Blasts from the Past Archive

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Why the warning? Well, when you're an artist (that's as in "artwork," like painting and sculpting), macho pinheads might think you lack <I>cahones</I>. Not the problem with Allen: he has a knack for stripping macho pinhead mythology buck-naked, for his and our own amusement, though he never totally excludes either of us from culpability [go directly to "The Great Joe Bob (A Regional Tragedy)" to hear what I mean: "...they told him 'Hi' in the halls/'Cause he could run them balls/But it was rumored down deep he was mean."]. That doesn't keep him from writing the first ever country songs about art ("Truckload of Art," "The Collector," and "The Beautiful Waitress," who gets a lecture on drawing horses) or taking two trips to France, one to India, and another to Viet Nam ), but mostly he sticks to solid ground ("FFA,"  "Flatland Farmer," "High Plains Jamboree," "The 30 Years' War Waltz," "The Wolfman of Del Rio"). A cornucopia of left-field country writing. And his artwork ain't too shabby, either.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Ran Blake Quartet: </U></B></I><B><U>Short Life of Barbara Monk (Soul Note)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="ran_blake"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> Though Blake is one of the great unknown pianists in jazz, performing with both abstract and mainstream brilliance here, and this meditation on death (the title tune inspired by the passing of Thelonious' daughter) extremely moving, the main reason to scrape this from the bottom of the bargain bin (I got mine at<B> </B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#9966CC" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="http://www.half.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.half.com"><U><B>half.com</B></U></A></FONT>) is Ricky Ford's brilliant saxophone, which seems to alternately channel Ben Webster and Johnny Hodges while retaining a sound completely its own. A truly powerful and beautiful jazz record, sadly <B>OUT OF PRINT</B>.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Oscar Brown, Jr.: </U></B></I><B><U>Sin & Soul...and then Some (Columbia Legacy)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="oscar"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> Though it may be too "sophisticated" for all but the most omniverous out there in the congregation, Oscar's one sly, sexy, and cool son of a gun. A jazzier, much more discreet version of Andre Williams (who's currently way too content playing the damn-fool house-nigger for Garage USA--it ain't irony, guys, it's a racist stereotype you're encouraging him to be), Brown could cut political commentary ("Bid 'Em In," about slave-trading), put lyrics to jazz classics ala Eddie Jefferson (Nat Adderley's "Work Song," Bobby Timmons' "Dat Dere," Mongo Santamaria's "Afro-Blue"), reach back into the rap tradition (a perhaps-<I>too</I>-clean "Signifyin' Monkey"), honor King Louis Jordan ("But I Was Cool"), get lowdown ("Hazel's Hips"), even cross the River Styx ("Mr. Kicks"). His vocal chops don't threaten Jefferson or King Pleasure, the music's a bit loungey at times, but his intelligence, versatility, and charm win out. A lost master, and this 4-year-old comp's heading to the cut-out bin soon.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Johnny Bush</U></B></I><B><U>: 14 Greatest Hits (Power Play)</U></B></div> <div>  <A NAME="bush"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Speaking of <I>belters.</I>..meet the man they call "The Country Caruso." Bush started out playing in the honky tonk bands of Ray Price and Willie Nelson, the latter of whose more obscure classics ("Undo the Right," "Darkness on the Face of the Earth," "What a Way to Live') Bush first brought to popular light, before exploding into the country charts in the late '60s. This compilation (budget-priced and headed for the cut-out bin--JUMP ON IT!) showcases his classic Power Play music, which <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#0000FF" FACE="Times New Roman" ><U>Charlie Burton</U></FONT> calls "the heroin of '70s honky tonk," and a booming voice designed to rattle windows and break hearts. Think of big-ballad Elvis, divested of monumental self-regard and -parody, strapped to classic songs straight from a smoky beer joint (in fact, Elvis actually covered Bush's "You Gave Me a Mountain) and kicked into a flooded mine shaft. That last weird phrase gets at the sense of doom with which Bush can endow a well-written song (sample "Jim [Beam], Jack [Daniels], and [Sweet Gypsy] Rose," "The Warmth of the Wine," or "You Ought to Hear Me Cry"). After surviving a near-career-ending throat ailment in the '80s, he's rebuilt his voice and can still make you cry in your beer, a claim to which his Watermelon release of '98, <I>Talk to My Heart</I>, can attest. He's got a couple of new 'uns out, too. Real country made by a living legend who's too little known.