Madonna's Music; The Corrs; Jimmy Page & the Black Crowes, Live at the Greek
The second Madder album, Panic On, the band's major label bid, was a disappointment, but Hello June Fool, released last year on Thirsty Ear, was a great rebound, a mature work that shattered all expectations with powerful songwriting and a sense of rocking grace that was rare in this day and age. Saint Low, Lorson's latest project, continues in this tradition. Despite the fact Saint Low is a whole new band, this debut could easily be Hello June Fool Part 2. Just as that album contained material as sterling as "Hotel," Saint Low serves up the same remarkable balance of rock, torchy jazz and even digital effects to create a swirling and sustaining musical effort.
"Mature" is the key word, because Lorson, who was already singing paeans to approaching, has created a work that at once outdistances the other waifs with little-girl voices who wish to remain twentysomething forever. Her own voice has developed into a freely expressive vehicle with genuine range?she's not singing "flat" anymore. This maturity first manifested itself on Hello June Fool and it's carried on brilliantly here. This album doesn't jump out at you immediately like Hello June Fool, but in the end it may be an even deeper and more satisfying effort. The musical mix is eclectic, because Lorson is clearly trying to expand beyond the strictures of indie rock. It's the "maturity" angle once again, but when one really thinks of it, isn't that what any artist on her fourth album should be trying to do?
Keyboards loom large, creating a pulsating groove throughout. On the one hand, the textures of the bouncing Fender Rhodes organ, the freely flexing bass (played excellently by Stahl Caso) and even wafting violins fill up every space with music, but unlike other albums with similar embellishments, none of it comes off as extraneous. These effects aren't there to cover up what would otherwise be spinal remains?these songs were written with the Fender Rhodes in mind, and that's important.
In "Dreamland," as the organ swells and the drums propel forward like Bernard Purdie or Levon Helm, Lorson sings:
Coz on the street how fickle they can be
And you and me are living in a dream
It's a moment of disarming candor, as rare as it is incandescent. There are a lot of moments like that on this album: check out the way the violins add rustic overtones to "On the Outside" as the melody gently arches along. Listen to it and tell me if you don't think of Van Morrison's Moondance?texturally, that is. People always said Van sounded "wise beyond his years," and now we can put Lorson in the same category. She's a gem.
Joe S. Harrington
Talking about Seattle is like talking about your mama: a native Seattleite will slag their city up, down and sideways, but as soon as someone else raises a complaint, they'll go on the defensive. They'll rhapsodize about the natural beauty of Mt. Rainier despite the fact that they never leave the city, which you know because you've seen them every single weekend, without fail, in one of the two bars in Seattle.
If you're not drinking at Linda's, you're drinking at the Cha Cha, and if you're in neither bar then your friends should call the cops. As the anointed rock star bar of Seattle, the Cha Cha is much maligned for its scene and much frequented for said scene. The Cha Cha is done up, quite intentionally, like a cheap, gaudy, border-town brothel, with tiki-torches, a straw awning around the bar, Christmas lights covered with plastic red roses, and pictures of Mexican wrestlers on the tables. The interior lights, even at 4:30, when the regulars show, are red enough to neutralize the sallow, acne-riddled faces of most of the patrons and are dim enough to obscure the coke trades on the line for the bathroom.
And everyone who works there is in a band.
If this sounds like the first layer of hell, you're getting the picture. And yet, your tips line the pockets of Seattle musicians ranging from tolerable to extraordinary, and somewhere in the middle is 764-HERO. With a name taken from the Washington state carpool-lane-violation hotline, 764-HERO is generally what you'd expect from a Pacific Northwest guitar, bass and drums outfit (at some point, every Seattle band gets called Built to Spill Jr., and 764-HERO bassist James Bertram has even played with Martsch and Co. in the past). And because of that predictability, 764-HERO's first albums, Salt Sinks & Sugar Floats and Get Here and Stay, were unremarkable. But their exposure to the Cha Cha mafia, which includes bands like the Fastbacks, the Murder City Devils, Love As Laughter and former Up labelmates Modest Mouse, has kept them honing their skills by playing live continuously, and that's where they shine. The classy thing about 764-HERO is that they throw the same show whether they're playing at 4 in the afternoon in the glorified laundromat that is Seattle's Sit & Spin club or on the road opening for Modest Mouse.
Singer/guitarist John Atkins is naturally affable, with a wide, inviting grin, mussed, boyish hair and a doughy physique. In person, or behind the bar at the Cha Cha, he's about as threatening as a stuffed fuzzy toy. And onstage he's just like the kid who lipsyncs into a hairbrush in front of the mirror, which is to say he's a charming, if unlikely, frontman. Bertram, who's also in Red Stars Theory with Modest Mouse drummer Jeremiah Green, is a baby-faced towhead with a winning onstage oblivion that belies his experience; drummer Polly Johnson is like a sprite.
