Reviews and Rant

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFF33" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Arial" >THE FIRST CHURCH OF HOLY ROCK  AND ROLL</FONT>     |     <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="THE FIRST CHURCH OF HOLY ROCK AND ROLL"><U>home</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id17.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Statement of Purpose"><U>Statement of Purpose</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id23.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Commandments"><U>The Commandments</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id24.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Sermons"><U>Sermons</U></A>   |   Reviews and Rant   |   <A HREF="id25.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Blasts from the Past"><U>Blasts from the Past</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id31.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Youth Choir"><U>The Youth Choir</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id29.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Desert Island Discs"><U>Desert Island Discs</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id26.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Interviews"><U>Interviews</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id27.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Books and Movies"><U>Books and Movies</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id19.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Miscellaneous Witnessing"><U>Miscellaneous Witnessing</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id20.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Mailbag"><U>Mailbag</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id30.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Holy Documents"><U>Holy Documents</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id21.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Favorite Links"><U>Favorite Links</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id22.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Contact Me"><U>Contact Me</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id28.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Confessional"><U>The Confessional</U></A></div> <div> Reviews and Rant</div> <div> JUST PUBLISHED:</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="08a01f90.png" border=0 width="257" height="249" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Paul K. and the Weathermen: Panopticon</U></B><B><U> </U></B><B><U>(review by J. D. Misfortune)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="paul_k"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div>  A limited edition, self-released, 17-song box-set, from Motown ex-pat, Paul K. and the Weathermen. "Panopticon" is an ambitious series of </div> <div> seemingly unrelated, alt-country, R&B, tin pan alley, Brill Building, and methed-out cock rock -inspired viginettes that all kinda come together at </div> <div> the end, a bit like a Jim Jarmusch movie. The disturbing, "17 Clicks" gives non-partisan voice to America's solidiers in Iraq, who won't be home for </div> <div> the holidays. "Harry Houdini" is a haunting fugitive's plea about hitting the mythological highway, only to realize there's really nowhere left to run. "Frozen John" tries to shelter an already overwhelmed cohort from the endless atrocities of cable news packaging. "You Should've Seen It Coming" sputters out indignant character assasinations, atop a 70's bell-bottomed, mustache-rock riff. His Velvety, "Long Lost Forgotten" foreshadows the retro-chic trendiness of the much-heralded Edie Sedgwick bio-pic, "Factory Girl", that's due out later this season. Many forelorn ballads document the pains and strains of ceaseless bills and obituaries, and relationships sadly crumbling under the weight of poverty and alienation, in life during wartime. "Panopticon" is a weary, panoramic, emotional, fish-eyed tour of our turbulent age, by one of America's most vital and eloquent songwriters. Scathing, compassionate, catchy, and cinematic, "Panopticon" is way more consistent than the Clash's similarly indulgent, "Sandanista". Perhaps the most articulate, quintessential, protest-record of the past decade.</div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="http://www.paulkweathermen.