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Stoney Edwards</U></B></I><B><U>: Poor Folks Stick Together--The Best of Stoney Edwards (Razor & Tie)</U></B></div> <div>  <A NAME="stoney"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Virtually forgotten today (couldn't find <I>one</I> damned LP of his amongst the humongous vinyl collection at Nashville's Lawrence Records), in the '70s Stoney, a black Native American Irishman from Oklahoma, gave his label mate Merle Haggard a run for his money in the "Poet of the Common Man" sweepstakes (and Merle had an advantage: he could read and write). He sang with an utter humility in the face of adversity that could teach many a calendar cowboy a thing or two about country, and wrote about common graces, "A Two Dollar Toy," "Mama's Old Quilt," fishin', bootleggin', odd-jobbin' being just a few. To hear him sing "Hank and Lefty Raised My Country Soul" is to know why they were more blacks than whites at Hank's funeral; to hear him sing--no, <I>utter</I>, as one would try to articulate a holy vision--Jesse Winchester's "Mississippi, You're On My Mind" is to truly understand the phrase "connection with nature" for the first time.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Eleventh Dream Day: </U></B></I><B><U>Lived to Tell (Atlantic)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="11th"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> One of the great guitar albums of the '90s, but, with Dramarama's <I>Hi-Fi Sci-Fi</I>, also one the great <I>lost</I> ones. And that ain't all: you'll be hard-pressed to find another album this full of moving lyrics about life and love's hard choices. Chicago's finest rock and roll band...and--I think--they're still at it. Out of fucking print.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Feelies: </U></B></I><B><U>Time for a Witness (A&M/Coyote)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="feelies"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> The Feelies were way ahead of the Velvets Renaissance curve with 1980's jittery <I>Crazy Rhythms. </I>1986's <I>The Good Earth</I> and 1988's <I>Only Life</I> chased the jitters with a shot of REMmy strum 'n' blur, not an improvement if you ask me, though most critics said different. Before bowing out, the band dropped <I>Time for a Witness </I>in 1991 to what seemed like utter silence. Dunno why, 'cause they turned up the amps, yelled the vocals, and brought back their old extended rave-ups and slow builds for their punchiest record ever. Of course, it's <B>out of print</B>, so keep your eyes peeled. Includes an absolutely ace cover of "Real Cool Time"; it's a pity they never did their inevitable roots album, though you can check 'em teasing us in <I>Something Wild</I>.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Fu-Schnickens: </U></B></I><B><U>F.U. "Don't Take It Personal" </U></B><I><B><U>and </U></B></I><B><U>Nervous Breakdown (Jive)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="fu_schnick"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <bR> <div> Hip-hoppin' Dizzy Gillespies, bustin' rhymes and crackin' jokes at high velocity (even from right to left, thanks to wonder-of-nature Chip Fu, the fastest combination of brain and tongue the music's ever known) and style-jumpin' like they were born to it, they were The Revolution that Never Happened. Remember those early equations--made in the face of "rap ain't music" caveats--of rap with be-bop? This is the only unit that made those claims stand up straight. Who knows where these guys are now? Bargain hunters might opt for the single-cd greatest hits package (sure to be in print when these are long gone...which'll be sooner than later), but both original releases are packed with surprises. Not to be missed: "Movie Scene," which prophesies the Wu; "Ring the Alarm," the ultimate dance hall/hip-hop synthesis; "La Schmoove," a declaration to rank with Gillespie/Parker's "Ko Ko"; and the mind-boggling "Sneakin' Up On Ya," which features Chip's wildest improv, literally jammed packed with syllables, wheezes, and sputters. </div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Slim Gaillard: </U></B></I><B><U>Laughin' in Rhythm--The Best of the Verve Years</U></B></div> <div>  <A NAME="slim"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Invented his own language (vout..<I>oroooney</I>). Sang, wrote, and played guitar, piano, drums, and the soles of his shoes (once, all in the same song, "Genius"). His best recordings remind one of the Marx Brothers in <I>Duck Soup</I>: serious structures reduced to a jiggling jelly of chaos by an anarchic madman. Whether he's whispering ("Tip Light"), barking ("Serenade to a Poodle"), chuckling (the title song), clucking ("Chicken Rhythm"), praising junk food ("Potato Chips") or twisting Japanese, Arabic, English, Greek, and vout itself for his own whacked-out purposes, the result is sonic comedy of the highest order. Rock ears should easily detect his influence on none other than Chuck Berry.