The Afghan Whigs
1965
Columbia
When I first played ‘1965’ to my Whigs-loving friend, she said “it’s not ‘Gentlemen’, is it?”. Well, no. But that album, The Afghan Whigs’ defining moment, was a long time ago, and a lot has happened. 1996’s ‘Black Love’ was its logical extension rechannelling the guilt and pain into a more violent emotion and ending with the gloriously uplifting ‘Faded’. If Greg Dulli and co had tried to rewrite ‘Gentlemen’, they would have failed miserably and all those of us for whom that album represents the ultimate in late-night drunken catharsis would have felt cheated and betrayed.
Instead, this album is a step away from the sweeping epic grandeur of the last two. Clocking in at a pretty concise 41 minutes, this album would seem to be an attempt at making a conventional rock record. However, when you hear the chunky opening riff to ‘Something Hot’, the sleazy bedroom-antics intro to ‘66’ or the ‘Theme From Rocky’ brass on ‘John The Baptist’, it becomes obvious that this band are so indiosyncratically unconventional that they just can’t do it.
Lyrically, Dulli is in familiar territory, albeit with a slightly different slant. Sex was a scary, guilt-ridden prospect, now it is simply animal lust with no strings attached. ‘Citi Soleil’ reveals a new, optimistic Dulli, a ray of hope shining into his previously bleak existence in the form of a Haitian taxi driver, whilst ‘Omerta’ has a dig at the “Stone Temple sob stories” that surround him and others.
So no, it isn’t ‘Gentlemen’. That album already exists, and is perfect as it is. However, with ‘1965’ The Afghan Whigs have proved that they have what it takes to move on. Essential listening.
Cuckoo
Breathing Lessons
Geffen
The Britpop/Indie genre is undoubtedly suffering from the vast number of mediocre Oasis wannabes performing dry, sub-standard tunes tragically lacking both passion and ideas. Indeed, Cuckoo does appear to be one of these aforementioned heretical bands throughout most of their debut album and cannot be expected to enjoy fame and fortune in the future. But as one listens to the track ‘Blackmail’, it is impossible not to recognise the beauty that is contained within the passionate, emotionally charged song. Out of a sensitive start arises the energy quite rightly associated with the sing-a-long choruses commonplace, and essential, in Britpop. ‘Potential’ and ‘Wink of Sleep’ are the two other promising tracks. While the former possesses a style reminiscent of Ash and even Weezer, the latter enjoys technical superiority in every way.
Unfortunately, the standard set by the three mentioned songs is not maintained by the remaining nine tracks clearly lacking both the technical quality and sense of feeling needed. Cuckoo, whose roots lie in Derry, are indeed right in their own assertion of playing "fierce guitar music". They should be given credit for originality and variation - sadly uncommon in this genre at the moment - in some, though not all, of their songs; and the bass lines certainly add strength to the album. So, Cuckoo's debut album is certainly no classic and apart from three truly fine songs there is little material to suggest imminent success.
Belle and Sebastian
The Boy With The Arab Strap
Jeepster
The shy pretty boys of modern music, Belle and Sebastian, return to the musical world with an album about a kid with an implement for maintaing erections. Maybe they are being a bit optomistic, however, as after forty -minutes of this I was distinctly floppy. The songs shimmer delicately as they produce interesting soundscapes built from acoustic guitars and synthesizers. Significantly they prove that acoustic guitars can be used for more than weepy ballads by Robbie Williams. Rather more, at times they sound like a British version of Air. Most obviously, however, the comparisons come from further back, for example Nick Drake is a strong presence on this album. On the one hand this sets Belle and Sebastian apart as a band which has rediscovered beauty in an era filled with roaring guitars and heavy drum beats, but at the same time it limits them as their influences combine to rather outshine the creativity of their own work. Consequently, at times it becomes too reminiscent of other bands and there is always a nagging suspicion that you have heard the songs somewhere before. This is particularly true of the spoken word track ‘A Space Boy Dream’ which could probably found on any slighly experimental album from the Sixties.
It is the lyrics which are the most interesting aspect of the album, filled by a succession of characters filled with sadness as they sing on ‘The Boy with the Arab Strap’ “Everyone suffers in silence a burden”. Yet this is not ironic pastiche a la Pulp but rather one can identify a real sympathy for the lives of the characters they create. All in all this is a rather moving album trapped by the influences which are constantly evident.
Red alert should be raised whenever a band start numbering their albums instead of giving them proper titles: it indicates either Led Zeppelin-style pretensions to prog concept sequence, or a jobsworth's tallying of the gradual fulfilment of a multi-album deal. Of course, Cypress Hill hail from the bad old days when people in Britain could only understand hip-hop if it was packaged the same way as rock: two or three major groups producing major albums for major labels with all other contenders relegated to the inevitable Best... Ever compilation. But where House of Pain never recovered from the quick-fade superficiality of the early-Nineties scene, Cypress Hill had one undeniable asset enabling them to survive the rise of Loud!, Rawkus, and Asphodel. The Dickensian-sounding Muggs is still one of the master-chefs of hip-hop, as was proved by the'Soul Assassins' project recently. His gloriously slick command of the studio is evident from the opening 'Eye of the Pig,' which remains sadly unparalleled in quality for much of the album. 'Riot Starter' is as silly as its title, and the MC-ing, idiosyncratic nose-pinching aside, all too often descends into Wu-pastiche, as on 'Steel Magnolias' or the irritatingly predictable token-misogynist track 'Freak Bitch.' The aforementioned 'Eye of the Pig' is the most lyrically original track, looking through the eyes of a policeman as he confronts and is gradually consumed by a daily grind of gore and corruption. But elsewhere perfectly good productions like the latino 'Tequila Sunrise' are ruined by sub-Raekwon posturing, until Dr. Greenthumb introduces a three-song burst which reminds us why Cypress Hill made sense as a group in the first place. By then, unfortunately, it's too late, and we're left waiting for Muggs to seal the lid on the whole sorry enterprise by releasing Soul Assassins - II.
The singer/songwriter is a strange breed. In this case, Ms Runga also produces and plays on her debut album, ‘Drive’. This total domination certainly ensures that we hear exactly what she wants us to, at the risk of one element being weak and spoiling the effect.
The residents of New Zealand like her in a kind of four-times-platinum way (aren't half the residents sheep?). In last year's "Kiwi" Music Awards she won awards for Top Female Vocalist, Album of the Year, Single of the Year and Top Songwriter. This, I feel, may be overstating her talents a little. The album is brooding and eerily appealing, but I feel it sometimes misses the point. In songs such as ‘Swim’ (a top 10 single in NZ) I wait for the kind of vocal explosion you would expect from Alantis Morissette but Bic's sweet voice fails to produce. More suited to her vocal style is the tenth track ‘Delight’. Brilliantly subtle and atmospheric with some interesting ambient samples, Bic's voice blends into this haunting experience. The quality of songwriting and production throughout is hard to fault (except a rather disturbing Xylophone mirroring the vocals on ‘Without You’). Less is more is definitely the order of the day (no side salad), especially on the title track featuring just singer and guitar. Following the path of Natalie Imbruglia (a bit too closely), there are plenty of ideas we've heard before in some form.
At 22, Ms Runga has plenty of maturing time that could produce some slightly more original tracks. Maybe she should consider either cutting free part of her split personality and concentrate on writing or write songs that don't require a voice with buckets of attitude. Personally I'd want her to do the first. Then again, she is of that strange breed.
Bob Mould
The Last Dog And Pony Show
Creation Records
Bob Mould is rapidly becoming one of those elder-statesmen for alternative rock whose persistence is almost as surprising as the fact that they continue to produce relevant and affecting music. It is now approaching 20 years since he was one of the founder members of HÄsker DÄ, the formative influence for a generation of bands on both sides of the Atlantic, yet everything he writes still exudes a familiar energy, a fact which can only be welcomed at a time when the charts are colonised by boring sub-Britpop snooze-merchants.
With this album Bob Mould picks up where he left off two years ago. Combining his hardcore past with the acoustic sentiments which have characterised his solo career 'The Last Dog and Pony Show' is a winner from the start. This is perhaps best illustrated by tracks like 'Who was around?', which combines heady harmonies and acoustic guitars with the familiar 'loud - quiet' device beloved of Sugar and their grunge contemporaries.
At the same time Bob Mould has certainly mellowed a little. Some of these tracks capture perfectly the current vogue for contemplative introspection. 'Along the way' in particular, with its brooding cello arrangement stands as a case in point, while the old energy is maintained in the rock-drive of 'First drag of the day'. Other standout tracks include 'Classifieds', a relentless guitar driven song about personal ads, and the opening track, 'New #1', a wonderful slice of semi-acoustic melancholy.
Favourable comparisons could even be drawn with those other perennial elders of rock, R.E.M. Both possess an unfaltering gift for melody, and both possess the same world-weary maturity that is much in evidence on this record. "I was a child" sings Bob, "and now it seems so long ago". In a musical world populated by groups barely out of school it is nice to know that age is not necessarily a barrier to producing quality records. Don't retire just yet Bob, your work is not yet done.
