Jon Gilbertson

Recent Articles

Rock Roundup: The Ultimate Singer Songwriter?
Rock Roundup

The Ultimate Singer Songwriter?

Josh Rouse continues to endure. He plays Turner Hall Sunday.

Rock Roundup: The Sheer Spirit of Split Single
Rock Roundup

The Sheer Spirit of Split Single

Jason Narducy’s single project has resulted in a ton of sparkling songs; he plays (with Wilco’s bassist) at Cactus Club.

Rock Roundup: Jenny Lewis All By Herself
Rock Roundup

Jenny Lewis All By Herself

Former Rilo Kiley singer is still doing great music, and will perform at Turner Hall.

Rock Roundup: Japanese Noise Rock Loudly Comes
Rock Roundup

Japanese Noise Rock Loudly Comes

Melt-Banana comes to the Cactus Club, ready to discombobulate.

Rock Roundup: The Overlooked Artistry of Alejandro Escovedo
Rock Roundup

The Overlooked Artistry of Alejandro Escovedo

A great musician who effortlessly mines country, Tex-Mex, folk, punk and more, he plays at Shank Hall.

Rock Roundup: Death Cab for Cutie Gets Angry
Rock Roundup

Death Cab for Cutie Gets Angry

After its leader’s divorce and despite glossy new album the band is playing harder and angrier on its new tour.

Rock Roundup: The Beautiful Agony of Sufjan Stevens
Rock Roundup

The Beautiful Agony of Sufjan Stevens

Singer songwriter’s latest album takes on his parents. He performs at Riverside Thursday.

Rock Roundup: Steve Winwood Can Still Thrill
Rock Roundup

Steve Winwood Can Still Thrill

Longtime rocker comes to Riverside. And James Hunter comes to Northern Lights.

Rock Roundup: Why Robbie Fulks Matters
Rock Roundup

Why Robbie Fulks Matters

The “insurgent country” artist can confuse audiences. But he’s edgy, funny, and good.

Rock Roundup: The Mavericks Are Still Hard to Define
Rock Roundup

The Mavericks Are Still Hard to Define

They mix country, Latin, pop and even vaudeville. They play two shows at Northern Lights Theater.

Rock Roundup: TV on the Radio Still Won’t Compromise
Rock Roundup

TV on the Radio Still Won’t Compromise

Indie rock group, playing at the Pabst, has won popularity without sacrificing its artistry.

Rock Roundup: Dan Bern Is Dead Serious
Rock Roundup

Dan Bern Is Dead Serious

Maybe even when he’s being silly. The singer songwriter comes to Shank Hall and should be a treat.

Rock Roundup: Of Montreal Lands In Milwaukee
Rock Roundup

Of Montreal Lands In Milwaukee

The group’s leader, Kevin Barnes, might be called twee, pretentious or emo, but Of Montreal can no longer be dismissed as minor.

Rock Roundup: Best Rocking Scot You Never Heard Of?
Rock Roundup

Best Rocking Scot You Never Heard Of?

Midge Ure comes to town, with a long, impressive history behind him as musician and songwriter.

Rock Roundup: Still Eccentric After All Those Years
Rock Roundup

Still Eccentric After All Those Years

Three decades on, English rocker Robyn Hitchcock is still a unique charmer. He plays Tuesday at Shank Hall.

Rock Roundup: Kacey Musgraves Comes to Town
Rock Roundup

Kacey Musgraves Comes to Town

Grammy-winner at Pabst Saturday; or there’s bluesy Hozier at the Riverside.

Rock Roundup: The Return of Sleater-Kinney
Rock Roundup

The Return of Sleater-Kinney

Reunited band comes to town, as does Fleetwood Mac and B-52s.

Rock Roundup: The Mellow Side of Marilyn Manson?
Rock Roundup

The Mellow Side of Marilyn Manson?

After years of making controversy, the man and the group have settled into making music.

Rock Roundup: Rocking Out at Alverno College?
Rock Roundup

Rocking Out at Alverno College?

The ever-productive Jon Mueller and his Death Blues ensemble celebrates life -- anywhere -- with a vengeance.

Rock Roundup: Folk, Prog-Rock and New Age?
Rock Roundup

Folk, Prog-Rock and New Age?

That’s the sound of The Soil & The Sun, known for “Are You” and coming to Turner Hall.

Rock Roundup: The Power of Pablove
Rock Roundup

The Power of Pablove

Chicago’s Sons of the Silent Age headline a rocking benefit that features four bands and great guests

Rock Roundups: Two Great Bands You Probably Missed
Rock Roundups

Two Great Bands You Probably Missed

Marshall Crenshaw and the Bottle Rockets come to town, with decades of good music to draw on.

Rock Roundup: The Legacy of Frank Zappa
Rock Roundup

The Legacy of Frank Zappa

Zappa Fest celebrates his music. And Trampled by Turtles plays Riverside on New Year’s Eve.

Rock Roundup: The Return of Sam Llanas
Rock Roundup

The Return of Sam Llanas

He’s quit the BoDeans, his music has gotten darker and he's ready to rock at Shank Hall.

Rock Roundup: Jazz That Entertains. Honest.
Rock Roundup

Jazz That Entertains. Honest.

The Bad Plus, playing at the Jazz Estate, mixes jazz with rock, covering songs by Nirvana and Pink Floyd

Rock Roundup: 5 Top Shows, 5 Different Venues
Rock Roundup

5 Top Shows, 5 Different Venues

Best shows are all over town and all over the musical map.