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Merle Haggard</U></B></I><B><U>: Best of Country Blues (Curb)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="hag_s_blues"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <div> There are few good reasons to fatten Mike Curb's wallet, but this is one of 'em. The label's released several short Hag cheapos, each with a kinda-koncept, and none of 'em half-bad. <I>18 Rare Classics </I>harbors the long-gone "A Working Man Can't Get Nowhere These Days," <I>All Night Long </I>not only the killer Bob Wills title tune but the he-can't-<I>mean</I>-that "I'm a White Boy." Both, however, are loaded with soft stuff. Not so this 10-song tour of Merle's bluesy roots. After four swingin' dances with Wills tunes, three stops to drink at Jimmie Rodgers' eternal river (each great song bound to be unfamiliar to any non-obsessive), and one classic face-off apiece with Hank and the Delmore Brothers, Merle's own "Working Man Blues" and "White Man Singing the Blues" sound like the <I>weak </I>cuts. Budget-priced, too.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Millie Jackson: </U></B></I><B><U>Live & Uncensored/Live & Outrageous (Southbound/Ace)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="millie"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> Two discs of literally outrageous trash-talking, from-the-gut soul singing, and killer pop covers that's the best deal I've seen this year (less than $20). Recorded in '79 and '82, they document the woman who made Roxanne Shante and MC Lyte possible, and who makes Lil' Kim and Foxy Brown sound like dimwitted amateurs. Like Tom Waits' <I>Nighthawks at the Diner</I>, the 'tween-song raps are so funny and startling your mind may wander through the songs as you're waiting for the next one, but Jackson stays down and dirty and hilarious while she's singing, too. Her own "Logs and Thangs," "The Phuck U Symphony," "Lovers and Girlfriends," and "Ugly Men" show she's the brains behind the operation. "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy," "Hold the Line," "(If Loving You is Wrong) I Don't Wanna Be Right," "Passion," "Still," and "This Is It" show she can make the most adamantine Top 40-hater take it hard, over and over again <I>and like it</I>. The band can funk or rock and roll, and the Pointers back her up. Queen Bitch's Testament. Get it while you can.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Wayne Kramer</U></B></I><B><U>: The Hard Stuff; Dangerous Madness; </U></B><I><B><U>and </U></B></I><B><U>Citizen Wayne (Epitaph)/Dodge Main (with Deniz Tek and Scott Morgan) (Alive </U></B><I><B><U>limited edition</U></B></I><B><U>)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="kramer_1"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <bR> <div> It's only fitting that at a time of rampant MC5 worship and emulation (OK...too often it's mimickry), the rock congregation should be obliged to get out and support the sole remaining original member--one of only two who haven't departed for the Grande Ballroom in the Sky)--who's continuing to kick out the jams. Some reliable sources warn that these records, from 1995-1997, are headed out of print (though CDNOW"s still got 'em listed). If so, you can do one helluva lot worse than snap 'em up. The Epitaphs are laced with mad guitar and loud riffing that cut deeper than our Swedish friends' with half the strain, but the true surprises are the pungent, political, prophetic lyrics and stories from outside the law, some by ex-Pink Fairy and Armageddon novelist Mick Farren but many of the best by Kramer himself ("The mailman put in a fresh clip/Turned and slipped/Through a crack in the universe"). And though Wayne ain't no Rob Tyner or Mitch Ryder, he can yell or talk his way through 'em in the great rock and roll tradition. <I>The Hard Stuff </I>packs the most metallic KOs, <I>Citizen Wayne </I>the most consistent songwriting (and the most experimental music, with David Was replacing Farren as catalyst--purists beware!), <I>Dangerous Madness </I>splitting the difference. It'd be a perfect time for the label to cherry-pick the three for dense, jaw-breaking compilation, though a live album's out that may serve the same purpose. <I>Dodge Main </I>is a hard-rock supergroup record that, while the guitar mix could use a little body, gathers some classic-but-not-too-accessible songs in one place for a rowdy tribute to the Detroit Sound: Fred Sonic Smith's addictive, stuttering "City Slang," the MC5's "Future/Now" and "Over and Over," Radio Birdman's "100 Fools," and the Stooges' "I Got a Right." Though the record stumbles a little over some ska- and reggae-metal, it rights itself with a positively inspirational Kramer original near the end, the defiant "Better Than That." <I>Brother </I>Wayne is right! Throw some coins in the dish post-haste.