Various Artists
Atomic Fireballs
Flo Records
Once upon a time, music was dangerous, so much so that the Church deemed some notes Satanic and tried to forbid their being sung or played. These notes became the basis of the blues, which was considered an evil, corrupting music which stank of whisky and sex. After this came rock ‘n’ roll, which was the same as the blues only louder, and therefore more dangerous, to be swiftly followed by punk. The tabloids were outraged, records were banned and The Pistols were hounded out of towns by irate families. As the dance music scene blossomed, stories of drugs, sex and people enjoying themselves further angered the moral guardians of Middle England.
And then what happened? Our best anti-establishment anti-heroes became fat parodies of themselves and dance music either became anaemic happy-clappy party choons or coffee-table chin-strokery to be filed under yuppie shagging music. Happily, Flo Records still yearn for the days when music had people rioting in the streets because it was simply too sick to be listened to. This compilation of past and forthcoming releases kicks off with the mashed-up horrorshow hip-hop of Made In Britain, coming on like Tricky might if he hadn’t smoked himself up his own arse. The noise sculptures of 2nd Gen take analogue bleepery and guitar feedback and then drown them out with insane scrapyard drum loops, whilst Medusa choose to jump-start jump-up, taking the stretched-oh-so-thinly formula and perverting it out of shape. Pilgrim’s genre-hopping calls to mind a childhood-traumatised DJ Shadow and Code Talker produce intelligent drum ‘n’ bass with not a synth string or a double bass in earshot.
So if you’re sick of the ever-increasing girth of today’s bloated pop stars, if you seek the anti-UNKLE, or if you simply lust after a really noisy slice of hedonism, then Flo could be the label you’ve been looking for.
Lambchop
What Another Man Spills
Vic Chestnutt with Lambchop
The Salesman & Bernadette
City Slang
Vic Chestnutt and Lambchop lie in the shade of the same ten gallon hat; some bastardised Hank Williams hat. And as country folk and incest go lapel in lapel it was only a matter of time before the laconic drawl of Vic was backed by the many tender beats of Lambchop.
There's also an uncanny similarity between Vic and Kurt Wagner, the shepherd of Lambchop. There's the humour, dry and ironic such as the 'Man Who Drank Beer' from 'How I Quit Smoking', and the self-deprecating stance that doesn't play the martyr despite the world's cruelties. Check Vic's howling of 'I Am Not A Victim' from 'Little'. The downcast, downtrodden ambience of love's less savoury side is burnished with atonement for its worth rather than any alienation you may find in Smog.
And there's the core suspicion that these endearing men would be the saddest of men if their humour and their compassion didn't keep their heads above water. Where Mark Eitzel's or Palace's is a bitter scathing wit, here it is an escape, a release, a melodramatic gauge to keep them endearing. Try not to be delighted at Lambchop's rendition of Curtis Mayfield's 'Give Me Your Love' or notice the classic trumpet from Vic's 'Prick'.
On both albums the Lambchop herd sprawl instrumentally in a blissful stupor, all beautiful sounds. Vic and Kurt then try to bustle their lyrics into the gaps provided. Wagner's songs are more accomplished. His imagination is better linked to his purpose. But there is something alive in Vic which he cannot flog into submission even with the most poignant backing music. One feels that Kurt's talents are so great that he can never satiate his vast complexities and emotional nuance whereas Vic can only hint at depths beyond his comprehension. Whether the greater talent or greater shortcomings are better is a question I need not answer. There is space enough for both.
The Boo Radleys
King Size
Creation
Remember the first time you heard ‘Giant Steps’? You had to sit down and have a think about this business of musical ideas - the blending of the jangly pop with the dub and the noise. They went on to do some perfectly good explorations of some other places, but neither ‘Wake Up Boo’ or ‘C'mon Kids’ had quite the same wide horizons. Well, now the Boos are back at the vista and they've found some new sounds to stir into the undertow of those fantastic pop songs.
From the instant 'Blue Room In Archway' meanders in, it's lift off. Serene strings to the left, Bontempi jungle to the right, and then full-blown trumpet attack right between the eyes. Lead single 'Free Huey' is as smart as they come - claiming back the inheritance of 'Setting Sun' for indie guitar, "And you know you gotta be, all you can be."
Perhaps the best thing about it is that they haven't made 'Free Huey' 14 times but used the range of new sounds in as many different ways as possible. 'Monuments For A Dead Century' accidentally extends what should have been the middle eight for well over a minute, at which point the whole thing kicks off into an amazingly rich singalong that pretty much flutters to an end. 'Adieu Clo Clo' is the most far out thing on here though, just for the purely atmospheric nature of it, and the way the technology is fused perfectly to the beuatiful organic song of brotherly love. After that the album flows and swirls towards a sedate and satisfyingly gentle end.
It's turning out to be a good year for adventurous pop music, and The Boo Radleys have just kicked most of the British upstarts firmly back into their places.
Combustible Edison
The Impossible World
Bungalow
The self-proclaimed saviours of easy-listening slink back into the musical lounge after a year spent 'studying and experimenting' with their sound. Combustible Edison seem truly obsessed with creating noise and the result is music (with the emphasis on 'muse') that feels akin to sitting in a very large, all-enveloping velvet armchair. Enlisting the help of producer John Holbrook and the minimalist soundscaper Scanner, this fuses the sweep of Henry Mancini with a textured and dark electronic sound. Track titles such as 'The Garden of Earthly Delights' suggest the pervasive atmosphere of decadence that oozes out of this. It is the sound of music feeding on itself, which will only truly appeal to those with baroque tastes. If any criticism of their 'sound' could be made, it would have to be directed at the singer: her flat pseudo-crooning drags the music back down to earth rather than off into the spectral dimension that they are trying to access. At times this feels overly precious, a foible that often seems to occur in lo-fi noodling. It is a studied work whose avant-garde posturing will irritate most listeners. If you can set that aside, you will find that 'The Impossible World' is an extremely rich record that requires repeated listening and a riotously expensive music system. Combustible Edison have turned sonic elitism into an artform.
Caffeine
What The Hell Am I Going To Do When She Comes?
Fluffy Freako Records
Anybody looking for the answer to the question the title poses will be disappointed. Even the track of the same name provides no answers. This is no teenage angst, this is pure punk: simple melodies, simple lyrics. But that’s what punk is about. There’s even a dose of ska thrown in for good measure.
The fourteen tracks are all over in just outside half an hour, but any more risks the danger of boredom. The excellent cover of ‘You Spin Me Round (Like A Record Baby)’ is definitely the highlight of the album and is carried off well. ‘Killing The Brave’ and ‘I Wanna Send You All The Way’ are also great. On the other hand, some tracks pass by without you noticing and seem to just fill up space on the disk. The very unimaginatively titled ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’, sometimes grates and is unfortunately placed, being the second track on the album. Skip it, there is better to come. The phenomenon of indecipherable lyrics is taken one stage further with ‘Lontano’: it’s written in a foreign language. (Spanish, I think, but don’t quote me.)
This is quite an original idea and works OK, just don’t expect to be able to sing along, (unless you speak the lingo, of course). Caffeine have been described as the UK’s alternative to Green Day. However, the singer seems tries too much to emulate the style of Billie Joe. Even the lead guitarist looks like Tres Cool. But Green Day do Green Day best and Caffeine should concentrate on being Caffeine, which there is some evidence of, but not much. Overall, this is a good album, but it takes a while to get into. One thing is, it leaves you with the impression that they would be better live. Don’t expect anything that hasn’t been done before, but do expect fast, loud punk. (And loud is how it sounds best.) Turn it up and enjoy.
Buffalo Tom
Smitten
Swell
For All The Beautiful People
Beggar’s Banquet
There’s something about American alternative bands that gives them a longevity that British acts are denied. Whether it’s the size of the country, the number of different bands, the influence of college radio, all of the above or none of them, bands seem to be able to release album after album when a British label would have dropped them for someone younger and less interesting years ago. Swell and Buffalo Tom are two such bands, stalwarts of the left-field guitar scene who continue to release albums of astonishing quality to very little fanfare.
The problem is that these bands are far better than they have any right to be. Buffalo Tom’s Boston guitar sound should by rights sound hackneyed and dated, Swell should have been locked up years ago on grounds of their hair alone and neither band show any signs of ploughing anything but the same musical furrow that they’ve been doing for the last hundred years or so. But somehow, these bands have produced albums which not only equal their previous efforts, but in some areas surpass them. Buffalo Tom’s last record, ‘Sleepy Eyed’, started with a sharp intake of breath, and didn’t let up until the end. ‘Smitten’ starts with ‘Rachel’, the story of a playground romance turned sour, and once again squeezes every ounce of mid-American melodic angst out of their distorted guitars and interweaving vocals. The split vocal duties of Bill Janowitz and Chris McManus as always mean that the album has a variety of sound, but that said, this is still a resolutely Buffalo Tom album.
‘For All The Beautiful People’ begins in the same way as 1996’s ‘Too Many Days Without Thinking’, with a fade-in drone that kicks into an unmistakeably Swell guitar line. As always, the instruments and harmonies are layered in a way that gives a rich, warm sound to even the most bitter lyric, almost making you believe that they mean it when they sing that “everything is good”.