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.paulkweathermen.com"><U>www.paulkweathermen.com</U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="087f0f00.png" border=0 width="240" height="240" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Jerry Lee Lewis: Last Man Standing (Artists Only)</U></B> <A NAME="jerry"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Anyone who's seen the Killer on TV or elsewhere over the past year can be forgiven for being skeptical, but from the swath that the Ferriday Flash cuts through Led Zep's "Rock and Roll" on the opener to the truer-words-were-never-spoken version of Kris Kristofferson's "The Pilgrim" that closes out the record, Jerry Lee once again makes monkeys out of the masses who've counted him dead. Simply put, his piano playing is totally undiminished (in fact, for the most part, he eschews the lazy mannerisms that have pockmarked his scarce output of the last quarter-century) and his singing sounds like 32, if not 21. It's a landmark, too: no septuagenarian has EVER rocked this hard on record, and the roll call of guests (who--other than Kid Rock, who predictably steps all over what would otherwise have been a great "Honky Tonk Women"--stay out of the man's way) is flat-out mind-boggling. In particular, the most geriatric of the assembled mofos (George Jones, Merle Haggard, B. B. King) contribute the highlights, and even the weakest cuts have that above-it-all house-afire Lewis stamp. Remakes? Few and far between. And, listen: if we're gonna revere the final Cash albums, we have NO excuse for ignoring these. He may not be the last man standing, not while Chuck, Bo, and Little Richard (one of the guests here) are alive; but as a testament to the indomitable spirit of carnal, ecstatic, defiant rock and roll, I'll bet my paycheck this will not be beat. Download: "Rock and Roll"; "Before the Night is Over" (B. B.'s most surprising solo in years); "Twilight"; "Just A-Bummin' Around" (with Merle Haggard); "Don't Be Ashamed of Your Age" (George Jones, the song a Bob Wills cover); "The Pilgrim." </div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="07faa9d0.png" border=0 width="170" height="157" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Bob Dylan: No Direction Home--The Soundtrack (Sony)</U></B> <A NAME="no_direction"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> A golden opportunity blown. One hopes that Scorsese's documentary will far outshine this aggravating tease. While the compilers did as good a job as could be expected with the first disc, which focuses on Dylan folkie beginnings--already well-mined by the previous "Bootleg Series" releases, though "John Brown" and "The Death of Emmett Till" remain in the vaults--the second disc is a total failure. Dominated by alternate takes that only prove Dylan and his producers knew how to weed out inferior tracks, the two standouts, "Maggie's Farm" (from the groundbreaking 1965 Newport Folk Festival) and a scorching "Ballad of a Thin Man" (from Dylan and the Hawks' mind-blowing 1966 tour of Europe) beg the question, "Why not devote the disc completely to these historic shows?" The rest of the recordings exist; why jerk us off with studio versions? That this set was released a month in advance of the documentary will only dampen a thinking fan's enthusiasm. </div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="07aa0a00.png" border=0 width="160" height="160" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Living Things: Black Skies in Broad Daylight (Dreamworks Germany)</U></B> <A NAME="living_things"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> I need to admit in front that my biases may affect the following review: I'm from Missouri, from which these three scrawny, disaffected, suburban brothers hail (they've since moved from St. Lou to Hell Lay); I'm a loyal lover of mean garage rock (which this band seriously AMPS UP), and post-Cobain hard rock when it's smart and passionate (which this is); I'm starved for some serious shit-smearers with political chips on their shoulders (which these guys are); and I'm sick of "Christians" and "politicians" and "patriotism" (the Berlin bros make no bones about the fact that they are, too). That said, I LOVE this record unconditionally. Why it isn't available domestically after a few months of slowly building hype--much generated from eye-opening appearances in support of Velvet Revolver--is beyond my midwestern ken, but I suggest that you, like me, ignore both the hype and its equivalent backlash and listen to this like you know nothing about it. From beginning to end, its riffpower and intensity deliver the goods, and Lillian Berlin's singing and writing, in the grand rock and roll tradition, convert negatives into positive energy. Not all of his lines are as cutting and apt as "codependent apostle Paul parades/I resign your rights"--but you'll be surprised at how many times this 20-year-old articulates what you've been thinking and feeling for months. He occasionally slips into junkie-punk cliches...but I'm nitpicking. Picks to click with you: "Bombs Below" and "I Owe," which takes on the deficit you and your future kids've been left with.