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Rose Maddox</U></B></I><B><U>:</U></B><I><B><U> </U></B></I><B><U>$35 And a Dream (Arhoolie)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><I><B><U> <A NAME="rose"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></FONT></div> <bR> <div> The Queen of Bakersfield Country Music, and damn near the First Lady of Country Music itself, Maddox died in 1998, four years after this record was recorded, but she's in fine form here. She sings with much spunk, reprising the Maddox Brothers & Rose culinary classic "Fried Potatoes" and telling her (and their) story in the title song, as well as covering fellow Bakersfieldian Buck Owens twice and tragic legend Gram Parsons once ("Sin City"). She gets help from Haggard, Hamlet, Cash, and Berline, but she really doesn't need it: she was the definition of a pistol, apparently, from the cradle to the grave. If you're hesistant about taking a chance on a granny, try either of Arhoolies' Maddox Brothers & Rose comps (from the mid-to-late '40s), which sound like a hillbilly insane asylum break-out. You'll be back.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Percy Mayfield: </U></B></I><B><U>Poet of the Blues (Specialty)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="percy"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <div> They say the era of the autonomous songwritin' singer dawned with Chuck Berry, but here we have an eloquent collection of songs, sung in a suave, subtle, and sly tenor by the composer himself, seven of which went Top Ten R&B between '50 and '54. And Mayfield wasn't just your average country songwriter: titles like "Life is Suicide," "Lost Mind," "The Hunt is On," "The River's Invitation," "Wasted Dream," "Memory Pain" (memorably covered by not only Johnny Winter but John Lee Hooker), "You Don't Exist No More," and "Nightmare" merely suggest the lyrical depths he plumbed decades before Cohen and Cave.  Ray Charles and Johnny "The Tan Canary" Adams swore by him...why shouldn't you?</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>The Del McCoury Band: </U></B></I><B><U>The Cold Hard Facts (Rounder)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><I><B><U> <A NAME="mccoury"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></FONT></div> <bR> <div> McCoury's music is so alive he makes Ricky Skaggs sound like the Kenny Rogers of Bluegrass. Not only does he sing like he's possessed--and I mean <I>possessed</I>-- by Big Mon's ghost, but his band can flat move (as they proved to benighted ears on Steve Earle's <I>The Mountain</I>), and no mountain-music unit has ever had such adventurous taste in other people's songs. Folks as diverse as Robert Cray (a haunting, revelatory "Smokin' Gun"), Red Lane (a chain-gang tale of bloody revenge), Tom Petty, Jimmy C. Newman, Ray Price, and Skeets MacDonald get the treatment here, and McCoury's "The First Time She Left" and son Ronnie's title tune stand proudly alongside. The best place to start for the beginner.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Thee Mighty Caesars</U></B></I><B><U>: Surely They Were the Sons of God (Crypt)</U></B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="caesars"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <bR> <div> Billy Childish will be hollering rock and roll and strumming those three sacred chords through bad equipment when he's 100 (he stays so active he might just make it). Of his many incarnations, Thee Mighty Caesars is my favorite (though there ain't much difference between 'em), and this '85-'87 comp is their testament . 33 songs at barely over 70 minutes, thrust across by just bass, drums, and guitar from the Davies Family Bull-in-a-China-Closet School, yobby yowling vocals--they're punk if <I>anything</I> is, and with enough beer and volume you may doubt the title's a joke. One kinda wishes Childish'd lay off the bad gurls; when they cover the Ramones and the Clash, the words stick out like sore thumbs. But nobody else has gotten this close to The Golden Garage. </div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>The Monks</U></B></I><B><U>: Black Monk Time (Repertoire Records import)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="monks"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <div> 1966. Frankfurt, Germany. U.S. Army base. 5 soldiers fed up with the miltary machine. They monk-ify their coifs. They pick up bass, guitars, drum, and organ and blast out some of the nastiest, weirdest, and most exhilarating pop noise of the decade. Isolated from a lot of what was going on stateside, they nonetheless anticipate lots of future punk directions, particularly those of the closely contemporaneous Velvet Underground. Then, within a year, it is over. That's rock and roll. <I>Classic </I>anti-war song (not that many came outta the garage, y'know): "Complication." Prophetic titles: "Shut Up," "I Hate You," "Drunken Maria." </div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Motorhead</U></B></I><B><U>: Orgasmatron (GWR/Profile) </U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="motorhead"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <div> One of the most powerful rock and roll records of the Eighties. Play Ministry or Big Black (or, hell, Metallica or Megadeth) back to back with this muthahumper and it becomes clear what little twits Albini and Jourgensen and their ilk were (are? Can you even hear the "Where Are They Now?" file rattling?). Though Bill Laswell's production on this record apparently didn't meet with band or critic approval, I