Rock Roundup: Five Wildly Different Concerts
Rock Roundup

Five Wildly Different Concerts

From the great Wilco to folk rocker Shakey Graves to Dillon Francis’s electric dance music, it’s a crazy week.

Rock Roundup: Why Volcano Choir Matters
Rock Roundup

Why Volcano Choir Matters

Justin Vernon’s real band heads up a weird week of music.

Rock Roundup: Ready Or Not, Here Comes GWAR
Rock Roundup

Ready Or Not, Here Comes GWAR

Imagine Vikings from outer space. But funnier. The thrash-metal band lands this week at the Rave.

Rock Roundup: New Pornographers Best Pop-Rock Group?
Rock Roundup

New Pornographers Best Pop-Rock Group?

The best of this century, our critic says -- and the best of this week’s top five shows.

Rock Roundup: The Restless Style of David Bazan
Rock Roundup

The Restless Style of David Bazan

The Seattle-based musician revisits his songs with Passenger String Quartet at Turner Hall.

Rock Roundup: Best Shows of the Week
Rock Roundup

Best Shows of the Week

Five best shows include Reigning Sound, John Prine and the Milk Carton Kids.

Rock Roundup: Five Best Shows of the Week
Rock Roundup

Five Best Shows of the Week

From home-town act Field Report to NRBQ and tUnE-yArDs, it’s a week of wild variety.

Rock Roundup: The Legend of Patti Smith
Rock Roundup

The Legend of Patti Smith

Alverno College show boasts top musicians reinterpreting Smith. Other nights feature Ryan Adams and Kina Grannis.

Rock Roundup: The Angriest Funny Man Alive
Rock Roundup

The Angriest Funny Man Alive

Comedian Lewis Black returns. And top music shows include David Gray and OK Go.

Rock Roundup: The Indelible Impact of Erasure
Rock Roundup

The Indelible Impact of Erasure

‘80s synth-pop band comes to town. As do the Wood Brothers, Braid and Warpaint.

Rock Roundup: Majical Cloudz and Lorde, a Peculiar Pairing
Rock Roundup

Majical Cloudz and Lorde, a Peculiar Pairing

Naked vulnerability in a cold bed of beats comes to the BMO Harris Pavilion

Rock Roundup: Spoon Brings Un-Fussy Rock to Riverside Theater
Rock Roundup

Spoon Brings Un-Fussy Rock to Riverside Theater

The Austin natives take their summer album to a cooling Midwest, Club Garibaldi prepares to host a Brooklyn gem.

Rock Roundup: The Black Keys, Rock Music’s Arena-packing Purists
Rock Roundup

The Black Keys, Rock Music’s Arena-packing Purists

The Ohio natives evolve, but stay true to their bluesy roots

Rock Roundup: The Return of Ramblin’ Jack Elliott
Rock Roundup

The Return of Ramblin’ Jack Elliott

A huge influence on Dylan and others, the legendary folk singer comes to town.

Rock Roundup: The Dutchess and the Duke’s Strange Journey
Rock Roundup

The Dutchess and the Duke’s Strange Journey

The Pacific Northwest duo have reunited -- yet again -- playing their dark folk music at the Cactus Club.

Rock Roundup: Is Alejandro Escovedo the Ultimate Survivor?
Rock Roundup

Is Alejandro Escovedo the Ultimate Survivor?

A key rock innovator since the 1970s, he headlines a week that also features Jeff Bridges and the Abiders

Rock Roundup: Red Headed Stranger No More
Rock Roundup

Red Headed Stranger No More

Willie Nelson & Family sell out two nights in a week that includes metal-influenced Spanish guitar (Rodrigo y Gabriela) and a 19-member collective (The Polyphonic Spree).

Rock Roundup: Why I Love Future Islands
Rock Roundup

Why I Love Future Islands

They’re at Turner Hall this Sunday, and definitely worth a try.

Rock Roundup: The Secret to Pat Metheny’s Success
Rock Roundup

The Secret to Pat Metheny’s Success

He’s a prodigy who pleases, as his Tuesday show at Northern Lights should prove.

Rock Roundup: Everything But Natalie Merchant
Rock Roundup

Everything But Natalie Merchant

Alas, Merchant cancelled her Pabst concert, but lots of other shows on tap this week.

Rock Roundup: The Long Life of Dick Contino
Rock Roundup

The Long Life of Dick Contino

The famed accordionist, 84, will play Festa Italiana, in a week that also features Jack White and Jackson Browne

Rock Roundup: Sarah McLachlan Turns Down the Volume
Rock Roundup

Sarah McLachlan Turns Down the Volume

After the thundering decibels of Summerfest, it’s a quieter week of music, led by the Lilith Fair founder.

Best Albums of the Month: The Return of Bob Mould
Best Albums of the Month

The Return of Bob Mould

Plus, great albums by First Aid Kit, José James and Gabriel Kahane.

Rock Roundup: Top 5 Summerfest Shows
Rock Roundup

Top 5 Summerfest Shows

Bonnie Raitt, Hold Steady and Phantogram lead the list.

Rock Roundup: Summerfest and Beyond
Rock Roundup

Summerfest and Beyond

The week’s five best concerts aren’t all at the Summerfest grounds.

Rock Roundup: Why Nick Cave is Hated — and Loved
Rock Roundup

Why Nick Cave is Hated — and Loved

Cave provides the dark side of a week also featuring Nikki Lane, The Features and the Old 97s.