</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="07ba0a00.png" border=0 width="160" height="160" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Wide Right: Sleeping on the Couch (PopTop Records)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="wide_right"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> You're in your thirties, maybe forties, you live in the Midwest, you're a veteran of the barroom meat-market wars who still loves black leather, a six pack, hot young rebel boys, and rocking out, and you're busting your ass at shit jobs trying to pay the rent on your little place and feed your kid. Also, you like songs that are about something. WHO OUT THERE IS MAKING MUSIC FOR YOU? Leah Archibald is. On her second record, self-produced with help from Jim Diamond (White Stripes, Dirtbombs), she's written a tour of your life and mind. Trying to light a fire under her sedentary romantic partner, sparring with her unsympathetic boss, mooning over "a Midwestern guy/Who plays guitar and wears his hair in his eyes" and admitting her "taste in men hasn't changed since junior high," coping with being stalled in midlife, processing the self-destruction of an old friend, relegating her man to the couch for the night--she will literally hit you where you live. Her band kicks ass, her voice--which at first may annoy you with its unvarnished intensity--penetrates, and she writes with a novelist's eye for detail. Plus, how can you deny someone who writes a rallying song for her depressed hometown? Or covers Loretta Lynn's "The Pill" like it was written yesterday, just for her? Archibald's one of America's great underheard treasures; if you like this, seek it her first one, Wide Right, which features the devastating skewer "Vincent Gallo." Inspirational Ramones-style chantalong: "Hey hey hey hey/Get out of my refrigerator!"</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="07da0a00.png" border=0 width="160" height="160" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>MF Doom: Live from Planet X (Nature Sounds)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="doom"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> Quite simply the best live hip hop record I've ever heard (admittedly, there isn't much competition). Doom (aka Viktor Vaughn) (aka King Ghidorah) (aka Zev Love X) (aka Daniel Dumile) caps an incredible comeback story with an expert display of eccentric rhythms, deft and double-take-inducing rhymes, unlikely sound effects (accordian? on a rap record?), and an indisputably unique flow. Weirdo that he is, he's also given us a record with no track increments--you're gonna have to listen to the whole show, and you'll better for it. What I like best about it is the sense of one man, alone onstage but for a DJ--no guest star intrusions, no backup sisters or bros, no dancers--doing what he loves and does extremely well. Ramones fans will be impressed by the pacing (virtually no pauses or segues), and though Doom may break out in "song" once too often, how many MCs do you know that could or would quote Cole Porter while doing so? And how many MCs do you know who've made their best music 15 years down the line?</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="07ca09e0.png" border=0 width="160" height="158" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>The Fall: 50,000 Fall Fans Can't Be Wrong--39 Golden Greats (Beggars Banquet)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="the_fall"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> "Golden great" collections are essentially arguments for an artist--at their best, they say, "The world is better for this musician's/band's existence," and, maybe, they force you to rehear the artist in new and revelatory ways. And yeah--they're there for recouping profits. This is a model of the form. Nothing has given me more pleasure over the past two weeks; I've always been a marginal fan of Mark E. Smith's cryptic utterances--they usually make me laugh and sing along for reasons I can't pin down--and the band (not quite often enough per record) can rock and riff intriguingly, but I was not prepared for the case this two-CD set makes. What other band has been as uncompromising yet utterly consistent over a quarter-century? What other cult favorite can put together a portfolio this catchy...yes, this accessible? As always with collections, the listener will mourn the missing. I miss "Kurious Oranj" and the hilarious yet oddly dead serious covers from The Infotainment Scan myself. At the same time, though, I've become addicted to songs I'd never heard ("Rowche Rumble" and "Touch Sensitive"), another hallmark of great compilations. Sorry to gush, but I dare you not to unequivically enjoy these 39 songs. Additional note: Even Bon Jovi beat them to the cover art/title concept, but Mark's sweater and the annotation earn them a pass.