Rock
Mike Watt and the Secondmen
By Jeremy M. Rottgen Columbia Records www.wattage.com Dubbed a punk opera on Mike Watt’s spiel place, www.hootpage.com, The Secondman’s Middle Stand is quite a departure for the seasoned bassist. Busting things down to a trio with bass, drums and keyboard, the formula is simple, but the outcome is huge. The inspiration for the album came after Watt fell seriously ill and decided to document his experience. The result is a very personal account that puts the listener inside Watt’s head for once. It’s quite a trip, even for the most avid of Watt fans. The album is divided into three sections of three songs each. Watt borrowed from great literature like Dante’s Divine Comedy to describe his death-defying journey back to health. You can feel the flu-like symptoms from the beginning with “Boilin’ Blazes.” The organ blasts from Pete Mazich keep things moving like psychedelic bombs bursting around Watt’s thuds. Odd time signatures keep the drums beating, mixing and swirling around. The dynamics created by these three is a testament to great musicianship. Songs like “Puked to High Heaven,” “Pissbags and Tubing,” and “Beltsandedman” describe his agony with the straight-ahead, brutal honesty you’d expect from the spiel-meister. On October 3, Mike Watt plays Shank Hall, 1434 N. Farwell Ave.
Oct 1st, 2004 by Vital Archives
Robyn Hitchcock
By Jon M. Gilbertson Yep Roc www.yeproc.com William Burroughs complained that the English were capable of granting him hours of charming conversation without telling him anything personal about themselves. The English have never filed an official reply, but singer/songwriter Robyn Hitchcock—an English charmer since at least 1977 (when he formed the Soft Boys and introduced literate wit to punk rock) —would probably suggest to Burroughs that at least he got an evening’s entertainment. Nevertheless, Hitchcock reaches his most affecting moments when he at least gives the appearance of dropping his verbose reserve. With Spooked, his two major accompanists are Nashville residents Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, who have made their own careers from a history of honest and moderated revelation. They gently encourage him to play quietly, and in the familiar crackling of his voice there comes a sense that he’s actually checking to see that what he sings is worth saying. Hitchcock scatters a handful of the usual chuckled asides (“We’re Gonna Live in the Trees”) and obsessions (“Demons and Fiends”), but the atmosphere of the recording—two friends welcoming a third into their circle and letting him hold forth—coaxes intimacy from his sheltered heart. The feathery “Full Moon In My Soul” ranks among his finest true love songs; the delicate fingerpicking of “Television” indicates genteel sympathy for its TV-addicted protagonist; and the airy “Flanagan’s Song” closes Spooked in hushed reflection. In conversation with Rawlings and Welch, Robyn Hitchcock charms, to be sure, but he also tells them a few things about himself. On November 5, Robyn Hitchcock plays Shank Hall, 1434 N. Farwell Ave.
Oct 1st, 2004 by Vital Archives
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.
Oct 1st, 2004 by Jon Gilbertson
Natalie Merchant
By John Hughes NATALIE MERCHANTHouse Carpenter’s DaughterMyth Americawww.nataliemerchant.com Natalie Merchant has done a righteous thing. She has, of her own free-will, allowed her recording contract with Elektra to lapse, and her fame to diminish, for the sake of artistic control and integrity. What she’s done with her newfound freedom is establish her own record label, Myth America, and create a new CD, House Carpenter’s Daughter, which is now in stores on a limited availability basis. The new CD can be taken as an indication of where she will be headed musically for the foreseeable future. She’s delving into core American musical history, dusting folk greats off for present enjoyment. The entire package of this CD is encountered as a work of art, not just music. The liner notes are articulate and personable, and the photo and art montages, credited to Miss Merchant, are tasteful. Her song selection, a blend of archaic and contemporary, is impeccable, and the musicianship surrounding her singing (a basic rock arrangement judiciously augmented by banjo, fiddle and accordion) is flawless on each song. There is not a note out of place. The album has a rustic, relaxed feel. As always, Merchant’s lovely voice — warm, bold and sensual — is the centerpiece of the disc. This album is like comfort food for the ears. There are four standout tracks, “Sally Ann,” “Weeping Pilgrim,” “Owensboro” and “Wayfaring Stranger,” each playing at the edges of serious beauty, tugging the heartstrings with a sense of Americana mystery. “Soldier Soldier” and “Down on Penny’s Farm” relax the mood considerably and also bring a note of humor. But, as she’s been throughout most of her career, Merchant is understated, basically restrained. This is not a party album, or one for driving with in a fast car. It’s a perfect, thoughtful companion for being cozy indoors on a rainy or freezing day.