So, no surprises, nothing to convert the previously unconvinced, no Jazz Odyssey new direction, just two more albums from two fantastic bands that will tenderly massage your melancholy bits and leave you feeling all tingly inside.
Placebo
Without You I’m Nothing
Hut
It all starts innocently enough. Placebo's second album opens with hook-laden single ‘Pure Morning’, reminiscent of PiL's ‘Rise’, curiously compelling, if unoriginal. And then we're in uncharted territory. Things are a little dirtier and a little uglier than last time we came here. The high cheekboned, skeletal Brian will be our guide through the dark spaces, pulling back the skin to reveal the things we want to do but feel we can't, the people that we want to do but we can't tell them and it's tearing us apart. The album alternates between disappointment and the cruelty of hope, one moment raging against loneliness and abandonment (given an ironic bent because, here, both are inevitable), the next, succumbing to the... emptiness of it all.
Yup, the ladyboys are on a downer again. Quelle fucking surprise. The decay that was promised on their debut album has set in, and guess who's been invited along for the ride? Sometimes we'll hate the world for what it does to us, and sometimes we'll hate ourselves for being unable to do anything about it, save the occasional futile gesture. Accordingly, the music has a new rawness and expressiveness to it, emphasising the fragility, the falling apart that is at Placebo's core. ‘The Crawl’ is a musical high and emotional low, inviting you to share in its melancholy - misery does love company, after all. ‘Every You Every Me’ signals a comeback of sorts, bristling with bitterness and howling guitars, only to be drowned out by the shame of ‘My Sweet Prince' (which veers too close to Suede territory, brooding over such injustices as “Never thought I'd feel so ashamed” and “Never thought you'd fuck with my brain”). An album of moodswings, then, neatly capped off with ‘Burger Queen'‘s quiet refrain of “Makes no sense at all/Things aren't what they seem”. The new romantics, if you like.
The Montrose Avenue
Thirty Days Out
Columbia
Before reviewing this album I hadn't heard a good word about The Montrose Avenue. Now I know why- ‘Thirty Days Out' arouses no emotions except boredom and irritation. Dull, lifeless and predictable are three handy adjectives for it. The Avenue are a pretty standard five-piece playing countryish rock. Most of the songs are ballads, some more energetic than others, but don't be deceived; they all descend into turgid sing-a-longs. A problem with this is that they don't sing particularly well. Their attempts at close harmonies fall short of the Beach Boys. The inclusion of a hammond organ could have lifted their sound but it fails to do so. Unimaginative lyrics often become banal. Here's a sample from ‘Where I Stand’: "Did I hear you say/ Look the other way/ Well it sounds as though the end is getting nearer"; unfortunately half the album is still to come. With such blandness these songs seem to mean little to the band themselves.
‘The Montrose Avenue’ may strike you as an unusual name. But in fact naming their group after a road is rather appropriate. All the tracks seem to be the same and go on into the distance, with the charisma of tarmac. And HGVs are meant to drive over them. Perhaps the very worst thing about this album is the inclusion of a hidden live track. Now, on any album this isn't necessary - if it's worth putting on the album make it a separate track - but here it's also pointless because no-one's going to bother to listen that far. Surely its only purpose is to give the album the appearance of lasting twenty minutes longer than it mercifully does. But maybe I've been too harsh. Maybe it's OK in throwaway kinda way....Nah..
Manic Street Preachers
This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours
Epic
Finally the Manic Street Preachers have given up pretending to be arty and clever and with this series of epics gone straight for the heart instead. So not content with giving us headaches, they’re set to give us heartburn as well. However, the album does start well with two storming tracks ‘The Everlasting’ and the excellent single ‘If You Tolerate This...’. Yet, the album soon descends to the band's norm; roaring, overblown guitars over simple drum and bass lines. Only one song, ‘Born A Girl’, vaguely drags itself from the mire and in an album over an hour long anything vaguely melodic provides relief.
Musically this is boring, simplistic and overproduced in the same vein as Embrace.What about the everso praised and meaningful lyrics? Well why are they still droaning on about the pain of their lives? Are they still disturbed at losing Richey? I don't think so, except that any hope for creativity has been lost for ever. No, apparently they are disturbed at the plight of the Welsh in modern society and making a shedload of cash while they’re at it. Finally, Nicky complains 'It's still unfashionable to believe in principles' but where are the principles here? This is just a series of elaborate complaints without solutions. After the 'political' work there are the 'ballads' in which James Dean Bradfield moans “Petrified for the millionth time slowly my soul evaporates/ no parachutes no dismal clouds just this fucking space” ad infinitum. Really all this is sub teenage angst rubbish that kids are writing in bedrooms throughout the world. Sorry lads, it’s time to stop being so immature and obsessively naval gazing.
Earl Brutus
Tonight You Are The Special One
Island
Urban Trash in excelsis. Old enough to know better presumably but with more energy than even the sparkiest Cast-off/Oasis etc. ‘Tonight You Are The Special One’ verily stomps along with more than a passing nod to all things glam and brashly shiny. But wait! This is the self-referential ‘90s and a decent tune isn’t complete without a canny self-awareness and acute social observation. Earl Brutus do this particular line of modernity well: “You are your own reaction” (‘Ginger Satan’), “Can I race you round the Kwik Save?” (‘99p’). They share a little of the same seedy fetishism of the mundane (see Pulp) but are much more incisive about it, endearingly.
Strangely enough, any one of the songs as a single (‘Come Taste My Mind’, ‘The SAS And The Glam That Goes With It’) doesn’t quite demonstrate what Earl Brutus are capable of in the same way the album does. Which makes listening to the album as a whole a great surprise, even if they do sound the tiniest bit like er, Carter on occasion. Earl Brutus then - Come Taste Their Mind...
Photek
Form Or Function
Science
To all intents and purposes a compilation, Rupert Parkes' second Photek album is every bit as stunning as his Science debut, ‘Modus Operandi’. Comprised of remixes of the first six Photek releases, a couple of newies and a disc of original versions, this triple LP set hangs together beautifully as a whole album. Remixers Doc Scott, J Majik, Digital, and a collaborative effort from Peshay & Darren Beale's Decoder, all deliver uniformly excellent results, with particular mention going to J Majik for the deftly textured reworking of ‘UFO’. Parkes' own mixes of ‘The Seven Samurai’ and ‘Resolution’ are equally as impressive, the former even surpassing the original.
However, it's the last half of the album that emerges as the most satisfying, with the new tracks ‘Santiago’ and ‘Knitevision” easily ranking alongside such classics as ‘The Water Margin’ and Bukem favourite ‘Rings Around Saturn’, and offering an indication of both where Parkes' genius comes from and where it is headed. Even with a “proper” second LP apparently just around the corner, ‘Form & Function’ is far more than a mere stop gap; it's a dispatch from the musical frontline on a par with, say, Drexciya's Underground Resistance releases. It's been obvious from day one that Parkes has got that “it”, whatever “it” is, and as the voice at the close of ‘UFO’ states, “it is definitely coming this way”.
Depeche Mode
The Singles 86>98
Mute
Like Madonna, another eighties survivor, Depeche Mode have consistently managed to reinvent themselves when the need has arisen. Unlike Madonna, each reinvention seems to bring the group to disintegration. And yet Basildon's finest New Romantics/ remix-pioneering leather fetishists/ cynical lovers/ jaded rock stars/ redemption-seeking suicidal junkies/ reborn, sartorial electro-poppers (delete as applicable) are still here, just. The question is, why?
Anyone who invested in all three CDs that marked the release of ‘In Your Room’ (the Butch Vig remix is included here) would have been greeted by a scrawled image of a long-haired, underweight Dave nailed to a cross, suffering, Christ-like. Unsurprisingly for a band named after a fashion magazine, Depeche Mode are about the pose: Anton Corbijn's carefully structured photographs have indelibly shaped the way the group are perceived. A paradoxical mix of artifice, plasticity, honesty, and angst - Depeche Mode get away it with because they are so flexible and malleable. They are, perversely, both the least and most important band on the planet, turning the great questions of our age into four-minute commodities. All their great, meaninglessness moments of the past twelve years are here, the last 21 singles, as ephemeral and fundamental as they ever were, with none of the scars or bruises airbrushed out. They have an unfortunate tendency to get it wrong just when it looks like they might have got it right: when Dave implores on ‘Stripped’, “Let's get away/just for one day,” his voice bristles with defiance and desperation. You'd go, too, until he urges, “Let me hear you make decisions/without your television,” ruining everything. But 'Never Let Me Down' still retains its edge of madness, ‘It's No Good’ is a pure pop thrill, and ‘Enjoy The Silence’ will remind you that they could write fantastic stuff when they put their minds to it. As vital a purchase as you want it to be.
Grooverider
Mysteries Of Funk
Higher Ground
Styles change with years, up and down, but this album, you could say, is ‘higher than Jesus’. From start to finish, Grooverider has constructed and produced (with help from Optical) an album with a level of thought which is minimal, but intense and contains all the sounds and basslines which we know Grooverider for. Every track has been produced in layers which blend together on another plain, with tweaks, trimming and small amounts of trickery dominating the album and showing Grooverider’s originality.