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>James Carter: Out of Nowhere (Half Note)</U></B></div> <div> Carter is not only jazz's penultimate showman (especially live), but he's wired to get out of the bebop museum and explore odd terrains. Of course, that shouldn't be such a strange thing, considering jazz's origins, but, as with the country as a whole, jazz's terrain has been suffering too much regulation by the (usually self-designated) arbiters of right and wrong lately. JC's always thumbed his nose at such restraints while proving he can surpass the status quo's requirements on their own terms. On this, his second fun live album in a row, he opens with two passionate and exciting jazz standards ("Out of Nowhere" and "Along Came Betty"), then invites 60+-year-old fellow explorers Hamiet Bluiett (baritone) and Blood Ulmer (guitar) to bust up the joint with alien interjections, nicely illustrating that it's not just young lions who joy in iconoclasm. The album's coda is worth the price of admission alone: Willie Dixon's "Little Red Rooster" leading into a spirited romp through R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly." It's difficult to name another artist in any genre capable of or interested in such as juxtaposition, but Carter goes beyond simple cleverness and eclecticism by demonstrating that such combinations make sense (particularly when you reexamine the record's opening two cuts). You're fine Americans, my friends. See also <A HREF="#baker_s" TITLE="Reviews and Rant"><U>Live at Baker's Keyboard Lounge</U></A>.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Alvin Youngbood Hart: Motivational Speaker (Tone Cool/Artemis)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="ayh"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> Hart is far from your standard-fare bluesman. Like James Carter (above), he loves the entire field of American roots music; his second album Territory, still his best, included impassioned revisitings of Skip James and Captain Beefheart as well as a western swing tune he wrote himself (the best thing on the record). Start with the Soul (his third release) demonstrated he could smoothly transition into soul music, and lock into pure rock and roll grooves of his own devising that those old coots the Stones should envy. After moving to Memphis, he put together a collection of traditional blues (many originating from his new surroundings) that was a little, um, boring, but his thirst for variety has bounced back with this hard-driving slab. Since he's been produced by the Pope of Memphis, Jim Dickinson, it's probably accurate to say that the rowdy and raw boogie cuts here reflect the influence of his neighbors the North Mississippi All-Stars (fans of that unit should pick this up post-haste). But the interpretations of Doug Sahm, Little Darlin'-era Johnny Paycheck, Otis Redding...and Free ("The Worm"???) could have come from no other historical imagination but AYH's. And perhaps he's acknowledging the too-pervasive purity of Down in the Alley by plugging in Motivational Speaker's traditional tunes. In short, if you need an injection guitar-'n'-guts roots music, look no further.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: Soundtrack to the Film </U></B><I><B><U>Hustle & Flow</U></B></I><B><U> (Atlantic)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="hustle"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> Speaking of Memphis, and the South...like, I'm sure, many fans of American pop music, I've really really wanted to like crunk. Perhaps because I'm not 19, perhaps because I haven't been raised in a jungle, perhaps because I'm a hopelessly tight-assed Midwesterner, perhaps because I have limits, I've found it difficult to relate to lyrics like the Ying Yang Twins' "Wait'll you see my dick." As my wife eloquently has eloquently suggested, it's pure id-music. Maybe it's that ol' racial sexual jealousy thing. But the fabulous film from which this music's sprung sold me in no time. The first step was being reminded of the Memphis' peculiar and fecund racial politics; the second was being reminded that it was Southern artists in the first place that forced American sexuality out in the open; the fourth was listening to one of the characters link crunk's primitivism to old blues; and the coup de grace was watching the film's main characters construct a hittin' track from cheap and simple materials in a little room and fill up with joy when the results are obviously spectacular. It also helps that this particular collection is low on benighted, quasi-rapist reverse-minstrel scenarios, though "Let's Get a Room" comes awful damn close. My faves are Lil' Boosie and Webbie's "Swerve," which swerves; E-40's "Pussy Niggaz"; and Juvenile's "Booty Language." As I'm sure you've heard, sureshot Academy Award nominee Terrence Howard does his company proud by convincingly delivering the lyrics of the movie's key songs ("It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp," "Whoop That Trick," and the title track)--I'm sure they will be many listeners' faves. And I've got to give the film and its music credit for making me think--as a raw as the expressed sentiments are, I recall Mick Jagger doing much the same thing during the Stones' prime: drawing on universal urges and impulses that we'd rather not acknowledge. Hmmmm.