think it turns a diesel truck into a panzer tank. Besides, Lemmy is<I> eternal</I>: he's aged less embarrassingly than Keith or Iggy (no bandanas or "flamingo" stage moves or poetry readings or bad metal), and, along with his whiskey roar and thunder bass, the sumbitch can flat-out <I>write </I>a rock and roll song<I>. </I>This album's great smoking headbangers alone, "Nothing Up My Sleeve," "The Claw," and "Built for Speed," equal "Ace of Spades" or "Killed By Death," but his political/philosophical bone really starts to act up here (and would continue to through the equally underrated <I>Rock and Roll</I>, <I>No Sleep at All</I>, and <I>1916</I>). "Deaf Forever" is Lemmy's "Ozymandias," as well as one helluva great pun and anti-war song, and the title song synthesizes Flipper and Slayer as it puts its boot on the necks of the Unholy Trinity: government, military, and organized religion. </div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>David Murray: </U></B></I><B><U>Shakill's Warrior (DIW/Columbia)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="murray"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> The premier tenor man in jazz goes into the studio with an avant-garde/soul-jazz version of the MGs, with the late great Don Pullen playing the Booker T. role and going wayyyyyyyyyyyy out on Hammond B-3. If any rocker out there has ever dug side one of <I>Melting Pot</I>, s/he's more than ready for this.  Is it wank? Jazz-sturbation? HELL NO! Murray can honk dirtier than Oblivian guitars, he's got a sack full of catchy (!) songs that'll burrow deep into your medulla oblongata, and the stratospheric level of imaginative improv never flags, even (especially!) on the two cuts that surpass 10 minutes. Secret weapon: the drummer, who's taken everything Cecil Taylor's had to throw at him in the past and doesn't miss a trick here; in fact, lots of the tricks are his. <B>Now available only as an expensive Japanese import.</B></div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>New York Ska-Jazz Ensemble</U></B></I><B><U>: New York Ska-Jazz Ensemble</U></B><I><B><U> and</U></B></I><B><U> Low Blow</U></B><I><B><U> </U></B></I><B><U>(Moon Ska)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="ska_jazz"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <bR> <div> You may be sick to death of ska, or complain its function is too limited (when's the last time you actually danced to it?). Who knows: you might not be able to get enough of it--it has hung tough through several revivals, and there may be more.  In either case, you owe it to yourself as a citizen of the world to check out these two releases (the first, of course, out of print) by an ace dance band with improvisatory chops that thinks nothing of skanking compositions by guys named Monk, Mingus, Coltrane, Adderly, (Eddie) Harris, even Ibrahim, and mixing them up with their own pretty damn salty originals. They don't stop with jazz, either; they take Huey "Piano" Smith, Otis Redding, and Rudy "The Hangover King" Toombs to Jamiaca, too (and touch home with Toots). If you're a hardcore jazzbo or r&b purist, you may resist, but you'll be missing the fun (purists always do). Note to <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#CC0000" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="id25.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Review Archive"><U>James Carter</U></A></FONT>: next time you're in the Big Apple, look these men up, 'cause they're your brothers in spirit.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>The Pontiac Brothers: </U></B></I><B><U>Fuzzy Little Piece of the World (Frontier)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="pontiacs"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <bR> <div> A one-of-a-kind record: <I>wistful</I> garage-rock! The poor man's Replacements made several hard-rocking, good-humored, catchy records in the late '80s, '88's <I>Johnson </I>being the best-reviewed, but this one, recorded in the wake of the band's dissolution, is my favorite. Sloppy roots records aren't normally long on any mood but petulance, but the boys apparently knew the jig was up, and nearly every song here is shot through with sweet regret. The three-beer-buzz of passionate amateurism doesn't last forever, and, rather than denying it, the Brothers damn near turn this into a concept album using it as a theme. Out of fucking print.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Royal Crescent Mob</U></B></I><B><U>: Spin the World (Sire)</U></B>  <A NAME="rcm"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Times New Roman" >Still the best white funk band in rock and roll history. Since they didn't strip naked on stage and resort to shameless minstrelsy, they didn't ride controversy to fame like the Chili Peppers. Since they didn't ride an irresistible r&b instrumental to the top of the charts, they don't have a place in official history like the Average White Band. But they pack more memorable, interesting, intelligent, funny, and funky songs onto a 90-minute mix tape than both groups put together. This, their major label debut, was their best. Angling their Ohio Players-inspired music into Aerosmith territory (thanks to David Ellison's encyclopedic guitar) they visited "The Ed Sullivan Show," the dinner table, a corporate layoff, the friendly skies, the stock car races, the hospital, and the tundra, as well as spending quality time with some hot chicks. An imaginative tour de force, musically and lyrically, and shamefully out of print. Verse for Our Age: "I won't be holding the bag/Choo-Choo Charlie/When the corporation enema come down/'Cause the power falls into the hands/Of thin-dicked little weasels/But the monkey wrench is me here at the end."