As the album progresses, sections remind me of the Bristol scene and vocals of Morcheeba and Kristin Hersh. Throughout the album it stays the same, a boundless trip of waveful beats, with the use of the double bass and free-flowing Monk-style trumpet producing a live, unrefined sound which kept me interested only because of the layering within the tracks and his use of sampled drums gives an impression of sinking beats. ‘Starbase 23’ showed that there is no coffee-table or BBC preview intro music here and after that it’s just brilliant drum ‘n’ bass.
‘Time And Space’ and ‘Rainbows Of Colour’ reach a standard of vocals within drum ‘n’ bass and show that vocals can be placed on two levels but work together perfectly- it’s the little things that matter.
At last, an album which has been thought through to the smallest detail. Bukem watch out, the Dark Side has entered a new wave of production and nothing is what it seems.
I'll admit to having had preconceptions about Fuck. Firstly, they have a manifesto, and the only other band that I connect with manifestos is avant garde Krautrockers Faust, so it was bound to be fairly pretentious. Secondly, the sheer willfulness of calling your band “Fuck” almost ensured that the music on this, apparently their fourth outing, would be something like an intellectual Ween with jazz time signatures and less structure, with the whole thing presumably being played on garden furniture and cutlery. “Conduct” began to look less like a record and more of a challenge.
However, Fuck seem, to be as far removed from this misconception as possible. The seventeen very short songs on this half hour long album sometimes bear a fleeting resemblance to those of Smog or The Sewing Room, whilst ‘Stupid Band’ and ‘Laundry Shop’ sound for all the world like the Auteurs did many eons ago. The tracks are simple and affecting, and though the lyrics make no deep impression, they at least complement the near folksy quality of many of the choons. The expected lo fi production encourages the guitars to fuzz their way through the melodies, and the album ends up sitting in the Matador niche quite nicely. Despite some useful dalliance with synths and that, most notably on the excellent ‘My Melting Snowman’ and ‘Gone’, Fuck stick with a languid lo fi pop song sort of approach that often pays dividends. Fuck may not be the first band on people's minds, even for those who are into all this, but that doesn't stop ‘Conduct’ from being a focused and quietly confident LP which, if not essential, certainly deserves to be heard.
Esthero
Breath From Another
Sony
Drawing on a vast range of influences is all well and good, as long as the resultant music fuses something fresh and original out of its constituent parts. Esthero, a Canadian vocalist and producer duo, claim their debut album to be a giant melting pot of every genre of the past twenty years, but this process seems to have merely produced an insubstantial mush at times. The opening (and title) track is a case in point: it begins with a slightly sinister vocal murmuring over hip-hop beats but then switches schizophrenically into a drum and bass chorus reminiscent of 4 Hero’s recent ‘Starchasers’ single. When I move on to say that the next track, ‘Heaven Sent’, features flamenco-tinged trip-hop verses and a chorus like Bjork singing Skunk Anansie, the problems should be becoming apparent.
Gradually, though, the album begins to hang together, especially when Doc (the producer) puts aside his box of tricks for five minutes, thus allowing the seductive voice of Esthero (the singer) to mould cohesive songs. This is particularly true of the standout track ‘That Girl’ which manages to be both laid-back and insidiously catchy with its Morcheeba-esque vocals and jazzy muted-trumpet meanderings. The same can be said of ‘Country Livin (The World I Know)’ which comes across as a Massive Attack / Erykah Badu collaboration. So I can forgive Esthero their bad jokes (see the big band breakbeat of the oh-so-amusingly titled ‘Flipher Overture’) and their bad judgement (such as the both pointless and dire hidden track) because a song always arrives to counter-balance these errors, be it the shuffling trip-hop anthem to the disaffected that is ‘Indigo Boy’ or the jazz-piano Portishead of ‘Anywayz’. ‘Breath From Another’ then: inspiration from elsewhere but enough freshness to dispel the polluting air of plagiarism.
John Forté
Poly Sci
Ruffhouse/Columbia
When you are told that John Forté is a member of the fairly illustrious Refugee Allstars, and had a hand in writing various chunks of the Fugees multi-award winning album “The Score”, you basically know what to expect. ‘Poly Sci’, then, offers no real surprises, and even appears to follow the same formula as its musical big brother (eg radio-style narrative and intro and outro sections), and is none the worse for it. The fact that Fugees mainmen Wyclef Jean and Prakazrel “Praz” Michel are named as executive producers (and have musical input as well) makes it a sequel to ‘The Score’ in all but name.
There is one main difference between the two albums (and I’m sorry to keep comparing them but then again the Fugees are most people’s frame of reference for hip hop and rap). Compared to the overproduced, over-rehearsed and occasionally over-rated Fugees album, Forté’s material sounds fresh and raw. Whereas the “ad-libbed” links between songs on ‘The Score’ were clearly less than spontaneous, ‘Poly Sci’ contains little inaccuracies everywhere and it is far more human and likeable as a result. The cheap staccato synths of ‘God is Love, God is War’ are simple and effective, and the various stereo experimentations throughout the album add to already compelling rhythms and insistent choruses. A Lauryn Hill soundalike provides a melodic anchor for the reworking of ‘99 Luftballoons’ (in ‘Ninety Nine and its companion piece ‘Flash the Message’). The repetition of themes and ideas in the intro, outro and the superb ‘Madina Passage’ gives the album coherence, rather than sounding merely like a collection of random tunes.
Forté says of his work: “We get our degrees in the streets and we get our degrees in school. ‘Poly Sci’ represents the balance between the institution of academia and the institution of the streets”. Forté’s background in academia (street or otherwise) might limit his appeal to a select audience, or it might just make him stand out from the hip hop crowd- either way, ‘Poly Sci’ is another worthy product from the Fugee factory.
Yeah- but by the skin of their teeth. This is a genuine tightrope of an album, full of risks and courage. Jack are not a normal band; not a bunch of grinning long-haired chancers, not faceless DJs curving sharp beats around slabs of urban strop, not even double-bluff irony-merchants dealing in mild adolescent froth. They choose string-laden paths into a melancholy you can soak in, long afternoons of remembering lost chances, slowly darkening evenings spent reading and imagining better lives. They are, above all, nothing if not hopeful.
We live in an age that seems scared to be seen as intelligent and vulnerable. Jack have the balls to fictionalise, to craft tales, to defy this sad and limiting thicker-than-thou tedium. "My world versus your world/ you're history..." sings Antony Reynolds, and you really can't help but feel a surge of the heart. Brain-dead hedonism has its merits, but this is an album for the sensitive, bruised and beautiful, and their hungry, elegant revenge. '...I'll be quoting poetry/when they finally sentence me'. As I say, this is an album of courage.
Its not all plain sailing: 'Pablo', for instance, is a pale imitative shade of Bowie's 'Suffrogette City', but the overall impact is one of deliciously bitter beauty, especially the sublime 'Nico's Children' with the divine melancholy of its opening couplet: 'I've been waiting for you/ In the housing benefit queue...' if you have any soul, you'll feel the city groan. An album, my friends, like the final coffee after an all-day Dole-wasting alcoholic binge, and one to be heard while staring at the first stars of a London evening. One of the best of 1998, but one that lives on the skin of its teeth.
Not terribly sure what to make of this band. Whilst an ex-Senseless Things drummer’s new outfit doesn’t perhaps sound like the most delectable proposition this side of the ‘90s, it’s not hard to see where Delakota are coming from. With their Baggy-ish rhythms and swaggering vocals, echoes of Primal Scream and The Stone Roses filter through the smoky atmosphere. On recent single ‘C’mon Cincinnati’, we have an endless sample of some guy saying ‘C’mon Man’ over a not entirely un-danceable bass part. For some reason I’m wondering just how ‘cool’ Delakota are...I mean, presumably they think they’re pretty hep cats what with all their mildly funked-up samples and rasping metallic noises (‘Too Tough’), wandering bass lines and hypnotic choirs of female vocals (see also Spiritualized occasionally) and for all I know they could stay up ‘til 2 every night and perhaps smoke a little ‘weed’ but I’m not entirely convinced they don’t come from East Anglia or something.
Mind you, they did play on Newsnight for some discussion on the state of modern music which is mildly intriguing - as long as it was Jeremy Paxman presenting (does he still do that? I don’t know...don’t watch TV much..it’s evil you know) and they cover a Royal Trux song on one of their singles which gets my heartless indie snobbery vote any day! Furthermore Royal Trux have agreed to remix a future Delakota track (‘Show Me The Door’) which must mean that someone out there likes them..... Hmm... They did also support Embrace on their recent tour however, so it looks like Delakota have got to make their minds up about the direction they take - ‘cos obviously they couldn’t possibly be both mainstream indie and doing er, Royal Trux covers for example. It’s all so confusing....Go on, surprise me Delakota!