</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="07eaaaa0.png" border=0 width="170" height="170" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: On the Chitlin Circuit--Southern Soul Hits (Ecko)</U></B><B><U> <A NAME="chitlin"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></U></B></div> <div> Just in case any of you old folks, upon cautiously venturing into Hustle & Flow and crunk's fleshpot festival, are filled with righteous indignation at the immorality of ghetto youth, you might wanna check this out. Good ol' ribaldry and bad ol' lust doesn't, didn't and shouldn't begin and end with the kids, folks; here, a passel of mostly over-50s soul holdouts celebrate all-out parties of their own. Far be it from me to explicate the contents; let me let the titles do the talking: Lee Shot Williams' "Just Another Hole in the Wall," long-time sexual politics-analyst Denise Lasalle's tough-talking "(Make that Coochie) Snap, Crackle, and Pop" and "You Shoulda Kept It in the Bedroom," and the sure-to-be-immortal "I'll Drink Your Bathwater, Baby," by Ollie Nightingale. Inspiringly, this stuff didn't come out of nowhere. The Chitlin Circuit's survived a half-century of threats to its existence, and these Tennessee 'n' Mississippi writer-performers have been acting like soul music never died since it supposedly did (in the mid-'70s). If you can find it, buy it in tandem with Hustle & Flow...and have a nasty weekend. Note: the music's as tough as the lyrics, too.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Paybacks: Harder and Harder (Get Hip)</U></B></div> <div> Imagine Faces-era Rod Stewart fronting a Detroit garage band speeding toward punk--only Rod's a lady. True, Wendy Case, doesn't sing with the nuance of the Mod, but tell me who has? </div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>RELATIVELY RECENT:</B></div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Eagles of Death Metal: Peace Love Death Metal (Ant Acid)</U></B></div> <div> My favorite record of 2004. A Queens of the Stone Age spin-off, it surpasses anything that band's achieved musically, lyrically, and conceptually. Driven by  "J Devil Huge"'s Don Henley-cum-Rob Halford vocals and muted but still fuzzed hard-rock riffs, it's a tongue-in-cheek tour de force of  menacing rawk. Heavy? Well, bringing Dock Boggs into the 21st century (in "Kiss the Devil") ain't light. And generating laffs from midnight murder, a fistful of cash, and Gerry Rafferty doesn't occur to your average metallists. All I can ask is a karaoke version, 'cause in the right hands it'd take over any bar in America.</div> <div>  </div> <div> <B><U>Z-Man: Dope or Dog Food (Hieroglyphics)</U></B></div> <div> A sub-genre is born: Disaster Rap. Z-Man's Too Short with a sense of humor and adventure. Cisco, cars, parties out of bounds, God (no shit), STDs, and--of course--evil wimmen lead the protagonist of these superbly detailed and grimly funny tales to fates worse than death, parodying the manufactured nihilstic glamor of mainstream rap along the way.  If you think you're bored with hip-hop, give this a try.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>The Litigators/The Martyr's Brigade</B></div> <div> <B>Live at Eastside Tavern, Columbia, MO</B></div> <div> <B>May 8, 2004</B></div> <bR> <div> Once again, the far-from-mighty Reverend Coomers has been lyin' low on the club circuit. One, I'm 42 and feelin' it. Two, I've been feelin' mired ankle-deep in musical malaise--nuthin's been turning my crank at all, but it's probably more me than the music. Three, the last several shows I've been to, the crowds have seemed to be there to be seen and blab, rather than to get rawked and sweat. Four, Bush...but, fuck that, why should I let the bastards win? Well, when I heard K. C.'s Litigators were gonna be in town, fronted by the most manic dervish ever produced by Shelbina, MO, Jeremiah Kidwell (formerly of Columbia's best-ever garage rockers the Revelators)--a man who cannot be kept down--I felt I owed it to my sorry ass to haul it out to get shook. It's a good thing I took time out from navel- and toe-gazin' to do so, 'cause these guys delivered!