Rock Roundup: Old Gold
Rock Roundup

Old Gold

Elvis Costello, Jeff Tweedy and Richard Thompson head up a great week of concerts featuring veteran performers.

Music: Five Best Albums of May
Music

Five Best Albums of May

Tori Amos, Haley Bonar and the Roots are three of the best.

Rock Roundup: Everyone Loves Vampire Weekend
Rock Roundup

Everyone Loves Vampire Weekend

And if they don’t, the week also features Tony Bennett, Holy Wave and Sandra Bernhard.

Rock Roundup: Man of Many Bands
Rock Roundup

Man of Many Bands

Ever-busy Conor Oberst, the Safes and the Monkees come to town.

Rock Roundup: The Greatest ‘90s Band You’ve Never Known
Rock Roundup

The Greatest ‘90s Band You’ve Never Known

Failure, revived after 17 years, is the latest success and heads top concerts of the week.

Rock Roundup: Rodriguez Tops the Week
Rock Roundup

Rodriguez Tops the Week

Rediscovered soulster comes to town, as do Truckfighters and Wye Oak.

Monthly Musical Musings: April’s Top CDs
Monthly Musical Musings

April’s Top CDs

The Both, EMA and Fear of Men lead the list.

Rock Roundup: Shooting for the Fences
Rock Roundup

Shooting for the Fences

Week’s heavy hitters include Flamin’ Groovies, Chicago Afrobeat and Queens of the Stone Age.

Rock Roundup: Gods and Rock Stars
Rock Roundup

Gods and Rock Stars

Zeus and Leon Russell and Uh Huh Her come to town.

Rock Roundup: Get Psychedelic, Man
Rock Roundup

Get Psychedelic, Man

Cactus Club’s four day, Milwaukee Psych Fest features some 20 different bands.

Rock Roundup: Death & Taxes & Good Music
Rock Roundup

Death & Taxes & Good Music

Never mind the IRS deadline, there’s great music coming this week.

Rock Roundup: Great Music, Less Regurgitation
Rock Roundup

Great Music, Less Regurgitation

Five great acts coming to town, none of whom feature any Lady Gaga-style grossness.

Monthly Musical Musings

Monthly Musical Musings

March’s best albums include new ones by Future Islands and by Ambrose Akinmusire.

Rock Roundup: No April Fool’s Jokes Here
Rock Roundup

No April Fool’s Jokes Here

Sorry, just a roundup of the week’s best five shows.

Rock Roundup: Play Ball, Soon
Rock Roundup

Play Ball, Soon

Opening Day is here and so are five shows that are much warmer than the weather.

Rock Roundup: After the Hangover
Rock Roundup

After the Hangover

Five shows that may help you get over that Post-Paddy’s Day funk.

Rock Roundup: Who Says You Need St. Patrick’s Day?
Rock Roundup

Who Says You Need St. Patrick’s Day?

Not much Irish music in the weekly round-up, but plenty of other great stuff.

Monthly Musical Musings

Monthly Musical Musings

February’s best CDs include those by Beck, Neil Finn and Neneh Cherry.

Monthly Musical Musings

Monthly Musical Musings

Five new CDs of note and one to avoid, with apologies to The Boss.

Religulous

Religulous

This was supposed to be about Nickelback, but that will have to keep for next time, or another time. By all indications, that horrible Canadian band will still be here by the time I get around to tearing into them with vituperative insight. The delay was caused by the release of Religulous on DVD in mid-February. This is, of course, the “documentary” from comedian and talk-show host Bill Maher and Borat director Larry Charles, and I put the term in quotes because Maher and Charles seek less to illuminate the subject of religion than to make light of it. I am, it must be said, not against this. I will not share with you the stories of how I came to be a non-believer—such stories are almost always as boring as those of the born-again and otherwise converted—but now you know I am one, at least. And I have read many of the recent anti-religious books, including Richard Dawkins’s The God Delusion, Sam Harris’s The End of Faith, and of course Christopher Hitchens’s God Is Not Great. (Ann Coulter had a book whose title, Godless, could easily place it among the others, but that title was meant as an insult to non-believers. The actual text was an insult to intelligence, proper research, and sanity, and then there is the fact that Coulter hotly believes that more religion would benefit the world, so long as it is the correct religion.) I had read those three best-selling texts before I went to a local theater to see Religulous, so I thought I had the arguments well in hand. I didn’t really need any of the arguments, though, because the film’s main method is to find various religiously oriented lunacies and point cameras at them. Such a method would, theoretically, not have required Maher to venture much further than his own California backyard, but he and Charles racked up the miles in traveling from London to Amsterdam to Megiddo, Israel. This last location, seen at the beginning and the end of the film, is a rough framing device of seriousness: Megiddo is, according to the Bible, the site for Armageddon. Inside the frame, however, Maher and Charles make good on their title, ridiculing Orthodox Jews, Christians, Muslims in Amsterdam, an ex-Jew for Jesus, Mormons, and Scientologists. Interestingly, they don’t include religions commonly considered “Eastern,” such as Hinduism or Buddhism, even though such supposedly laid-back faiths have produced a considerable amount of violence, bigotry, and hatred. But the negative results of those faiths don’t get much media play in the United States. This is probably just as well for Hindus and Buddhists and other omitted believers, because Religulous often has the air of a particularly ripe episode of “Jaywalking,” the late-night feature in which Jay Leno appears to run into no one but the most ignorant, unthinking people in the nation. It doesn’t help that Maher’s default facial expression is that moment before a smirk, which is only encouraged by magical Mormon underwear and […]