Half Film
East of Monument
Buzz Records
Listening to an album like 'East of Monument' can be compared to trying to get pissed on shandy, you keep waiting for it to kick in, but you just end up getting bored. It is not that any one of the eight tracks on it is particularly offensive, they aren't, it I just that none of them makes any impact whatsoever. The first track, 'Weather patterns' kicks off, with its 'swelling rhythms' (to quote the press release!) and the pattern is set, none of the seven songs which follow it add anything to the formula, and none of then make the effort to step outside the framework established by the opener. In an era when, more than ever before, music is attempting to transcend the barriers of genre such laziness is criminal.
The really worrying thing about all this is that you can see the band themselves trying to pass this repetition off as art. It is not. It is dirge. Furthermore there are hundreds of bands out there who are never going to get signed, but who could write this stuff with their eyes closed. Since I have nothing more to say about this album I feel it is my duty to write a brief guide explaining, for the benefit of all those struggling musicians out there, how to get a career the Half Film wayƒ
1. Find a struggling drummer and get him/her to lay down a soporific rhythm track, preferably using brushes (after all, we wouldn't want to get anyone excited now, would we?)
2. Get your bassist to record a bass track over the top. Play it back, noting any interesting parts. Delete them, reduce the number of notes by half and re-record it.
3. Get your guitarist to play a six note jangle riff, preferably consisting of only two chords. Press record and repeat it until the rhythm track ends (or the guitarist falls asleep).
4. Find a singer with a three note range and get him/her to speak your lyrics over the top of whatever resulted from the previous three steps. (NB: Caffeine may be needed to keep him/her awake. The lyrics themselves really don't matter, since nobody will ever listen to them anyway).
5. Send your demo to Buzz records in Chicago and hope for the best. You could be supporting the Divine Comedy before you know itƒ
The High Llamas
Lollo Rosso.
V2
This year, with the release of ‘Cold and Bouncy’, saw a marked change in direction for the High Llamas. Led by Sean O’Hagan’s melodic voice and with Beach Boyesque harmonies, the High Llamas had spent their career making beautiful pop songs which no-one listened to. With ‘Cold and Bouncy’ they tentatively stepped forward into the world of electronica. Whilst still keeping the harmony structure of their earlier efforts, they now spent there time attempting to create music “where the machine’s beat is that of the heart” as Sean puts it. No longer relying on Sean’s vocals, who only sang on a third of the tracks, the result was certainly pleasant to the ear, but not exactly groundbreaking.
Lollo Rosso sees another step forward, with six tracks from ‘Cold and Bouncy’ remixed by artists chosen especially by The High Llamas for their pop background. My favourite must be Cornelius’s funked up remix of ‘Homespin Rerun’. With the rhythm sped up and added drum and bass beats it finally sounds as cutting edge and exhilarating as you would hope for. Mouse on Mars also does wonders with ‘Showstop Hip Hop’, cutting out most of the lyrics, leaving a warped computerised wail in the background, which sits nicely with the far more mechanical, harder sound he creates. There are also remixes by Schneider TM, Jim O’Rourke, Kid Loco, and Stock, Hausen and Waulkmen.
Perhaps the greatest indication of where the sound of the High Llamas is headed can be found with their own remix of ‘Tilting Windows’. The original lyrics are stripped away, to be replaced by a jazzed up back beat with added warbling and not much else. It is one of the less inspired remixes, and I must admit to hoping that Sean just has a touch of laryngitis and will back in full voice next album. By the sound of things this is unlikely to happen however, and we shall have to wait and see just where the High Llama’s musical journey leads us.
Salako
Re-inventing Punctuation
Jeepster
Only half of the twenty tracks on this pleasantly packaged album really justify their place, and of those perhaps half manage to convince as indie/electronica crossover. The others just sound like Teo Macero splicing an indie album and a dance album together in post-production.
The only consistently good element, apart from the neat production, is the programming by Luke Barwell, who would do better to strike out on his own. The lyrics are mostly from the scan-is-not-a-word-in-my-vocabulary school, where once you've found a rhyme, the job is done and putting the stress on words like 'a' and 'the' is considered 'quirky.' Only indie singers take that as a compliment. To be fair, a couple of the songs do have some really nice touches, and 'The Moonlight Radiates A Purple Glow In His World' takes the daring step of being almost completely fine, with phrases like "when the rain doesn't fall it rises."
This is an album which shows that essentially, music and ideas of music can be subject to revolutionary change, but students will always remain the same. There are too many lyrics crying out 'I'm wacky! I'm zany!' There are the same old bedroom acoustic guitar diddley-diddley melodies. The good ideas, like recording someone turning a page as a percussion instrument, and the occasionally very neat arrangements, are too intermittent to raise the album above average. And at no point during the album do they re-invent punctuation.
Dub Pistols
Point Blank
Concrete
When Malcolm McLaren put the original Pistols together, he promised nothing less than anarchy (or a bit of a laugh, lots of kudos and a fat paycheque for himself). When Barry Ashworth came up with the idea of the Dub Pistols, the most revolutionary aspect of the whole deal is a respectable, danceable dance album with all the hooks, breaks, baselines (everyone needs a 303, right?) and samples all present and correct. But who's complaining? Point Blank is a bit of a laugh (kudos and fat paycheque TBA), typical Concrete fare and none the worse for it. The beats are dirty but tight, the rhythms likewise, with excursions into reggae, dub, electro and latino to keep things interesting. TK Lawrence, the new boy, and Jimmy Ranks sing, toast and rap with lazy drawls, keeping things nice and laid back and providing a human backdrop to the sound of machines doing battle with each other in a kind of Chemical Brothers/hard hop stylee.
This multi-culturism is typical of many a London album, and the 11 tracks here, musically and politically, are steeped in the capital's culture. The Dub Pistol's vision of and soundtrack to modern life in the physical, psychological and metaphorical landscape of urban sprawl is not that much different to that of a million other bands, dance or otherwise. But they know their limits, quickly find their groove and stick to it, occasionally showing flashes of excellence (the three tracks produced by Keith Tenniswood of 2 Lone Swordsmen fame are probably worth the entrance fee). They may roam the mean streets of the city, but they know better than to stray too far from their own territory and are more concerned with having a good time than daubing anti-everyone slogans on the wall of hi-rise flats and mugging old ladies to feed their burgeoning drug habits. Nah, high on life mate.
The ambient, post-modern, avant-garde techno genre has yet to take the world by storm, and this CD is unlikely to spearhead the revolution. ‘Tongues’ by Mig could be the best joke album ever, a collection of all those “secret” experimental tracks that bands tend to fill albums up with. Either that or it’s simply lacking in imagination and substance, so badly executed that it sounds less appealing than the theme from Sonic the Hedgehog.
From the plodding, subdued circus sounds of ‘Dead Thinking’ to the Casio keyboard demo attempts of ‘Soma’, Mig/Tongues fail to impress at every turn, and by the time the accordion kicks in during the drunken lurches of ‘Merchants’ you’ll be struggling to stay conscious.
At best, Mig perform inoffensive sub-Enigma background music, although more often than not the atmospherics of tracks such as ‘Dawn’ and the synth-bass driven ‘Sparkle’ are interrupted by dirge singing. Imagine Jim Morrison’s drunker, less talented brother or perhaps the kind of thing an especially miserable Lou Reed might mutter in his sleep.
When Mig hit on an interesting theme or hook they rarely follow it through, being content to fill the best part of an hour of my life with cheesy percussion and pipe organs.
This album isn’t a patch on conceptually similar offerings from Tortoise or Mouse on Mars, yet you can’t help but believe that the joke is on the listener as Mig present such titles as ‘Drone’ and ‘Narcoleptic’ (look it up!). And as for ‘So Long’? You’ve no idea how long it felt.
The Orb
U.F.Off - The best of...
Island
The Orb are one of those bands everyone places amongst the greats of the decade, and yet how many of their songs can you name and recall? My tally prior to this week was four. And of those, three were released seven years ago. This however is no slur on a band who have strived to remain cutting edge, it is just that it was not everyone else's edge they were hacking away at.
Their first long player, released in 1991, contained instant classics such as 'Little Fluffy Clouds' and 'Perpetual Dawn', yet it is the other two tracks from 'The Orb's Adventures Beyond The Underworld' on this blatant money-spinner that show The Orb at their best. 'Outlands' in particular has a familiar feel to it, reminding me of a couple of tracks from Leftfield's eponymous debut. For an album that was hailed as so original, Leftfield borrowed heavily from a legacy left four years previously. The Orb's great talent is for moving the boundaries of music, and inspiring those who follow.
All the tracks from the first album reflect the strength of samples over a catchy tune, however by the time of the second album, ‘U.F.Orb’, the following year the attitude had changed to a more ambient sound that was barely airplayable, let alone chart material. This trend has continued for the past five years and yet surely The Orb's music has had a deep impact on much of the alternative dance music of today.
In the tradition of all ambient music The Orb run the risk of becoming random noises, however judicious use of samples and an underlying rhythm hold both the individual tracks and the album as a whole together. I am sure that the beat will go on for many years to come, to the benefit of music as a whole.