And sadly, on Weekends of Sound, as on their last album, Get Here and Stay, hipster producer Phil Ek (Modest Mouse, Quasi and, surprise, Built to Spill) has thrown a cold, wet blanket over all that charm. I know some people think he's a genius on the knobs, but as far as I can hear, Ek's chief recommendation as a producer is mere competence (which is, admittedly, more than you can say for plenty of other Northwest producers). His production, especially on Weekends of Sound, is remote and without innovation. Ek has produced many enjoyable bands joylessly, but also without getting in the way of their talent, and for that perhaps they call him a genius.
Fortunately for 764-HERO, their songwriting has grown strong enough to peek out from behind Ek's cold shoulder. The album opens with "Terrified of Flight," a memorable song in its own right and loads better than one might have expected from 764-HERO. Right there, you feel that this album will be worth keeping. Later on, with "Left Hanging," a nine-minute song that ought to be four, there's some self-indulgent noodling that would be better saved for the live show. After listening to several tracks of Weekends of Sound, you might do well to leave the room, get a soda, blow your nose, make a call and return for the album closer, a tried-and-true indie rock charmer called "Blue Light," whose refrain is "Dreams are mathematical now."
There's no shame in a mid-album dip, as most of 764-HERO's influences and peers still churn out three or four sinkers per album. (Who can listen to the Moon & Antarctica's "The Cold Part"? Or the entire second half of Built to Spill Live?) Weekends of Sound is still an impressive accomplishment for 764-HERO, who've teetered on the brink of being really good for ages, and who've hinted with their live performances that they had it in them all along.
Erin Franzman
That sop brings us to the other really annoying thing about the Corrs?the incessant chirping about their Irishness. The curdled Riverdance touches of tin whistle, bhodran and violin (played more like a fiddle most times) that were so prominent on the Corrs' first two albums (1995's Forgiven, Not Forgotten and 1998's Talk on Corners) are more muted here, but then there's the whole sickening p.r. trip that this band is on. Reading the four-screenpage bio and the individual profiles on one of their unofficial fan sites ("Closer to the Corrs" at www.thecorrs.net/corrsworld/) is a bewildering journey through a super-sugary route to pop stardom that indulges itself in odd moments of auld corn and new camp. Caroline and Sharon worked at a pub in Dundalk. Jim was the 'naughty' Corr, more interested in music than school. The siblings all scored bit parts in the ultimate Irish faux-soul film, The Commitments. They crashed a Michael Jackson recording session to meet their first producer. They played for the Pope. They all still live in Ireland. Ugh. It's stone blarney, even as the Corrs' music turns away from a plundering of the kitschier aspects of their roots to something even more vapid and unappetizing.
Richard Byrne
There are some real rock stars weighing in on this album, but the tracks they contribute err predominately on the thought-provoking, touchy-feely-ballad side. Lynyrd Skynyrd come through once again, proving that not only were they worth more than one side of a greatest hits comp, but they should really be famous for songs like "Simple Man." Other honorable mentions include Cat Stevens' "The Wind," Elton John's "Tiny Dancer," Simon & Garfunkel's "America" and Clarence Carter's "Slip Away." I can still hear house parties all over the country sneering, "They played solo Lennon and that Creation song back to back. She must have bought the Rushmore soundtrack." Prepare for more of the same.
Now that I've done my job, or attempted to, I'd like to use the remaining space, and the opportunity presented by the fact that the star of Almost Famous is engaged to Chris Robinson, to pick a bone, or rather something slimy, out from between my teeth: the new Black Crowes/Jimmy Page record. It was bad enough when this sideshow started touring so the Crowes could get some pocket change and every guido/meathead/suburban jock in the nation the chance to "see Zeppelin live dude." I used to like the Black Crowes. Their first album was awesome, and Chris was kicking the whole Mick Jagger thing. They told MTV they weren't playing arenas, that they were a bar band, that playing shitty bars was what rock 'n' roll is all about, and that they were going to give rock 'n' roll back to the people.
So I was going to keep my mouth shut. (I mean, whatever makes Jimmy happy, right?) Until they came out with the album. The only possible reason for this collaboration already addressed, why in the world, with a perfectly good live Led Zeppelin record already on the market (it's called Song Remains the Same, in case you forgot, Jimmy), would they go ahead with this farce? I listened to it. It made me want to listen to Led Zeppelin. And as I left the office that day, there was a rumor circulating that the tour had been canceled because Page threw his back out. Rock 'n' roll!
Tanya Richardson
So do you really need to be told what the music is like? The Associates played dislocated funk and multilayered electronica like it was going out of fashion. (It was.) Over the course of their brief career, Rankine and MacKenzie careened wildly between their cabaret roots?in their 1977-'78 gestation period, the pair would frequently play lounge music for oversexed housewives in working man clubs?Sparks/Bowie pop, maniacal darkness and harsh dance rhythms.