Stupor Bowl

Stupor Bowl

As I begin to write this, my inaugural blog as Vital Source’s Heartless Bastard, it is less than 24 hours after the latest Super Bowl, in which a bunch of physically overdeveloped, mentally underdeveloped men representing Pittsburgh narrowly defeated a bunch of physically overdeveloped, mentally underdeveloped men representing Arizona. That’s about as much as I can tell you about the game itself, the 43rd (or, in NFL parlance, the XLIIIrd) in an annual series of Sunday time-wasters. Clearly, the idea of this tedious, grunting spectacle as an Important Event came into the head of an advertising executive who wondered, “Is there some way we can sell more tasteless beer to people who are already drinking it?” Our media—as ever, focusing on important issues—have given the television commercials a lot of coverage, ensuring not only that Budweiser can get some free advertising on top of its expensive advertising, but also that viewers can enjoy these clever/funny/pointless ads without sitting through endless replays of large, dim men running into each other in flagrant suppression of homoerotic urges. At least there was the halftime show. After the infamous Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction of several years past—up until that fateful moment, no one was really sure Ms. Jackson had breasts, or so I would’ve thought from the “shocked, shocked” response—the Super Bowl organizers have taken great care not to inflame the FCC. Tom Petty, the Rolling Stones, Prince: sure, they all have nipples, but not attractive ones. This year, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band put on a pretty fine, if standard, show. Springsteen himself was in predictably good form—perhaps even better than usual, as he knew he had to run around for less than 15 minutes—and the only potential for trouble came when the Boss slid on his knees until his pelvis bumped into a camera. Fortunately, his pants withstood the impact with nary a popped button: surely a tribute to the strength of American-made trousers. Springsteen could be said to be one of the few people at the Super Bowl who attempted to earn his fee (by various estimates, two to nine million dollars), although his upbeat attitude didn’t quite match the rather less upbeat mood of the United States. A football game might not be the place to break out downtrodden anthems like “Atlantic City” or his recent title track for the movie The Wrestler, but the 90 million people watching from their decreasingly valuable homes might have appreciated a note of the blue-collar sincerity Springsteen is supposed to represent. But this was The Boss, and these days that’s not a nickname likely to arouse positive passion in the hearts of the downsized, the laid off, or the evicted. I was reminded of shows I’ve attended at which I found myself disconnected from the crowd, asking basic questions of relevance: Why guitars? Why drums? Why microphones? Why music? I felt something similar watching Springsteen at the Super Bowl, although of course disconnection was easier and less eerie: it was a […]

Various artists

Various artists

A few years ago, after attending a Christmas-charity show featuring several metal-styled acts, I posited a reasonable question: are rock ‘n’ roll and Yuletide cheer compatible? After all, this is the season of comfortable sweaters, chestnut visions, and a jolly old fat man who apparently helps remind us of the birth of Jesus Christ — none of which is exactly “metal.” Nevertheless, We Wish You a Metal Xmas attempts to introduce crunchy riffs, elaborate solos and headbanging tempos to the festivities. The success of the introduction is debatable, but there’s no doubt that it’s sort of fun, and most of the time it’s definitely funny. For example, a version of “Run Rudolph Run” features ZZ Top’s Billy F. Gibbons, Nirvana/Foo Fighters’ Dave Grohl, and Motorhead’s Lemmy Kilmister — the latter of whom navigates the lyrics with his usual death’s-door wheeze. And Ronnie James Dio rolls through “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” as though he’s grandly shoveling dirt on the gentlemen’s graves. Some of the other tracks would count as sacrilege if we hadn’t all heard most of these songs until we’re well sick of them. Testament lead singer Chuck Billy vomits all over “Silent Night,” while Alice Cooper naturally finds the perverse breaking-and-entering side of “Santa Claws [sic] Is Coming to Town.” Yet even metalheads get all sentimental this time of year, something admitted here with the final track, in which Styx lynchpin Tommy Shaw gives all due respect to John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).” This is only right and proper — and thus not very metal, so the answer to my question is a resounding No.

Smashing Pumpkins

Smashing Pumpkins

This might not be the Smashing Pumpkins you remember from seven years ago—or, as seems more likely, from around 1995, when leader Billy Corgan symbolized the meld of artistic and commercial ambitions of alternative-rock as it went mainstream. Back then, the Pumpkins were really his baby, and Zeitgeist discards any pretense of a “band:” the credits state, “JIMMY CHAMBERLIN: DRUMS/BILLY CORGAN: ALL THE REST.” Chamberlin, once as famous for his addictions as for his drumming, remains Corgan’s reliably virtuosic ace of controlled frenzy. And Corgan remains one of rock & roll’s most grandiloquent noisemakers, layering tracks of guitars atop each other and trying to sing through it all in a voice that makes him sound as though he’s releasing an inner child driven to desperation by the captivity. Zeitgeist finds the child trapped in America—perhaps the biggest, most elusive subject possible for any native. Corgan pursues it in ways both oblique (the fiercely buzzing “Doomsday Clock” ) and direct (the black-metallic “United States” ), although his lyrics (“apocalyptic screams/mean nothing to the dead” ) are as cryptic as ever. When Corgan gets more personal, the lyrics and music get less remote: “That’s the Way (My Love Is)” drifts into tenderness and “Pomp and Circumstances” revives the earnest, synthesized lushness of 1980s ballads. Yet Zeitgeist fails to capture America, or indeed anything resembling its own title. Instead, it offers a mélange of distant memories of what used to be the Smashing Pumpkins. VS