</FONT><B> <A NAME="skunks"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Jimmy Rushing: </U></B></I><B><U>Rushing Lullabies (Columbia/Legacy)</U></B></div> <div>  <A NAME="rushing"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Rushing, with Big Joe Turner, was one of the greatest big band shouters of the swing era, most famous for fronting Basie's titanic Kansas City band. His raspy vibrato is simultaneously thunderous and vulnerable--there's always a chuckle, a smile, or a wink (or all three) couched in every belted phrase--and, as befits an Okie, there's no polish necessary to his selling a song. This reissue pairs two late-'50s sessions, one with a power-packed all-star "big brass" orchestra (the reeds ain't too shabby, either: just Coleman Hawkins and Buddy Tate!), the other an organ combo spearheaded by Basie alums Tate and Jo Jones, with Sir Charles Thompson runnin' the keys like The Phantom of the Roller Rink. A great way to get familiar with 20+ classic songs from the first two decades of recorded jazz, too. Turn it up to 7 or 8 and be prepared to be waylaid by some aural joy.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Shaver: </U></B></I><B><U>Unshaven--Live at Smith's Old Bar (Zoo/Praxis)</U></B></div> <div> <I><B><U> <A NAME="shaver"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <div> "Georgia on a Fast Train." "Honky Tonk Heroes." "Black Rose." "(I'm Just an) Old Chunk of Coal." "You Asked Me To." "Ride Me Down Easy." All outlaw-country classics, all straight from the pen of Billy Joe Shaver, all present on this long-gone but absolutely KILLER live album. Though they've been covered by the likes of Willie, Waylon, Cash, Anderson and even The King, they've never been better rendered than here. Shaver's singing has gained power and savvy over the last quarter century, and his son Eddie's guitar--more dirty blues than pickin' country--adds a core of emotional commitment missing in other versions. Plus, the lesser-known songs ain't chopped liver: "The Hottest Thing in Town" may be the hottest song a musician's ever written about his mom, and "Love You 'Til the Cows Come Home" is recommended to Charlie Burton.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Stiff Little Fingers</U></B></I><B><U>: All the Best (One Way Records)</U></B></div> <div> <B> <A NAME="stiffs"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></div> <div> Pugnacious, political, and punchy, Ireland's forgotten heroes from the Days of '77 were one of the few bands to pick up the gauntlet the Clash dropped. Must-hears "Suspect Device" and "Alternative Ulster" explode with rabble-rousing punk rock fury, and "Nobody's Heroes" pins sheepdom to the mat well in advance of our own Minor Threat and Bad Religion, Jake Burns' temper-tantrum bark giving the listener no room to back out. This two-CD compilation (like most) loses a little steam early in the second disc, as the songs gets longer and the tempos slower, but it's a budget-priced testament to not sitting on your ass suffering.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Tarheel Slim and Little Ann</U></B></I><B><U>: The Red Robin and Fire Years--Golden Classics (Collectables)</U></B> <I><B><U> <A NAME="tarheel"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <bR> <div> Tarheel (real name Alden Bunn) was an enigmatic black equivalent of Elvis Presley, totally comfortable with nearly every genre of American music. He started out early in the decade in gospel, sailed smoothly into R&B with the great Apollo label, groaned the blues on "Eyesight to the Blind," and dealt out intriguingly dark-toned doo wop (check out the two-part "Can't Stay Away") in tandem with his wife Anna at decade's end on Fire. Most imprtantly, he cut two of the hottest bopcat singles of the late '50s, "Wildcat Tamer" and "#9 Train" (quick: name two other black rockabilly singers!), each sporting guitar solos that scorch the eardrums (Robert Palmer attributes them to Tarheel; <I>AllMusic Guide</I> to Jimmy Spruill).Though this comp covers only Slim's years on Fire and Red Robin, you can hear the blues in his wop, gospel in his bop, soul in his pop...and loud, snapping six-string <I>all over the place</I> (I'm siding with Palmer). An underappeciated master, for sure--and SURPRISE! It's in print, and cheap.