Which sees Mojave 3 finely ‘crafting’ songs from the rotting corpses of Nick Drake and Bob Dylan (yeah, I know he’s not dead yet) and three million ‘la-las’. It’s not that I have anything aginst ‘nice’ music as such. It’s just WRAGGGGH! I want some shouting and ineptitude, not perfectly strummed chords and “there’s a lovin in you that makes me wanna fly”. I mean, really. Do these people not have serious personal problems and/or psychopathic tendencies? There are a lot of wishy-washy things said about love etc. and it’s BORING. “Baby’s driving too fast and she dont wanna know which way/Yeah she’s read enough Rock ‘n’ Roll to know that it’s right now that counts”. But have you Mojave 3? And besides, WILL PEOPLE STOP USING ‘BABY’ IN SONGS! This is something that should have died out after about 1969, along with political activism and kaftans. Actually, bring back politics in music! Be angry Mojave 3! Cause insurrections wherever you go! Hate more stuff!
Mind you, as heartfelt outpourings go, Mojave 3 aren’t all bad - some decent lines amidst the limp strumming and shoegazing- ‘I was drunk when I met you/ I was drunk when you walked out the door’ being quite good. There is, however, a really alarming bit on ‘Caught Beneath Your Heel’ where some woman starts screeching like Annie Lennox. The faint country-tinged guitar doesn’t really appeal too much either. Or the gospel-esque ending on a couple of songs. Stay away, Mojave 3! Become an out and out country outfit with tassles and cowboy boots instead of pushing the vague indie element...Go on! You know you want to...
McAlmont
A Little Communication
Virgin
I promised myself I wouldn’t do it. Compare the past with the present. I was going to listen to the album with an open mind. But I couldn’t. You see I, like many others, fell in love with the ill-fated glory that was Mcalmont and Butler. For a short time they were the finest musical collaboration of a generation. Even my Mum liked them. So as I settle down to listen to this record I’m biased. Maybe that’s a bad thing but we all do it. Compare new music to our favourite records. Just forgive me if I slate this latest effort.
The opening track 'Lose my Faith’ is gorgeous. The voice melts you, the production perfect but it lasts about 3 minutes too long. The title track is mellow and (not surprisingly) the vocals are stunning. ‘Honey’ is a good song but not quite there. So it carries on, nice songs, great vocals. By track 6 I’ve fallen asleep. Mcalmont is so close here but there’s something missing. None of these songs inspire me. They meander by in the background, minding their own business, quite happy to settle in their own corner of Mediocre-ville. It’s a pity that such a voice should be wasted but Mcalmont doesn’t work on his own. The man doesn’t need a set of perfect session musicians but a counter-balance. Someone to stop him falling in love with the sound of himself and forgetting the song. He’s drifting needlessly into the soul wasteland of British artists like The Lighthouse Family and George Michael. If we’re not careful your Mum will own all his records and he’ll be on Radio 2 doing a live acoustic set. Stop him now. Don’t buy this unless you love him.
PJ Harvey
Is This Desire?
Island
Where all of PJ Harvey’s previous offerings have been cathartic explorations of her soul, ‘Is this Desire?’ is a moody, atmospheric piece. In some ways it is her most ambitious work to do date but it is also her hardest to define. Rather than the overt exaltations of desire and lust that ripped through her earlier work, ‘Is this Desire?’ exits as a series of stylistic snapshots.
‘Catherine’ and ‘Electric Light’ exist almost underneath the bass, with PJ Harvey developing an operatic whisper to set off the dark tales of the lyrics. ‘The Wind’, ‘The Garden’ and ‘The River’ all set up irresistible grooves in which PJ Harvey sweetly sings or whispers more dark tales. ‘The Sky Lit Up’, ‘Joy’ and ‘No girl So Sweet’ all use a huge distorted bass and rattling drums to back Polly Harvey growling, or shrieking, disturbingly ƒ erm... dark tales.
So, it’s not an album full of sweetness and light then. However, it falls short of the brutal expressions of sexuality that defined ‘Rid Of Me’ and although most songs are about characters (witness ‘Angelene’, ‘Leah’, ‘Elise’, ‘Catherine’, and ‘Joy’) a definite sense of PJ Harvey the person emerges.
Maybe it’s the subtle melancholy of the closing ‘Is This Desire?’ or the amount of times her voice is left alone to open a song, but the album seems resolutely personal. Even if the messages are coded in third person narrative the atmosphere and mood of the music conveys enough emotion for most albums.
It has some of the best tracks PJ Harvey has ever done, it has the most subtle and intriguing blend of musical styles she has ever attempted and it still has that amazing intensity that PJ Harvey brings to everything she does. It is a very rewarding follow up to ‘To Bring You My Love’ and worth checking out even if you have never bought anything she has done before.
Shonen Knife
Happy Hour
Universal Records
The music scene in Japan has never had so much talent and diversity. From the insanity of Guitar Wolf to the exotic sounds of the Pizzicato Five and the innumerable dance DJs in-between, Japan is currently producing more quality music than any other place on earth (including Belgium).
Though you wouldn’t think it, Shonen Knife are actually veterans of the Japanese music scene. The energy of this album still gives the impression of three rebellious teenage girls practicing in a garage and annoying the neighbours- so its a shock to find that they’ve been gigging since 1982 and had their first album out in 1985. The punk-pop sound has been largely maintained but now features elements of metal on ‘His Pet’, techno on ‘Shonen Knife Planet’ and, dare I say it, ska on ‘Cookie Day’. There is also the gorgeous acoustic ballad ‘Dolly’ which sounds deeply moving despite the fact that it’s about the infamously cloned sheep and contains the lines “One sheep, two sheep, three sheep for my sleep”.
As old fans will know, this band really do like their food. Delicacies covered on this album include cookies, chocolate, sushi and banana chips- oddly there are no songs even touching on the Spanish civil war, just strange ditties about waking up one day and discovering that you’ve developed ‘fish eyes’ overnight. As a whole the lyrics on the album contain plenty of satire and irony, occasionally some sincerity but mostly just good old fashioned bollocks. Being mistaken for Radiohead is a problem Shonen Knife rarely have to deal with.
Undoubtedly there are those who will listen to the first five songs and reproduce their last meal, but its refreshing to hear a band who don’t take themselves at all seriously and make records that are so infectiously happy.
Stereolab
Aluminum Tunes (switched On Volume3)
Duophonic
Stereolab occupy a peculiar niche in pop. Whereas most other groups need to advance musically, they have turned their lack of progression into a virtue, making an aesthetic out of repetition. As such, they differ from most other electronica, not in their sound but in their attitude. This double album of rarities and unreleased tracks follows on from two previous compilations, demonstrating their incredibly prolific output. It also represents an overview of their different styles, from the guitar-based melodies of the first half to the pared-down ambience of the second.
Opening with a selection of six tracks originally commissioned to accompany an art exhibition, it then pulls up short in the decidedly un-Stereolab-like 'Iron Man'. Notable for its utter dissimilarity to anything else on this album, it is not unlike an electronically-filtered take on the rolling drums of Adam and the Ants. Strange stuff. For those who like their rhythm straight and montonous, 'Aluminum Tunes' soon switches back to their traditional sound.
The second side shifts the mood into more eclectic territory with 'One Note Samba' and the John McEntire remix of 'Perculator'. Some of the songs sound like they have only been half-recorded, as you might expect from unreleased tracks, but there are enough surprises and U-turns here to make this one of their most bizarre releases. Usually, Stereolab make me think of a soothing cup of tea, a bit mild and inoffensive, but this is more like one of those spontaneous cocktails that does strange things to your stomach. At times this feels like a time-killing exercise, at others it is the sound of skewed brilliance.
Puressence
Only Forever
Island
It is with some glee that upon getting my grubby mitts on the little gem that is 'Only Forever,' I scrabble feverishly for the all important promo bumf. In which lexicon of modesty and truth I hope to discover everything a first time hack could possibly want to know about (and I quote) "Manchester's finest" in easily digestible chunks of soundbite. Much to my bitter dismay I come to realise that I must have had my head firmly clenched in between my fulsome buttocks for some time now, after being informed that this is Puressence's long awaited second album. And the first? Feeling evermore sheepish I read that they once had a top forty hit and that ‘Gazing Down’ is one of the album closers of all time. No shit.
Still bamboozled by the lack of any illuminating info I flick expectantly through the enticingly thick sleeve notes only to find a few dismal photos of what I presume is Manchester, alternated with some weirdy-beardy facial close ups of the culprits. My initial disappointment is somewhat quelled, however, by a strange attraction to one particular photo showing a traffic light about to change to green - perhaps some cryptic invocation of the bands emotional inertia and melancholic frustration. Perhaps. I am, however, of the opinion that a few 'arty' shots of Manchester does not an interesting album make. Nor for that matter do Puressence.
At their best they attain something of early P.J. Harvey's bass and drums riffing spoilt by ‘Pablo Honey’-era Radiohead. At worst they sound like Roy Orbison or some warbling New Romantic plastering on the vibrato in glutinous (not to mention gratuitous) layers over just about any uninspiring indie outfit ever. Yet if you belong to the school of thought which holds that all you have to do in order to sound emotive and soul-searching is whack your guitar through a distortion pedal and hammer out the minor chords, this one is for you.