Crowded House

Crowded House

Fourteen years since their last album, 11 since their last show and yet it feels almost effortless the way Crowded House pick up where they left off. Admittedly, Time on Earth represents an incomplete reunion – original drummer Mark Hester died in 2005, and keyboardist Mark Hart wasn’t part of the initial lineup – but lead singer and songwriter Tim Finn papers the cracks. It’s not too remarkable that Finn remains a lively creative presence; after Crowded House broke up, he continued to write with his brother Neil, carried on a solo career and collaborated with artists like the Dixie Chicks. (That specific collaboration, “Silent House,” was on their album Taking the Long Way and shows up here as well.) You could say Time on Earth puts Finn back where he belongs, or at least where he’s most comfortable. From the opening track, the lucent and lovely “Nobody Wants To,” Finn and Crowded House don’t seem to have been away. In their absence, no one else really emerged to make mid-tempo pop-rock seem so simultaneously effortless and brilliant. And, at times, a little facile. With his smooth voice and acute ear for accessible melodies and smart lyrics, Finn is like a cousin to Paul McCartney, all prettiness and no edge. But the descending melancholy of “Pour Le Monde,” the sleek romantic hope of “Don’t Stop Now,” and the hushed glimmering of “A Sigh” cannot be denied. Time on Earth spends its own minutes well. VS

Low

Low

Two years ago, The Great Destroyer marked a period of incredible transition for Low. Not only did the album itself bristle with challenges to the band’s established method of slow and steady and hauntingly beautiful, but the period shortly after its release also saw bassist Zak Sally leave the band and founding member Alan Sparhawk check into the hospital for mental health treatment. Clearly, there were shakeups, and Drums and Guns refracts the altered configuration of thoughts and people. Producer Dave Fridmann returns to work the subtle transformations that informed his efforts on The Great Destroyer (and with bands like The Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev) ; new bassist and vocalist Matt Livingston fills no one’s shoes but his own and the album feels constantly unsettled. Even now, with listeners braced for new directions, Low’s music surprises. The opening track, “Pretty People,” crackles in with static and feedback as it raises a golem of Eastern-flavored psychedelic meditation. “Always Fade” sets an electronic whirl in the background of a jazz-funk bass line and a thunderous cardboard-like snare snap. And “Take Your Time” drops chiming bells over a deliberately skipping loop of church-like vocal cadences and a tinny drum-machine rhythm. Even in relatively familiar territory – the vocal harmonizing between Sparhawk and wife/drummer Mimi Parker is as tenderly hushed as ever on “Belarus” – Low orient themselves to see and hear things differently. Drums and Guns mesmerizes listeners to do the same. VS

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists

Ted Leo might occasionally feel nostalgic – one of his best-known songs, “Where Have All the Rude Boys Gone?,” yearns for old-fashioned ska – but he’s not. Better than any other current musician, he understands that punk rock is unfinished business: a promise that needs to be kept. He also understands that punk rock is less a style or an ideology than a commitment, and that understanding suffuses Living With the Living. Leo has never shied away from songwriting variety, but this album might be his most wide-ranging yet, even as it showcases a further tautening of the threads connecting him to Pharmacists bassist Dave Lerner and drummer Chris Wilson. Some of the paths Leo and the Pharmacists take aren’t particularly unexpected. “Bomb.Repeat.Bomb” is a typically blistering, coolly angry attack on attackers, “A Bottle of Buckie” explores friendship via an Irish-American take on the Pogues and “Army Bound” cuts Leo’s razor-barbed guitar riffs across a martial rock beat. But “The Unwanted Things” is a surprisingly fluid, sweet angle on the punk-reggae combination explored so well by Elvis Costello and The Clash, while “La Costa Brava” mixes crunchy pop-rock with a romantic urge to travel to sunnier climes. If Leo weren’t in such good, tuneful voice, these stylistic transformations would be even more surprising than they are. Producer Brendan Canty of Fugazi helps to keep the music lean. Ted Leo’s intelligence and intensity come through quite clearly, each undimmed by the other. Living With the Living keeps the promise. VS

The Apples in Stereo

The Apples in Stereo

As any negative nabob can tell you (and in fact is telling you right now), it’s extremely difficult to favor the pop – or pop!, onomatopoeically speaking – in pop-rock without coming across as a chirpy Pollyanna. Even the Apples in Stereo, for all their honest effervescence, have periodically seemed like the token frown-upside-down representatives inside the Elephant 6 collective. Apples leader Robert Schneider has often overcome such perceptions with pure conviction. And New Magnetic Wonder, the band’s first full-length since 2002’s The Velocity of Sound, layers a considerable amount of ambition atop Schneider’s foundation of belief. Actually, New Magnetic Wonder layers a lot of layers: the opening two tracks, “Can You Feel It?” and “Skyway,” quite un-ironically recall the massive, colorful edifices once erected by ELO and Queen. (There are even a few guitar figures reminiscent of Brian May’s overheated parts on the Flash Gordon soundtrack.) Various effects and exotic and/or vintage instruments reinforce the hugeness. Yet Schneider’s ever-youthful voice and childlike romanticism temper the grandeur, and a song like “Sun Is Out” is as charmingly ramshackle as one of The Beatles’ looser offerings. A generous handful of light interludes, including Mellotron samples and the accurately titled “Vocoder Ba Ba” also help to erase the threat of grandiloquence. The only sad thing about this album is that it marks longtime member Hilarie Sidney’s departure to devote full attention to her band, The High Water Marks, although her positive glow shines with “Sunndal Song” and “Sunday Sounds.” Otherwise, New Magnetic Wonder brims with joy. While it’s playing, the world actually looks brighter. VS