</div> <div> The Litigators have two things to offer live that few rock and roll bands do (and the band does roll): camaradic energy and--this may not sound that rad, dude, but believe me it is--a locked-in Stones-derived rhythmic drive. Kidwell gyrated, minced, careened off his guitarists, got in the audience's faces, spasmed into closed-eye trances, preached and pointed, and juggled the mike, the mike stand, and his harmonica and tambourine like a Plato's Cave drum major. No one there who'd seen the Revelators live would have been surprised, but the boy's even more transported than he was then. And the band. I was too busy buying beers to get everybody's names, but not only did the two guitarists spar like vintage Richards-Jones (or Richards-Taylor) (or Richards-Wood), drawing blood in a six-string switchblade ballet, but the drummer (I'll call him "Anti-Hero" 'cause that's what his t-shirt advertised) drove the rest of 'em like a Ford Fairlane. When the show was over, we were exhausted--and that's what it's all about. They have no product yet, but they're due to wax their stuff (all original on this night, other than an intense "Pressure Drop) in a Columbia studio soon, and let's hope a label that cares (say, Get Hip or Fat Possum or Goner or  Sympathy or In the Red) picks 'em up. Coming off gigs with the Lazy Cowgirls and the Preacher's Kids, who sung their praises, they deserve a grab at the roots-rock version of the brass ring. And any band pursuing the Stones groove--as outdated as you might think that is--is worth our time. It's a tougher road to travel than emo, grunge, alt-country, or indie/Mensa-rock.</div> <div> Opening up were Columbia's own Martyr's Brigade. I was prepared to endure the opening band to get to the motherlode, but these guys are for real. Israel Gripka, the lead singer and songwriter, put across the kind of material Steve Earle oughtta if he weren't such a pretentious big shot (you may be excused if you, like I, wish he'd pollute himself a little). His songs are strong, clear, passionate, and real, about really important things like getting drunk with your buddies on a Tuesday night. His right-hand man, lead guitarist David, is the most uncool-looking player I've ever seen on a Columbia stage--Shemp-like coif, button-down shirt with collar upturned, weird shorts, pleasantly plump--and thus is WAY cool.  And his playing? Sloppy-great, when the paradigm for this kind of music is Nashville-clean and sharp. Their brief set put the run of Columbia played-at alt-country to shame and, though the bass player called this his "fun" band (his serious gig is the Doxies), he might wanna re-think the definition of that word, and make the Brigade his top priority. I'd pay to see 'em close a show, gladly. Of further interest is that the band's core is from Lebanon and Camdenton, where the mandarin-like fingers of nothingness clutch one's daily life more threateningly than they do in Columbia. Too much of nothing can make a man a liar, but these guys don't truck with defeatism.</div> <div> My recommendation is, if you see either of these bands on a bill in your town--get out of the house. They'll cure what ails ya. Myself, I'm already looking at next weekend to get out of the Church again. Also, both these bands are heading into Columbia's Red Boots Studio, so watch for some platters in the near-future.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> Australian Infusion </div> <div> Being just a little grass-roots website smack-dab in the middle of the States, with no pull or cred to speak of, I don't get much in the mail to review. I usually have to wait 'til I can afford to buy something that looks cool, and, yeah, I download a few things. But 2004 has dawned so inauspiciously, I haven't been moved to either spend my hard-earned cash or write up anything free. However, since the birth of this site in 2000, I've always been able to rely on rock-rabid Aussies to float something my way to shake me out of the doldrums. I apologize to the folks at Spooky and Career for being so slow to review these narsty pieces of Devil's music--but keep 'em comin', will you? As usual, foreigners seem to honor our traditions more doggedly than we do, and if you're craving dirty noise that's conducive to sweat, 12-packs, and smoke, you can do no better--sorry to day, than investigate these two labels. Check out their sites at <A HREF="http://www.spookyrecords.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.spookyrecords.com"><U>www.spookyrecords.com</U></A> and <A HREF="http://www.careerrecords.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.careerrecords.com"><U>www.careerrecords.com</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Digger & the Pussycats: Young, Tight, and Alright (Spooky) </U></B></div> <div> Though I've heard them compared to the Immortal Lee County Killers, the Pussycats actually surpass them by dispensing with the alienation factor and just getting down to the business of hard music. The CD cover depicts Digger and an accomplice holding up the bar with a couple of pints, and the riffs contained therein are just as unpretentious. They celebrate the thrills of a new motorbike, cars and guns, traffic accidents, and Robert Johnson, and steal "Sooprize Package for Mr. Mineo" (yclept "Stab a Motherfucker") from not only Supercharger but the Mummies by giving in to the temptation to make it sound good and DIRTY. My favorite sloppy-rock record of the year.