Rae & Christian
Northern Sulphuric Soul
Grand Central Records
I had a few preconceptions about this album, caused by two facts. Firstly, Mark Rae and Steve Christian have, until now, only made their name as producers and remixers. Secondly, the word "soul" makes a worrying apperance in the title. Third, and most disturbingly, 'Northern Sulphuric Soul' features a collaboration with Sharleen Spiteri, leadsinger of Texas, contenders for any award for the most boring band in the UK.
In many respects, these impressions are unconfirmed. Unsurprisingly, the production work on every track is impeccable. Traditional hip hop beats and basslines combine with orchestral arrangements in layer upon layer to create a strange atmosphere that manages to be both lazy and energetic at the same time. Melodic vocals from Veba on songs such as 'Fool' and'Spellbound' add to the whole laid-back attitude of the album, whilst guest vocals by artists such as the Jungle Brothers show that rapping doesn't always have to be about shouting a lot.
The sheer number of collaborations here could have been a big problem, withthe threat of an inconsistent compilation CD looming over the horizon. Rae and Christain have done well to avoid this, maintaining a balance between their own sound and the varying styles of the featured vocalists. The album wanders slowly away from relaxed hip hop towards soul and then returns without anybody noticing that it left in the first place, making it perfect for the end of a long evening. Oh, and the Texas song is actually quite good.
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion
Acme
Mute
With credits on this album being shared by Steve Albini, Calvin Johnson, Dan the Automator and Alec Empire, this is Jon Spencer’s most overt effort yet to mix rock and roll and dance together since his ‘Experimental Remixes’ project. Basically most of this album was recorded with either Steve Albini or Calvin Johnson (owner of K records, in both Dub Narcotic and the Halo Benders and generally the Godfather of alternative music in America) and then given to Dan the Automator, Alec Empire or T-Ray (Cypress Hill) to fuse electronics to its groin.
Basically it’s a party album. It has Jon Spencer blues riffage at its core and the electronics aren’t just tagged on but become an integral part of sound. Introduced with a sample shouting; “This is Blues power!” before a James Brown “Let’s have a party” holler, the riff comes in and doesn’t stop until the heavy remixing of ‘Attack’ fades into oblivion. Highlights include the EPMD sampling ‘Torture’, ‘Blue Green Olga’ which was co-written with Luscious Jackson’s Jill Cunniff and the aforementioned ‘Attack’ in which Alec Empire brings his hardcore insanity to the party.
With ‘Acme’ Jon Spencer returns to the lyrical territory of ‘Orange’. Shouts of “Blues Explosion!”, “Flavour!” and “The Blues are number one!” litter the album, constantly reminding you who you are listening to. Each swift movement from laid-back intro into noisy dirty blues booms out of the speakers. Each groove eats into your conscious and each stupid bit, the backing on ‘Do You Want To Get Heavy?’ for example, sounds perfect.
Imagine if the Rolling Stones had been bought up on punk rock and hip hop and had suddenly developed a sense of humour. Imagine the most lascivious fusion of everything low down and dirty in modern music. Imagine ‘Acme’.
It is now over a year since Bill Berry quit the band he helped to initiate- and the difficulties that his departure has caused have been well documented. But in truth the six years after ‘Automatic For The People’ which saw them at the height of their stardom, have been trying times for the Athenians.
The recording of ‘Monster’ involved an incomprehensible number of problems at the mixing stage (which almost led to a split) despite the fact that it was the “dumb rock and roll record” that ‘Automatic’ should have been. The new fans were taken by surprise at the vigour and dark theme of ‘Monster’- the effects of which would become apparent later. The 95 Monster tour saw three members of the band hospitalised- Mike Mills (appendicitis) Michael Stipe (hernia) and most significantly Bill Berry suffered an aneurysm and for the second time whilst on a world tour narrowly escaped death. The band again came close to splitting. Only eight months after the end of the tour that ‘went up a hill and came down a mountain’, the classic that is ‘New Adventures In Hi-Fi’ (recorded mostly on tour) was released to universally favourable reviews and is now rightly seen as one of their finest records. In the lead up to its release, they parted company in mysterious circumstances with their long time manager Jefferson Holt and rumours were again rife about a possible split; the signing of a multi-million dollar record contract with Warner Brothers put paid to them. However, the ‘fans’ gave the record a wide berth with the memory of ‘Monster’ still in their minds. The sales figures peaked at a paltry five million.
The period of time since Bill Berry’s exodus has seen the three remaining members of REM recall the recording sessions of ‘Fables Of The Reconstruction’ in 1985 - a time looked back on by all including Berry as the worst time of their lives. Yet what they have produced is a record that has grace, beauty and maturity, which they had right from the very first album in any case. Things have quite clearly changed. The audacious opener ‘Airportman’ sees REM sounding like Cornelius with Stipe breathing barely audible vocals underneath a sublime melody. The superbly funky ‘Lotus’ features the kind of Rickenbacker riffs that only Peter Buck could play and evokes memories of songs from the ‘Lifes Rich Pageant’ era. The influence of Vic Chesnutt is again audible in ‘Suspicion’ whilst the sweet paean of ‘At My Most Beautiful’ is easily the most recognisable REM song on the album, featuring some slightly cheesy but charming harmonies. The sound of ‘Up’ is overtly keyboard intensive. Mellotrons, Hammonds, pianos and synths all have their part to play and are often married with a drum machine- but the signature REM Rickenbacker sound as mentioned before is retained and draws the album together.
Not only is this the first REM sleeve to contain lyrics to all of the songs, it is also the first to have staples which make it into a booklet instead of those annoying foldout leaflet sleeves. Stipe’s lyrics do read surprisingly well in print but are still in danger of misinterpretation as they are ambiguous as ever. The thing to remember is never to associate his words with Stipe himself - Re: Daysleeper. What does Stipe know about working at night and the alienation of such an occupation? Nothing, as he will no doubt admit. These are merely observations of a great song writer. The highlight of the album comes in the shape of ‘I’m Not Over You’, a hidden track tucked away at the end of ‘Diminished’ which is itself brilliant. Lasting only one beautiful minute, it features a guitar which sounds as if it was played in another room and Stipe singing almost acapella. It struck me whilst writing this that they have never recorded a truly bad album- fifteen years after their debut ‘Murmur’ they still haven’t.
REM. Best band in the world? Make your own mind up, I’ve made up mine.
Bloco Vomit
Never Mind The Bossanova
X Creature Productions
No. This can't be happening. If you can read past the bit where I say this is an album of punk classics played in a 'samba punk' style, then you know what it was like to try to listen on after the opening massacre of 'Do They Owe Us A Living?' which manages to be more crass than Crass ever were.
Oh well. I suppose it had to happen. Someone had to make the connection between the punk 'anyone can do it' philosophy and the samba 'everyone can do it, preferably at the same time' philosophy. Trouble is, you need a lot of people with a sense of rhythm and a good recording to make samba work, and those elements are rarely if ever present in punk. The rhythmic interplay (reviewer collapses with hysterical laughter and is hospitalised with kidney pains for two days before continuing sentence) does get going, almost, on 'Police and Thieves,' and then quite definitely on 'Metal Postcard.' Then it collapses again on 'Oh Bondage, Up Yours!' which is saved only by a chaotic saxophone which strives to rise above the care-in-the-community backing, and a vocal which suggests a more convincing link between punk and blues. In fact, the best elements of this album are not the percussive ones, but the vocals, trumpet and saxophone, which veer dangerously close to listenable a fair percentage of the time. Overall though, like most novelty albums, this is to be endured rather than enjoyed.
Following on from the success of their eponymous debut album, Silver Sun hit us with a fresh batch of sugar-frosted tunes. “Neo Wave”, however, propels them even closer to the title of The New Queen. How desirable this is, of course, is a matter of personal opinion but we’re still safe; they’re a long way from getting together for a collaboration album with Brian May. The tight harmonies and slick production have always been there but “Neo Wave” takes it all one step further. On tracks like “Scared” and “Mustard”, Silver Sun are at their best and their most Queen-like. Some of the pure originality of previous singles such as “Lava” has been lost or, perhaps more accurately, some of Silver Sun’s novelty has been lost.
Two tracks on this album have previously been released (“Too Much, Too Little, Too Late” and “See You Around”), and these, along with “Scared” and “Mustard” make up the real outstanding tracks of the album. Beyond those four, the tracks have a tendency to merge into one, with their formulaic chorus set up and similar tunes.
Despite all that and despite it being sixteen tracks long (perhaps too much sugar-frosted pop in one sitting?) it’s still a very classy album. Indeed, many of the tracks could (and probably will) make very good singles. It’s just that, when all put together, the quasi-falsetto choruses, the ever-cheery tunes and just James Broads voice, it all begins to grate after a while. After several full repeats, it begins to cause headaches. If ever it were true to say “too much of a good thing” it is true of Silver Sun and “Neo Wave”. I think I’ll enjoy the singles a whole lot more.
Tin Star.