Beck

Beck

No artist is ever completely unpredictable: patterns form and grooves are worn. Some have no need to pull themselves away from the paths they’ve already beaten. Sometimes, like Björk or Beck, they simply realign, rearrange, rethink. At its most functional, The Information is a rethink of Beck’s creative relationship with producer Nigel Godrich (now highly acclaimed for his work with Radiohead and Paul McCartney). Here, Godrich usually finds – or at least allows Beck to enter – a reflective mode, as heard on Mutations and Sea Change. Started before and completed after last year’s Guero, The Information naturally features some refraction of Guero’s compilation-like tendencies. The easygoing hip-hop of “Elevator Music” segues into the (deliberately?) “I Feel Fine”-like treble of “Think I’m In Love,” which falls into the street-corner robot dance and muffled beatbox that activate “Cellphone’s Dead.” The Information also maintains Beck’s dedication to craftsmanship, which tightens the art without restricting it. Godrich, for his part, keeps getting better at adapting his own considerable sensibilities to the artist at hand. On Thom Yorke’s solo album, The Eraser, he shrink-wrapped Yorke’s paranoia; here, he’s like a near-telepathically responsive DJ, slapping down the right sounds to match Beck’s multitudinous moods. The overall vibe on The Information is pleasure. It’s not encoded in the lyrics; keep in mind that Beck can write entire albums, like Midnite Vultures, of near-total absurdity. Nor is it right up front in the tunes, but rather a pleasure that Beck and Godrich take in making music, a satellite orbiting each track, receiving and transmitting information. VS

Rammstein

Rammstein

From the title track that opens this album, you might get the idea that Rammstein remain the same: Till Lindemann growls verses and operatically chants choruses, everyone else stomps up a blitzkrieg behind him, and the song fades in a swoon derived from both beer hall and dance club. Yet even here, Rammstein sound more open, more ready to emphasize their musicality as much as their omnipresent German muscularity. Throughout Reise, Reise, they manifest the playfulness of a band who have realized that their prominent quasi-military discipline-still in force on their last album, 2001’s Mutter-was becoming less an impression they left with others than a repression they imposed on themselves. Of course, you wouldn’t mistake this looser, freer Rammstein for a jam band, but an actual rock ‘n’ roll groove (as opposed to a sturm und drang march) drives tracks like “Keine Lust” and the relatively barebones, acoustic guitar-based “Los.” And it’s hard to imagine the old Rammstein chuckling heartily in the midst of “Amerika,” a buzzing grind that mixes English and German and quotes Public Image Ltd. (“This is not a love song“) relevantly. Reise, Reise does hold onto the metallic-tinged Wagnerian grandeur that immediately distinguished Rammstein from their American peers, while it also brings their previous hints of electronic melodicism-the influence of Depeche Mode and New Order-directly to the surface. Hearing that combination and the flowering variety it catalyzes, you might get the idea that Rammstein have changed for the better.

Lydia Lunch

Lydia Lunch

First, Lydia Lunch was the girlfriend of Dead Boys frontman Stiv Bators; then she took over the mic herself in Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, then Eight Eyed Spy; since then, she’s been on her own. But she’s always been a mercurial figure, a no-wave queen and a hot-and-cold seductress. That continues with Smoke in the Shadows, Lunch’s first full album in five years. Slipping into a familiar role-the faded jazz chanteuse, lighting a cigarette with gloved hands and exhaling that first postcoital cloud of smoke-she slips along back alleys drawn from dimestore novels and film noir. She narrates more than she sings, and her lyrics swerve closer to beat poetry than they do to song structure, but with the able co-production of Nels Cline, Len Del Rio, and Tommy Grenas (all of whom also throw in on songwriting), she doesn’t need to be normal. Lunch’s collaborators-including, notably, Cline’s Geraldine Fibbers bandmate Carla Bozulich-supply bend to her strong will, generating atmospheres sodden with sex and death. From the break-in of “Hangover Hotel” to the closing “Hot Tip,” Smoke grovels in bad impulses and bodily fluids, lonely horns and sleazy keyboards. Lunch moves through everything here with the air of someone who craves the guilt that comes with the pleasure. Her trick is to make the listener feel the same.