Dec 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Rickie Lee Jones
By John Hughes RICKIE LEE JONESThe Evening of My Best DayV2 Recordswww.rickieleejones.com Rickie Lee Jones’ new CD The Evening of My Best Day feels like two separate outings rolled into one. The first three songs make up Outing #1, and they are not compelling. They sound like a reprise of her great album “Pirates,” diluted heavily with a poor woman’s version of “The Hissing of Summer Lawns.” Cheerful flutes were never cool. The album then whips around a corner, beginning with the fourth song, “Little Mysteries,” and from that point on, for nine consecutive songs, Jones and band unveil a highly original sound. The songwriting is exploratory, novel, accessing the further reaches of pop creativity. The vocalizing, musicianship and production values synthesize to create an unprecedented experience for the listener. It’s as if Jones has invented a new genre of music. The effect of listening to this music must be something similar to the experience viewers had when first seeing Expressionist painting. Your primary reaction is a question, like ‘what’s she doing here?’ or ‘What is this?’ It’s an experiment in mystery through which flit the ghosts of soul, blues, gospel, jazz, folk and rock music forms. It’s a survey of human emotions, a cataloguing, from the foundational perspective of erotic melancholy. She signed some of the finest musicians available to help her on this journey: Los Lobos’ David Hidalgo, Ben Harper, bassist Rob Wasserman, her longtime associate Sal Bernardi, guitarist Bill Frisell, and rock iconoclast Grant Lee Phillips, along with her co-producer, David Kalish. The talent was allowed to breathe; you can feel their playfulness and good chemistry in every cut. Jones has made so much outstanding music in her career, with so little fanfare, that she can be called The Anonymous Legend. The last nine songs here are the most convincing evidence she’s ever recorded of that epithet.
Dec 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
The Fags
By Brian Barney THE FAGSThe FagsIdol Recordswww.thefagsmusic.com Stumbling across the vast wasteland of CD wreckage that has become my desk as a music writer, I happened upon a true gem. The cover of The Fags self-titled freshman effort on Idol Records sports a fashionably androgynous being smoking a cigarette (or fag) that would prompt an “I gotta hear this one” out of almost anyone. And, after a good couple dozen listens, I’ll wager this: if they are not drowned in the sea of anonymity, or ultimately eaten alive by the monster that is the record business, The Fags could be pop rock’s next big thing. From the first cut, “Truly, Truly,” the listener is drawn in by hooks that embed themselves in the brain. Standout tracks include “Hitman” and “List” (the record’s definite high point), where soaring vocals, hard-barking guitars and smart harmonies show incredible depth in what might normally be considered shallow waters. Love songs about girls unobtainable, viable or no longer wanted have broken no new lyrical ground since “Maybelline,” but it’s hard not to hum along and reminisce with chorus lines that are the crux of every teenager (or teenager at heart)’s lost logic defined in these three minute diddies. The only shortcoming here is… it’s too damn short! Being an EP with eyes no doubt trained on landing the big deal, the Detroit trio has obviously put their best foot forward. If you don’t reside in the Motor City, where The Fags are still pounding it out as local heroes (this applies to most of you), your best device to put yourself behind the wheel of this little beauty is to cruise online to www.thefagsmusic.com and place your order. ‘Cuz you won’t find it around here.
Dec 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
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.
Dec 1st, 2003 by Jon Gilbertson
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.
Dec 1st, 2003 by Jon Gilbertson
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.
Nov 1st, 2003 by Jon Gilbertson
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.