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Spencer P. Jones: Fait Accompli (Spooky)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Spencer, formerly of the long-departed and now-reformed Beasts of Bourbon (keep your eyes peeled for The Axeman's Jazz, the best Cramps record the Cramps never made, in the used bins), is Oz's version of Steve Wynn, and if that sounds good to you, buy this record now. He writes about being a bar-hopping fuck-up extremely eloquently; this record's lead cut, "Clementine," about a great bar that got shut down, would have improved any Green on Red album you can name. Also, his writing is as literary as Wynn's without the pretensions, which is a major bonus. Featuring Television's drummer Billy Ficca and the Violent Femme's Brian Ritchie on 2 cuts.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Roy Loney & the Longshots: Drunkard in the Think Tank (Career)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Yep, the former Flamin' Groovies founder is still shaking that action. In fact, in comparison to even the most solid Groovies records, this stands up pretty damned well. He's still committed to rockabilly-tinged pop, and the years have not dimmed the weird Beatlesish enthusiasm he brought to the best of his early work. With Young Fresh Fellow Scott McCaughey pitching in with bass, keybs, harp, and words, he keeps things catchy, punky, and moving right along; in fact, if the two cuts that stray beyond the four-minute mark were excised--old action-shakers tend to lose the momentum when they slow it down--we'd be looking at a major roots-rock record, instead of a minor find. Picks to click: "One Track Mind," "You Don't Owe Me" (a John Fogerty obscurity), "Doggone Fine," Grapey Wine," "She's the One," and H. Pattison's "Move It Baby."</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Denis Tek & Scott Morgan: 3 Assassins (Career)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Tek (formerly of Aussie punk aces Radio Birdman, and author of the classic "Burn My Eye") and Morgan have spent their adult life keeping the Detroit hard rock sound alive in an indifferent musical world. Morgan, in fact, was there at the beginning as a member of the Rationals and Sonic's Rendezvous Band. They teamed with Wayne Kramer on 1997's criminally underrated Dodge Main, on which they revisited several Deee-troit classics ("I Got a Right," "City Slang," and "Future Now"), and I prefer it to this, which essays the same idea (in fact, many of the same songs) with worse production. Still, if the MC5 documentary A True Testimonial has you in its grip, and you can't wait for the reunion concert (I think maybe you can), this might just set you free. And the bottom line is, this shit deserves to be kept alive</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Penny Ikinger: Electra (Career)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Ikinger's hype is that she puts across original material of a pretty confessional nature with her own plug(ged in) ugly guitar. Problem is, her stuff lingers too long (average track length approaching 5 minutes), which dulls the impact of some really neat songs. My fave is "Kathleen," about a woman the song's persona once scorned who she now must desperately turn to. Also, she could stand to vary the tempo a little: long songs plus medium-to-slow speed equals listener-death.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> More Reviews</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Bob Dylan: Live 1964--Concert at Philharmonic Hall (Columbia/Legacy) </U></B></div> <div> Do you need another Dylan reissue? Yep. This captures the 23-year-old folk wonder kid just before his iconoclastic dive into his own custom-made, innovative, surrealistic rock and roll pool, but, more importantly, it freezes in aural time his geniality and charm the moment before it died. His interactions with the audience are worth the 2-CD budget price of admission, he's loose as hell, and he recovers from muffed and forgotten lines like someone who isn't quite assured of his own genius. The material is absolutely prime, including a few very rare and seldom-performed bits of canon ("Talkin' John Birch Paranoid Blues," "Spanish Harlem Incident," the hilarious "If You Gotta go, Go Now," and "Mama, You Been on My Mind"), and his singing is clarion-like. And his jauntiness makes Joan Baez easy to swallow, not an easy task. If you've always thought him a nasty grouch, buy and learn.