Interpol

Interpol

as it is to loathe, but Interpol actually make it comprehensible and appealing. Because, even more on their current album Antics than on their 2002 debut Turn on the Bright Lights, the NYC quartet view that time through their own artistic lens, focusing the best of the (largely non-American) music of that period into something more than a slavish reveling in the past. The best, subjectively considered: the eternal loneliness of the Smiths, in which Morrissey held hands with himself; the crisply supine melodies of the Go-Betweens; the resolute affectation of New Order (plus the curiously romantic realism of New Order’s predecessor, Joy Division); and above all, the sense that emotion finds its fullest literate expression in obliquely impressionistic lyrics. On Antics, there is even a distinct insinuation of the recklessness that drove bands like the Replacements and Sonic Youth. On a basic level, Interpol remain a rock band, with the syncopation of bassist Carlos D. and drummer Sam Fogarino, and the noisy riffs and angular solos of guitarist Daniel Kessler. Across the intense electricity these three generate in the dark liveliness of “Public Pervert” and the Pixies/Talking Heads snap of “Evil,” singer Paul Banks can be by turns regretful, introspective, furtive, shy and indirect. But he can never be entirely hopeless. Antics unfurls its diverse shades of blue moods against a bright light that never goes out.—Jon M. Gilbertson

Buddy Miller

Buddy Miller

New West www.buddyandjulie.com Nashville might not be what it used to be, but the city must have something to recommend it still, because Buddy Miller lives there. Perhaps he serves as a reminder—like better-known friends Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris—of precisely what Nashville used to be: a place where a man like Miller, who ordinarily wouldn’t get noticed walking down the street, could create magic from little more than his throat and his hands. Earle occasionally has credited himself with big balls (the phrase is his) simply for standing on the same stage with Miller. For his part, Miller, on Universal House of Prayer, displays considerable cojones by taking ownership of both the Louvin Brothers’ “There’s a Higher Power” and Bob Dylan’s “With God On Our Side.” In those two songs alone—the first a bluegrass-brushed gospel number, the second a spark that builds to an all-consuming wildfire in little over nine minutes—Miller encapsulates the best of American faith: its constant questioning doubt, its constant steadfast renewal. Miller runs through that cycle repeatedly on this album, through the songs of others and through those he writes (with Victoria Williams, Jim Lauderdale, and his wife Julie). Whether pondering his travels on “Wide River to Cross” or considering fate on “Fire and Water,” Miller always seeks redemption, even salvation. His music, which bears the sheen of modern country without the burden of its pandering, lights the way. His voice, which contains the power of experience and the wisdom of the country, carries him home.   On October 23, Buddy Miller plays with Emmylou Harris at Lund Auditorium in River Forest (Chicago area), 7900 W. Division St.

Ryan Adams

Ryan Adams

RYAN ADAMS Rock N Roll Love Is Hell, Pt. 1 Lost Highway www.ryan-adams.com So this new Ryan Adams album is called Rock N Roll — the title’s printed and spelled backwards on the artwork, presumably as a symbolic gesture — because it features a lot of, y’know, rock ‘n’ roll. And this new Ryan Adams EP is called Love Is Hell, Pt. 1 — no spelling oddities here — because it’s one of two volumes of stuff that’s less, y’know, rock ‘n’ roll. Anyway, Rock N Roll will satisfy anyone who wants to buy a rock-related collection this year (just in time for Christmas!): it features about half a late-period Replacements album, complete with Paul Westerberg-like fragility and self-laceration. There are bonus representations of U2 (“So Alive” ), T. Rex (“Shallow” ), the Cars (“Burning Photographs” ) and myriad other familiar stylistic variations of the last 30 years. No heavy metal, which is a plus. Gets better when cranked louder, also a plus. Sure, it’s undermined by the same absence of coherent personality that made 2001’s Gold such an Elton John favorite. But Love Is Hell nourishes the introspection Adams seemed determined to starve after he disbanded Whiskeytown, and brings his songwriting to the fore: “Political Scientist” and “This House Is Not For Sale” accent details and shades, and even the Oasis chestnut “Wonderwall” benefits from the nuance. Balance the EP and the LP, and Ryan Adams could be the next Jeff Tweedy. All he needs is a kick in the teeth of his ego.

Sarah McLachlan

Sarah McLachlan

SARAH McLACHLAN Afterglow Arista www.sarahmclachlan.com When Sarah McLachlan disappeared half a decade ago, it wasn’t the artistic equivalent of Patti Smith’s retirement, but in hindsight it helped to clear the way for the Parade of Candy-Striped Sluts. In the meantime, too, her adult-contemporary niche was subdivided (“Here’s your slice, Alicia; here’s yours, Norah…” ), which meant theoretically that her return would need to be a lot splashier than her departure. Nothing ruins a beautiful theory more completely than an inconvenient fact: Afterglow is a ripple. Six years after Surfacing hinted, strongly, at McLachlan’s creative stasis, the follow-up almost realizes that nullity. Recorded over the last three years, these ten songs obviously needed time and patience to reach a zero-g level of taste, restraint and caution. Compared to the musical gangbangs of Pink or Aguilera, McLachlan does gain the advantage of intimacy. Her voice remains a sure comfort, tuneful and lush and womanly. Yet McLachlan refuses to push or prod her gift; she holds it back at all times. The music, which craves her guidance, thus walks or floats behind her at a respectful distance. Surely no one wants McLachlan to move toward the false climaxes of Mariah Carey, but on Afterglow she recedes into such pillowy blandness that references to heartbreak, to unease, to drinking away pain, contain as much emotional impact as the fourteenth long high note at a Barbra Streisand concert. Sarah McLachlan might as well not have come back, because Afterglow practically erases itself as it plays.