Nov 1st, 2003 by Jon Gilbertson
Mojave 3
By Erin Wolf MOJAVE 3 Spoon and Rafter 4AD Mojave 3 has practically perfected the catchphrase, “quiet is the new loud.” With their exit from the shoegazing outfit Slowdive, we find them putting on the airs of alt-country, creating a sound rivaling bands like The Cowboy Junkies and Mazzy Star. Though select, these UK natives have built a very loyal following. Originally manned by Neil Halstead (vocals, guitars), Rachel Goswell (vocals, bass) and Ian McCutcheon (drums) in 1995, Mojave 3 later added the talents of Adam Forrester on keys and Simon Rowe on guitar creating one of the most pastoral sounds to be exported from England in recent times. Mojave 3 has continued in the vein of simplistic slo-core tinged with twang, and has created an introspective little album, Spoon and Rafter. More poignant and dreamy than 2001’s Excuses For Travelers with its’ upbeat tempo and orchestrations, the current effort shows Mojave 3 to be mellowing. This mellowing, however, may not necessarily be a wise decision when considering their original concept. At points, Spoon and Rafter seems almost too sleepy. Though their characteristic sound is soft and slow, sometimes too soft and too slow can be a recipe for record disaster when one song drones into the next. Aside from the departure into the more serene, the album is not a complete bust, and isquite brilliant in spots. The lovely, soft-but-twangy guitar sound once conjured up by the likes of Neil Young shows in the winsome track, “She’s All Up Above.” While “Too Many Mornings”, one of the record’s high points, calls the intro line from The Who’s “Love Ain’t For Keeping” their own. Hey guys, If you’re going to steal a line, at least make it more obscure… please. Overall, Spoon and Rafter is a nice collection of pretty, demure tunes; harmless and sweet — kind of like your kindergarten crush who brought you love notes on construction paper. At times, low key listening is a good breather for the soul, but, if you’re seeking the honesty and straight forward structure the band has become known for… you may not find it here.
Nov 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Cheap Trick
By Rob McCuen CHEAP TRICK Special One Big 3 Records Mention Cheap Trick in some circles and brace yourself for the smug salvos that are sure to be flung your way. What can I tell the clueless dorks who think the Trick are an old and tired joke? Special One, Cheap’s first offering in six years (and dare I say it)? is better than Woke Up With a Monster, Robin’s hate-laden divorce record. While I’m at it, it’s damn near better than Revolver. Yep, Rockford’s lovable lads are back to span the globe and expand your mind with a flourish, and go see ’em, cuz they’re still the best live act in da biz when they wanna be. If shimmering power pop nuggets of love, loss and longing are your bag, run — (and don’t let me catch you downloading it) — don’t walk, to your fave retail outfit and purchase this gem like a man. You’re welcome, but I can’t waste all my energy pointing you into the right pop closets. Hell yeah they’re arrogant. They’re fabulous and the rat bastards have out-Beatled the Liverpool mop-tops themselves with this effort. Make no mistake, this is Robin’s record, and the thin man flexes the velvet of his million dollar voice on each and every number. He’s a street walking cheetah with a heart full o’ napalm, hate and menace on “Sorry Boy.” On the outstanding “Words,” “My Obsession,” “Pop Drone” and five other peerless instant classics, he is the perfect blend of Lennon, Bryan Ferry, Marc Bolan and Roy Orbison . “I Want You to Want Me” this ain’t. So yeah, so what if they only “rawk out” in two songs? This is a sad, melancholy soundtrack to lose your love to. I pace, I sing, I cry. For three days, I didn’t leave my house cuz I was obsessed with first “Words” and later “Too Much.” Robin never stops aching and yearning and the diminishing minor chords ala George Harrison guitars will saw your soul in half. The band basically lays back — mean, lean and pretty from top to back — and lets Robin’s voice carry the tunes. Robin Zander has simply become the finest white singer of anywhere or anytime. Living or dead, he’s the best there is. Tom and Zander carry their torches from song to song with the biggest and baddest choruses and middle eight bridges since Lennon and McCartney. So there. Oh yeah, Nielsen sings and plays brilliantly and Bun-man’s snare is a 12 pack of M-80’s going off all at once.
Nov 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
