quine and Reed each in his own stereo channel, sparring gloriously on "The Bottle," "The Blue Mask," and "Waves of Fear," but sounding beautiful when they're just strumming. No fucking irony here--just the bare heart, mind, and soul of one smart son-of-a-bitch who decided, for awhile at least, to quit fooling himself. </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>CUT-OUT ALERT!</B></div> <div> <B><U>Dramarama: </U></B><I><B><U>Vinyl </U></B></I><B><U>and </U></B><I><B><U>Hi-Fi Sci-Fi </U></B></I><B><U>(Chameleon)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="dramarama"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>      These are surely the greatest recordings released during the last 10 years that you can currently buy for between $1.99 and $3.99 at your local Disk Jockey.  This is surely the greatest rock and roll band of the last 15 years to go absolutely nowhere commercially and even critically (just <I>try </I>to find reviews of  their work in any hip rag publishing during the band’s prime).  And John Easedale is surely the greatest rock and roll songwriter of the post-Pistols era (maybe ever) to never develop even a modestly-sized cult; listen to his masterworks back to back--”Until the Next Time,” “I Got Spies,” “Haven’t Got a Clue,” “Work for Food” (a brilliant metaphor for sticking to your artistic guns in the face of overwhelming obscurity), “Prayer,” “Incredible,”  “Bad Seed” (on these albums), “Last Cigarette,” “Visiting the Zoo,” “Anything Anything,” “’70s TV,” and “Some Crazy Dame” (on the band’s other four excellent releases)--and you’ll be muttering to yourself, “Who the hell <I>is </I>this guy, and where the fuck have I <I>been</I>?” Funny, self-lacerating, open-hearted, quirkily referential, with an amazing arsenal of specific details (which riddle his late-night-phone-call tales of strange love) that any denizen of the past 20 years of Rawk Life will instantly recognize, a respect for glam verities upon whose work he often improved, and a band that claimed the early Psychedlic Furs sound after Richard Butler foolishly discarded it and fans foolishly forgot it, he should been <I>a major contender</I>.  The man could even make Narcotics Anonymous rock (recovery’s the great theme of <I>Hi-Fi Sci-Fi</I>)!  You can still spend $15 for Rhino’s nice but questionably compiled best-of, you can seek out these for nearly 1/3 of the price with a little effort, or you can altruistically support John’s continued struggle by buying his solo efforts on Eggbert.  If you’re really lucky, you might even find the earlier albums, <I>Cinema Verite</I>, the presciently-titled <I>Box Office Bomb</I>, <I>Stuck in Wonderamaland</I>, or the <I>Live at the China Club </I>EP at used record stores; this band never made a bad or boring record.  Be the coolest Rawker on your block and snap ‘em up however you can, before some kiddies stumble on to ‘em, immortalize ‘em in interviews, and make us all look stupid.</div> <div>  <A NAME="revelators"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> <B><U>The Revelators:  </U></B><I><B><U>...we told you not to cross us </U></B></I><B><U>(Crypt)</U></B></div> <div>      Rockabilly <I>oi </I>straight from the halcyon streets of Columbia, Missouri.  Formed in an instant to provide an opening band for Memphis’ Oblivians (incidentally, their heroes), they <I>smoked </I>the visitors’ asses that night (I was a witness) and pulled a record deal from the rubble.  With the band in pieces and their second album in garage limbo, this may be your only chance to hear one of the best garage bands of the ‘90s.  Jeremiah Kidwell’s manic hollering and John Schooley’s songs and guitar evoke Bible Belt desperation and wasteland kicks that rock and roll’s made far from enough of lately, without the bad-boy posturing, condescension, and rampant misogyny of their role models.  <I>Strongly recommended</I> to anybody who knows who the Saints are (this ain’t no hometown jive!), and be sure to check out Schooley’s Hard Feelings, located in Austin and rocking on the Sympathy label.  Also, it’d help to say a Rawk prayer that the 2nd recording comes out; despite the protests of both guys, the material’s gonna be good, ‘cause we’ve heard it live down here.</div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>