The Twighlight Singers

The Twighlight Singers

THE TWILIGHT SINGERS Blackberry Belle Birdman Gore Vidal wrote it first: style forms the crux of art. Without it, an artist must fall back on his obsessions, which never adequately support his muse. As frontman for the much-missed Afghan Whigs, Greg Dulli freely intermingled his musical and thematic fixations — rock/decadence, rap/violence, Prince/sex — but the other band members kept his strut tight and tailored. As the center of a looser aggregation, the Twilight Singers, Dulli lets his pimp-suit wrinkle and his shuffle lurch. On the collective’s second full-length, Blackberry Belle, Dulli also tightens his hold on the creative reins. The 2000 debut, Twilight, featured the capable presence of Harold Chichester of Howlin’ Maggie; his near-falsetto provided a lilting counterpoint to Dulli’s hissing growl. Here, the growl is everywhere: other singers, including Apollonia Kotero and That Dog’s Petra Haden, serve as local color. Only in the final track, “Number Nine,” does Dulli give ground, and his duet with Screaming Trees’ Mark Lanegan suggests, in many (mostly good) ways, a showdown between Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen. Against the constant shift of backing musicians, Dulli gives full play to his style. It’s the living embodiment of old-fashioned cool: the stray cat whose eyes are always narrowed, yet whose heart and soul never stop questing for the most potent high, the most thrilling fuck, the most lasting love. From the acoustic guitar drift of “St. Gregory” to the dripping of piano notes in “Follow You Down” and the hip-hop funk of “Feathers,” Dulli works his mojo until Blackberry Belle subverts a listener’s obsessions with his own.

Pretty Girls Make Graves

Pretty Girls Make Graves

PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES The New Romance Matador In a ranking of best current band names, Pretty Girls Make Graves (also the best use, period, of a Smiths song title) would have to be up there with … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, but it proves to be a misdirection long before the 40 minutes of The New Romance have elapsed. Lead singer Andrea Zollo is among the most alive — that is, jittery and nerve-attuned — female vocalists in rock. She’s not digging a grave for herself or anyone else; she’s clawing and shouting her way out of one. It’s a mass exhumation, too: there are four guys in there with her, each using his instrument to shove aside crumbling dirt. Not unlike Sleater-Kinney, Pretty Girls Make Graves inhale the thin, trebly air of the era that straddled the blurry line between punk and New Wave, and when they exhale the air turns to crystalline mist in the cold and explodes into a kind of warmth. Which is a pretty good way to fight the numbness that Zollo obviously, passionately hates. The Morse-code guitar of “The Teeth Collector” communicates her response to dishonesty; the phased bass of “Blue Lights” provides the pulse inside her neuroses, and the urgent rhythm of “This Is Our Emergency” flashes like police lights accompanying her siren call to stay true. The New Romance often hints at burial, but only to remind you that you’re not dead yet.

Josh Rouse

Josh Rouse

Josh Rouse 1972 Rykodisc www.joshrouse.com Mosh Rouse slides away from easy comparisons today’s demographic culture requires. He manifests some of the shyness of Nick Drake; he sings with some of the grainy charm of Paul Westerberg; he can move with the quiet heard in late-period Yo La Tengo; and he reveals his romantic side in the shy, sly manner of many other modern singer/songwriters. Yet everything he’s done since his 1998 debut Dressed Up Like Nebraska has stepped around facile similarities, and with his fourth full-length album the step turns into a confident stride. 1972, the year Rouse was born, and the year he constantly evokes here, as if he remembered and assimilated everything he heard on the radio while he was learning to speak and walk. Instead of merely regurgitating those memories—not hard to do, as demonstrated by every guitar-toting hustler who owns a couple Beck records—Rouse frames them in the current century. The flute, the backing vocals, the walking bass line of “Comeback (Light Therapy)” or the soul strings of “James” should carry the mustiness of leisure suits left too long in storage, but Rouse wields the old signifiers with respect instead of reverence. The signifiers respond openly and fully, so that songs like the blushing, lovesexy “Under Your Charms” and the carnival-ride “Slaveship” come as new messages from a past with which no one is finished. Least of all Rouse, who once again manages a kind of individuality within the swirl of the tantalizingly familiar.

Frank Black and the Catholics

Frank Black and the Catholics

Frank Black and the Catholics Show Me Your Tears spinART www.spinartrecords.com/bands_frankblack.html The standard spiel about Frank Black could apply to any other seminal rock ‘n’ roll figure (Bob Mould, say) who presaged the alternative-rock insurrection but neither profited heavily from it nor died conveniently young. The line goes like this: “He hasn’t done anything great since he was in [insert band name here].” This cuts deeply in Black’s case because, more than anyone else, the Pixies — his band back when he was Black Francis — defined the edgy dynamics that Nirvana used to sell millions of records, inject electricity back into radio, destroy metal temporarily, etc. And after the Pixies disintegrated, Black formed a new band, the Catholics, with whom he’s cranked out rock ‘n’ roll that has been frequently good, sometimes better than good, but never quite so scintillating as the earlier flashes of fire. Show Me Your Tears is Black’s latest. Like most of his work in the last few years, it sounds as if he’s decided to reduce not merely his own expectations but those of everyone else as well. It’s just 13 songs ranging from the dark, stalking rockabilly of “Nadine” to the airy brooding roots-rock of “Manitoba,” with influences like Tex-Mex and spaghetti Westerns in between. None of the songs qualifies as a genuine waste of time, but Black’s voice — mostly low grit with the occasional leavening of melody or falsetto — lacks tension. The elastic snap that would propel the music past its own fleeting pleasures simply doesn’t happen. Show Me Your Tears, the title says, but Black gives out mere traces of tears, blood and sweat: the bodily fluids of art.