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Howard Tate</U></B></I><B><U>: Get It While You Can--The Legendary Sessions (Mercury)</U></B>  <A NAME="tate"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <bR> <div> Brother Ray, JB, Jackie, Solomon, Otis, Sam Cooke, Marvin, Wilson, Sam & Dave, Smokey you probably know--if you been hittin' the church regularly. The Saints of Soul...<I>minus one</I>. Tate hailed from Macon, GA (JB, Otis, and Little Richard territory); whatever was in the water down there was touched by the hand of God. These are his Jerry Ragovoy-produced sessions for Verve, and I'd stand 'em up against Redding's <I>Dictionary of Soul</I> as one of the most exciting and varied soul collections ever assembled. If Al Green's or Robert Cray's singing has ever straightened your short hairs, you simply must sample Tate's falsetto leaps and emotional shifts (you'll get the impression Cray had to have studied at Howard's feet). If you've ever heard soul classics like "Stop!" "Ain't Nobody Home," "Get It While You Can," or "Look at Granny Run Run" (by folks like Hendrix, B.B. King, Joplin, and Cooder) and muttered to yourself, "<I>Damn, that's a good song," </I>well, <I>here's</I> where they came from. And the band, particularly the guitarist and horn section, can straight up wake the dead. The inevitable question: Is he still alive? No one I know seems to know...but if he is, he oughtta be a living legend. Judging from a quick web surf, this CD, the only recording of Tate's recently available, is <B>out of print</B>. Keep your eyes peeled when rifling the cut-out bins, folks--it'll be the best $3.99 you ever spent. (<B>Note: </B>Tate's been recently discovered preaching in a little church west of Philly and reportedly has scored a record deal. I wait with bated breath.)</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Hank Thompson</U></B></I><B><U>: Recorded on Stage in Fabulous  Las Vegas At the Golden Nugget (Liberty)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="hank_t_1"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <bR> <div> Next weekend, somewhere in a bar or at a state or county fair in America, septuagenerarian marvel Hank Thompson and band will be kicking ass with his classic blend of hillbilly boogie, honky-tonk, and Western swing, playing to an audience (and there <I>is </I>one) still hungry for REAL country music. Even his new records still have snap.  Forty years ago, Thompson and his Brazos Valley Boys recorded the first live album ever by a solo C&W artist, and it ranks with <I>George Jones Live at Dancetown USA </I>(Ace), <I>Ernest Tubb Live 1965 </I>(Rhino), <I>Shaver Live at Smith's Olde Bar </I>(Zoo; RIP Eddie Shaver!), The Killer's <I>The Greatest Live Show on Earth </I>(German Bear Family), and Mack "Meat Man" Vickery's loooooong gone <I>Live at the Alabama Women's Prison </I>(Mega) as one of the essential recordings of the music caught uncensored <I>in its element. </I>I know what you're saying: "<I>Vegas?</I>" Buy it and you'll see what I mean--there ain't a helluva lot of difference between a casino and a correctional facility, y'know. On this particular set of evenings, Thompson's wiseass Okie drawl was in fine form, the Boys were absolutely on point (with steel guitarist and bandleader Billy Gray and drummer Billy Stewart <I>especially </I>fine), and the material was a mix of Hank's best and visits to the catalogues of Tubb, Williams, and a legendary picker named Travis, who just happened to be sitting in. Another inspirational guest was the ambient noise provided by The Golden Nugget itself. You can't afford not to have this if you're a self-respecting honky-tonk fan; pop a top and head to <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#CC0000" FACE="Times New Roman" ><A HREF="http://www.half.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.half.com"><U>Half.com</U></A></FONT><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#003300" FACE="Times New Roman" >, where I found mine.</FONT></div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Various Artists: </U></B></I><B><U>Rhythm and Blues House Party (Ace import)</U></B><I><B><U> <A NAME="house_party"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></I></div> <bR> <div> Unlike its numerous kinfolk, this comp lives up to the title! Kicking off appropriately with Larry Dale's "Let the Doorbell Ring," in which the revelers ignore the cops outside, winding through novelty doo-wop (the original "Stranded in the Jungle") and pre-rock R&B (including early Little Richard and Etta James), giving air to aficionado faves like Young Jessie, Floyd Dixon, and Joe Houston, and peaking with the driving finale, Roy Montrell's "Every Time I Hear that Mellow Saxophone," it is what it advertises. Of course, furriners put it together, so unless you've got $25-30 to blow on a single CD (if you can find a distributor), better start haunting the bins, Daddy-O. Either way, it's worth it.