The Thrill Kisser
V2
This debut album from Tin Star has followed the recipe needed for instant success as the end of the millennium approaches. Big futuristic bass beats rock out in the background with all the necessary electronic trickery, whilst a suitably indie voice mutters over the top. However, somewhere along the line Tin Star have managed to miss out a few important ingredients. The first track, Head, sums up Tin Star’s problem in a nutshell. The dance rhythms are all well and good, with all the bells and whistles you would expect. The singer, on the other hand, sounds like he should have been put out of his misery well before reaching the studio. He is in pain, as if he knows how bad the lyrics are; “ I have got to do my exams today, have read my books, turned up on time, but haven’t revised”. The lyrics suggest a bunch of moaning spotty students, which sits uncomfortably with the futuristic landscape being sculpted out in the background.
It would be harsh to say that the entire of Tin Star’s debut is this bad, with most of the songs being perfectly listenable. However, none of these songs have managed more than an ounce of originality, with it being quite difficult even to notice the passing of tracks. Perhaps if less focus was made on the vocals then Tin Star could begin to sculpt out a new and exciting sound for themselves, but judging by ‘The Thrill Kisser’, I doubt they will.
Rufus Wainwright
Rufus Wainwright
Dreamworks
‘68 or ‘98? Rufus Wainwright - yes, son of the great Loudon - doesn’t care too much evidently. Not that it matters much - not everyone wants their music lightly toasted in the oven of modernity perhaps. It is slightly disconcerting however to listen to 12 tracks which contain absolutely no reference points and could be written at anytime by anyone. Listen! ‘Every kind of love, or at least my kind of love/Must be an imaginary love to start with’ and loads of stuff in a similar style - it’s not that it’s trite or anything though I do wish everyone ever would stop using the word ‘Baby’ in songs unless they’re like, talking about proper little people or something. Hmmm.
Musically, Mr Wainwright goes for a not entirely unappealing blend of piano, strings, some guitars and er, folk singing. It’s all very jolly stuff with lots of ‘angels’ and Bible references: ‘I was hanged at the doorstep, played like a two to a fourset/Had like poor Job in the bible by God’. For some reason, it reminds me slightly of songs from shows on Broadway but it’s not quite as shiny and flash as all that. Very occasionally, Rufus attempts some vocal acrobatics in the style of Jeff Buckley or Aidan from Arab Strap (Tee hee - if only!). Generally though, the vocals are pleasant enough if a little nasal - not quite as memorable as his father’s perhaps but still, it’s a little harsh to judge him on such criteria (haha - so I do it anyway!). This album doesn’t excite me very much, not even when they use mandolins and ‘Humming’. More dissonance!
System Of A Down
System Of A Down
American / Columbia
Sadly not supplied with a set of ear-plugs, this is a truly awful album of ultra-heavy rock. However, where Coal Chamber, Fear Factory et al play it with some attempt at credibility, System of a Down play it for a confusing ( and ultimately contradictory) mix of cheap humour and Pre Millennium Tension. Their first track is called “Suite-Pee”. Another amusing pun, which, by the way, I’m still laughing about, is the line “Shake your spear at Shakespeare”. Ha, bloody, ha. And this, sadly, is as funny as they get. From the first track to the last it’s formulaic stuff, with occasional, mis-placed witticisms. The only signs of originality (for example on the Chilli Pepper-esque “Sugar”) quickly splutter out and become overwhelmed by the monotonous chords and unintelligible rantings. It seems to me that System of a Down are unsure whether they want to be seen as apocalyptic doom and gloom merchants or as a cheeky bunch of lads with a cracking sense of humour. Unfortunately they fall short on both counts and they end up sounding like an amalgamation of all the mediocre elements that exist in this genre. This melting-pot is exemplified by their list of thank-yous contained within the inlay, as it seems to cover most of the major players in this league. Indeed, initially I thought that they might have accidentally misplaced their list of ‘Bands We Wish We Were’. Somewhat surprisingly, though, they neglect Marilyn Mansun, to whom they indebted to for the opening of “Ddevil” (sic) which bears more than an uncanny, if somewhat speeded up, resemblance to Marilyn Mansuns “Beautiful People”.
Just like their name, System Of A Down are very confusing band. The length, complexity and failure of the, for want of a more accurate word, explanation of their name and their ideology on the back cover sums up the band. Summarised, just for you, it reads “Undesirable”.
Velocette
Fourfold Remedy
Beggar’s Banquet
'Fourfold Remedy', the debut album from the British three-piece Velocette, finds a band eager to please, and even more intent on demonstrating just how versatile they are. The album begins to sound less like the first outpourings of a fresh young talent, and more like an end of the year review, a hasty round-up of the recent developments in Brit-pop and beyond. The opening track 'Reborn' sounds like it was lifted from Dubstar, topped off with ample reminders of the first Cardigans album. The second track, 'Bitterscene' continues this trend; this time, Dubstar are joined by Republica. For all this however, the song does exude a certain charm. It is laden with enough pop hooks to keep the listener's interest and the instrumentation is dense and pleasingly complex. 'La Sirena' and 'Unkind' are competent enough, showing more than passing nods to Dubstar again, Stereolab and Massive Attack. Lyrics on these songs, and indeed the entire album never stray to far from the tried and tested 'joy at the discovery of a new love' and the necessary dancing partner, 'sorrowful remembrances of love lost and turned sour', unfortunately Sarah Bleach's vocals are too bland and vapid to add any real emotional pathos to the mix.
Track six, 'Get Yourself Together', their first single release is a sweet, upbeat pop track, boasting the sort of swirling and building guitar work that made McAlmont and Butler's 'Yes' such a majestic and uplifting song, and there is an unmistakable hint of St Etienne in here too. Only 'Someone's Waiting' breaks the pattern of slow melancholy, or fast upbeat four-minuters. It is a seven minute epic with building guitar work and lashings of well-judged, Doors-esque Hammond organ, and while lacking the easy ingratiating hooks of some of the early tracks it none-the-less offers the only real glimpse of a band struggling to find a more original and individual sound.
What we have here then is an album that takes you on a guided tour of the current British music scene, (Morcheeba, Massive Attack, Dubstar, St Etienne and Republica et al) without ever really taking you off the beaten track. That said, it is nothing if not a pleasant listen; the orchestration, and string work add an extra dimension to many songs, lifting them above the menial and lending the whole project a rich, lush sound. They are not quite there yet, but 'Fourfold Remedy' demonstrates some song writing competence and ushers in a band that may provide us with something rather better next time around.
The one they called DJ Towa Towa quietly smuggles his second solo album into the shops, and also gives us a musical glimpse into his thoughts on the birth of his son. At least, that's what it says on the press release. That, then, would explain, say, ‘German Bold Italic’ (Kylie Minogue-voiced cobblers about a typeface) donchathink? Um, no. Still, dubious concepts aside, what we're left with is a curious affair for reasons which will become clear, and one which exists in a world of it's own. What is certain is that ‘Sound Museum’ is one for Jimi Tenor fans as, once past the excellent title track, The Cheese descends, and what can only be termed Plasti-Funk is heard for the next half-hour of your life. Right up until the genuinely unusual closer, ‘Everything We Do Is Music’, in fact, in which a dash of jungle is put into Tei's melting pot, with not displeasing results.
Thing is, even though the eight tracks that occupy the middle ground are nearly all difficult to fault, they all basically suffer from the disease of the over-polished: musical blandness. Perhaps the biggest disappointment though is ‘BMT’, which features two of hip hop's hottest properties, Mos' Def and Biz Markie, and which could have proved very interesting. However, there’s a palpable sense of an opportunity wasted as Tei’s bizarre sticking CD style electro beats just turn the whole thing into an unlistenable mess.
All of which brings us to the curious point that, despite all this, and ‘BMT’ aside, there are no real stinkers on ‘Sound Museum’, which only serves to make the album even more awkward to sum up. It’s almost as if Towa Tei has crafted an electronic album so inoffensive that it becomes 100% Pop. But I’m still not actually sure that it’s any good. Erm, music to make a the coffee to?
Children Of Dub
Digital Mantras
Magick Eye
Music for “a fucked up world”, according to the sleeve, and if this comment and the standard hippyish trance stylings of the sleeve don't raise a smile, then you really must believe that the best antidote to a fucked up world is in calling tracks things like ‘Om’ and ‘Dharma’, and making far too much use of sped up tabla samples. And so, for your listening pleasure, ‘Digital Mantras’; apart from the sleeve, the major drawback is that, as trance albums go, it's merely alright, and trance is one of those genres that tends not to go anywhere much as it is. Admittedly, Children Of Dub offer a slightly more diverse and mellower take on the sounds that you might find on your favourite Total Eclipse album, but once all the ambient stuff has been piled on top of the breaks and acid licks, it's just too floaty. Perhaps that's the point of these sort of records, but that still doesn't excuse the fact that you've heard it all before.
The thing is that few trance albums are actually really bad; it's more that they're just so inoffensive, and that's hardly a recommendation. ‘Spook’ and ‘The Altered State’ are decent though, and ‘Indojungle’ sort of explains why Omni Trio comes to be credited for his inspiration on the sleeve. However, by and large, just when something good appears to be happening, in come the tabla samples and swirling synth, and it's back into the trance morass. When Children Of Dub get it right and they're old hands at this game now ‘Digital Mantras’ has its moments, but too much of it is indistinguishable not only from other trance around now, but also a lot of stuff from a few years back as well.