Anyone seeking further proof of this should seek out the mercurial, infuriating and comprehensive double-CD collection of rarities and demos, Double Hipness. Twenty-five tracks, rarely a dull moment. It's all there: from the breakneck punk and operatic harmonies of early song "Do the Call Girl" to the histrionic cover of Bowie's "Boys Keep Swinging" to demos of the more famous songs to the ill-fated 1993 reunion. It was during the latter that the pair recorded six songs, still as deliriously ridiculous as ever, including MacKenzie's glitter-tinged "answer" song to Morrissey's tribute "William It Was Really Nothing," "Stephen You're Still Really Something."
Anyone looking for true weirdness should seek out Fourth Drawer Down, the record where the brawling, crawling cataclysm known as the Associates really indulged their wildest fantasies. The reissue contains an extra five tracks, including the aforementioned watery recording, "Blue Soap." Anyone seeking the Associates at their height should buy Sulk, the pair's masterpiece. Overdub after overdub of pure, artificially stimulated genius. The reissue has seven extra tracks, including "Love Hangover," the string-textured, buoyant "Club Country" and "Party Fears Two"?and yes, the vocals were well over the top. That was the whole point. To live. And to be seen to be living.
Everett True
Versus have their own unique thing going, I'm not denying them that. But in a way that's what makes them unnerving?the way they buttheadedly persist in creating their jangly indie-rock way after the fact. They still sport lyrics like "cherry blossoms on the tip of your tongue" and still plumb that loud/soft dynamic. Groups like this seem to delight in, and be slightly in awe of, the sheer electricity of their instruments. I don't think it's a gimmick, in other words. I think they really get a charge out of hearing those guitars come up in the bridge of songs like "Shangri-La" (not as good as the Kinks song by the same name).
"Walkabout" is probably the standout track on this set. They introduce the piano, and the effects are almost that of mid-70s "adult" rock a la Todd Rundgren or Steely Dan. Actually there are a lot of nice embellishments like that on this LP, which will no doubt come to the fore on repeated listenings. They're still rhyming couplets like "say sayonara/to the never-ending drama," which they no doubt think is way cleverer than it is. But it wouldn't be indie rock without such smarmy pretenses, would it?
On "I Love the WB," they do one in the spirit of '93?Fontaine Toups sings and the guitars glisten like icicles and the well-timed beat carries the hypnotic riff into an ecstatic realm that'll have you pulling out your long-lost Twig/Scrawl/Tsunami/Velocity Girl 45s to get one more droplet of that elusive eros-rock before it evaporates forever. As for Versus, what they do used to sound common, and now it sounds uncommon, simply because there are so few still doing it. Guess all that buttheaded persistence paid off.
Joe S. Harrington
When Madonna sings "Hey Mr. DJ/Put a record on/I wanna dance with my baby" and the drum and bass kick in, you can't help but wanna boogie. The masses of dancers at Roxy or Splash could enjoy, even without ecstasy, a track like "Impressive Instant," a trippy, euphoric song wherein Madonna sings about random club hookups ("I'm in a trance/And the world is spinning/Spinning baby out of control/I'm in a trance/I let the music take me/Take me where my heart wants to go"). Two tracks speak directly to the legions of gay men who buy Maddy's records. On "Amazing" she croons, "It's amazing what a boy can do/I cannot stop myself/Wish I didn't want you like I do/Want you and no one else." "Amazing" and "Runaway Lover" are recognizably Orbit's tracks, hearkening back to Ray of Light's dance hooks, spacey blips and synthesizers?although they also echo "Beautiful Stranger" from the second Austin Powers soundtrack.
A contented, mellow Madonna's made an album mainly concerned with dancing for dancing's sake, in the spirit of old work like "Into the Groove" or "Dress You Up." One quasi-political pronouncement comes in the other track that speaks to her gay fans, "What It Feels Like for a Girl," where Charlotte Gainsbourg recites:
Ms. Ciccone's been living a more low-key, somewhat domestic life with Ritchie and her two children in London. This is her first album recorded entirely outside America. One hundred thirty-one million albums and countless hairstyles later, 42-year-old Madonna's still dancing: close your eyes while listening to the acid rock and picture her grooving at Danceteria in 1983. Music never really tries to be more than a dance album, and Mirwais' sound?futuristic, minimalist techno beats juxtaposed with a wide range of acoustic guitar riffs?sounds revolutionary next to the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. Fans who were disappointed when she never toured with Ray of Light, take heart: Music's restless dance energy should translate into a club tour this fall, according to her recent Rolling Stone interview.
Christopher Carbone