</div> <div>  <A NAME="ware"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> <I><B><U>David S. Ware:</U></B></I><B><U> Flight of i (DIW/Columbia)</U></B></div> <div> Make no mistake about it: Ware blows the most massive horn in jazz. He also leads one of the sharpest and most experienced small groups in jazz (he, pianist Matthew Ship, and bassist William Parker have been together for 13 years), and fearlessly sails spiritual and improvisational waters into which few have dared to dip a toe since Trane shuffled off this mortal coil in '67. Every album I've heard that this unit's put out since '92, when this one was released (during Ware's first tenure with Columbia; the second just got terminated after a grand total of two records), has been a feast for heart, mind, and ear. Ware unleashes torrents of gospel-charged energy that the combo, which miraculously seems to move and breathe as one organism, shapes into subtle structures that compare more than favorably with Coltrane's post-<I>Love Supreme</I> work. The climax within such structures is usually a release into what Ware calls "bliss"--a state of serenity they (and you) have <I>earned</I>. If you're wondering what this has to do with rock and roll, well, <I>fine</I>, but if you're familiar with what the Drifters did to "White Christmas," Jackie Wilson to "Danny Boy," Sid Vicious to "My Way," or Husker Du to <I>The Mary Tyler Moore Show</I> theme, you just might wanna hear Ware disassemble "Autumn Leaves" here (or "The Way We Were," on 1998's <I>Go See the World</I>--a 14-minute, 34-second demolition and reconstruction). If you still <I>have</I> to ask, you'll never know.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Justin Warfield</U></B></I><B><U>: My Field Trip to Planet 9 (Qwest/Reprise)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="warfield"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <bR> <div> Talk about out of step. Drunk on <I>Paul's Boutique</I> (an off-the-wall masterpiece no one <I>else</I> has really dared hitch his star to) and <I>The Low End Theory</I>, high on a smorgasbord of hallucinogens (not exactly the hip hop drug of choice then or now), slangin' his own guitar and feeling no need for a <I>nom de mic</I>, Warfield dropped this in 1993, and it was dead in the cold, cruel, narrow straits of the rap game. Too bad--it's a closet classic on the level of <I>Critical Beatdown </I>or <I>Oar</I>. It achieves a flow worthy of its musical and chemical influences, with samples and references (<I>Caligula</I>, The Wicked Pickett's "Engine #9, "Ode to Billie Joe," Gus Van Zant) and his own six-string ideas planted like aural land mines to keep your head up. The much-better-known (but just-as-gone) Jungle Brothers tried something similar the same year on <I>J Beez Wit Da Remedy</I> (highlighted by a great Stooges sample, a hip hop first-and-last), but left the rails before the CD was over. <I>My Field Trip to Planet 9</I> still sounds fresh, even though you can probably find it in the $1 overflow bin at your local used-music oasis. <B>Out of print.</B></div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Muddy Waters: </U></B></I><B><U>Folk Singer (MCA/Chess)</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B> <A NAME="muddy"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B></FONT></div> <bR> <div> Ever dreamed of having Muddy Waters bellowing the blues right in your living room? That dream can half come true with this extraordinarily <I>present</I> '63 session, pairing Waters' acoustic slide with Buddy Guy's deft picking and backing 'em both with Willie Dixon's bass and Clifton James' drums. It's as in-your-face as blues records get, with remastering that earns its second chanceand Waters chilling and killing you with masterly renditions of "Long Distance Call," "Good Morning Little School Girl," "Big Leg Woman," and "Feel Like Going Home." Tacked on is a louder, electric get-together from '64 that produced "You Can't Lose What You Never Had" and "The Same Thing." The music here makes all current music sound like it's made by Romper-Roomers.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B><U>Johnny "Guitar" Watson</U></B></I><B><U>: The Very Best of Johnny "Guitar" Watson (Rhino)</U></B></div> <div>  <A NAME="guitar_watson"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Hendrix was truly a sonic genius. But you'll be a <I>little</I> less impressed by his originality when you're swarmed by the lead cut here, "Space Guitar," cut when the future "Superman Lover" was a mere 19. Freaking <I>loud</I>, blazingly fast, strutting multiple mind-blowing effects (and, believe me, that doesn't do it justice), it was laid on the listening public in <I>1954</I>. Yep: <I>1954</I>. Nothing else here approaches its futurism, but the rest are classic examples of Los Angeles R&B, circa 1952-1963. Along with the maligned Ike Turner, Watson is the most underrated of the '50s guitar heroes, perhaps because his past was drowned by his success as a purveyor of funky "pimpsongs" (the aforementioned, "I Don't Wanna Be a Lone Ranger," "A Real Mutha For Ya," all classic in their own right) in the '70s. Here's where to catch up. Note: He could write, sing, and play a ballad, too--"Cuttin' In" is a lost classic of early soul, a must-hear for fans of Toussaint McCall's "Nothing Takes the Place of You" (revived by John Waters in <I>Hairspray</I>). </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>