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Loretta Lynn: Van Lear Rose (Interscope) </U></B></div> <div> Worthy of the hype. Freshly 70, the Coalminer's Daughter not only sings but writes likes she's 25. Her tunes about her mama, a woman on death row, an avenging honky-tonk angel named Mrs. Leroy Brown, and her dear departed Doo are worthy of classic-era material like "Fist City" and "The Pill," and that irresistible twang, remarkably free of the phlegm and dulling that plague most singers her age, reminds one of how thoroughly "contemporary country radio" has homogenized its product. And while we're talking radio, "Portland, Oregon," a Northwestern rewrite of "Jackson," would be a hit if God existed. Yep, there's filler, just like in the old days, but it's tolerable. Jack White's production is the indie version of Lanoisian aural soft-focus ("If the sound's seductive, maybe they won't notice that the artist isn't really knocking us dead"), but, really, she's so damn strong she defeats it, and often that soft-focus is pretty damned hard. His sudden blues-punk interjections don't faze her anymore than the blonde flirting with Mr. Leroy Brown in the bar. Kudos, though, to Mr. White for pursuing a dream; now, if somebody can turn the same trick with George Jones or Jerry Lee or Chuck or Bo, we'll be really happy parishioners.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Reigning Sound: Too Much Guitar (In the Red) </U></B></div> <div> More and more, this Memphis unit, an Oblivians spin-off, reminds me of the early Beatles. Their influences are eclectic (soul--Sam and Dave's "You Got Me Hummin'"--garage, gospel, pop), they sing passionately, they waste no time, and (though this may be an oddly arcane association, it's crucial) they favor coruscating, driving, mixed-high rhythm guitar--and the leads cut pretty good, too. Thus the title, which seems to address an adjustment made from their previous (and very cool) Time Bomb High School. The trouble is, Greg Cartwright's vocals, which have gained considerable warm and passionate edges since his Oblivians days, can't always put the material over the top. Like its predecessor, this record as a whole is mildly exciting--and I'm not sure if that's a raving recommendation. It sure beats Weezer, though. Passionate, exciting, and ravingly recommended: their loving stomp through Flash and the Memphis Casuals' "Uptight Tonight."</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Local H: Whatever Happened to PJ Soles? (Studio E)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> I hate to say it, but my favorite Midwestern hard rock band is losing steam. Having battled through a stupid Nirvana-imitator rap with hard-bitten songs about life in fast-food nation and survived the departure of a demonic drummer, Scott Lucas's gift for the galvanizing anthem has diminished; only "California Songs" works up serious steam and generates transcendent outrage here, and they get bogged down in draggy moaning. Energized cynicism can be liberating--tired cynicism just keeps you picking your scabs.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Andy Cigarettes: Tape Hiss (self-produced cassette) </U></B></div> <div> 3 a.m. Casio punk from Portland, Oregon, with intrusions from organ, acoustic guit, human drums, and double-tracked vox. The vocals and lyrics bleed. Inevitable comparison: Skip Spence's Oar for the post-Nevermind audience. Contact Andy Cigarettes at P. O Box 11744, Portland, Oregon, 97211.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>James Carter: Live at Baker's Keyboard Lounge (Warner Brothers)</U></B><U> </U> <A NAME="baker_s"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Nothing spectacular on Carter's long-awaited first live record but the expectations...and the artist's range. Opening with a Diddley-beatin' Oscar Pettiford blues, moving through some Jimmy "Night Train" Forrest R&B and a hair-raising version of Eddie Harris' "Freedom Jazz Dance" (in which Carter does just that--like Leon Thomas used to sing), and cooling out the crowd with "I Can't Get Started" (featuring a charming Satchmoesque vocal by Franz Jackson), JC demonstrates that his much-ballyhooed audaciousness extends beyond just his playing. And it really doesn't let up; after that dizzying start, he uncorks a masterful circular-breathing solo on his main man Don Byas' "Free and Easy." Upon finishing your tour, you won't say, "I guess you had to be there." You'll say, "I wish I'd been there." The rap on Carter is that he overplays, and exhausts all of his devices on every solo--fuck that, he's just on fire with jazz and joy and history and soul, and he gives everybody equal time to express the same. With notable guest appearances by David Murray and evergreen tenor legend Johnny Griffin.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> Some Quick Spiels </div> <bR> <div> <B><U>James Blood Ulmer: No Escape from the Blues--The Electric Lady Sessions (Hyena</U></B><B><U>) </U></B></div> <div> Ulmer's scored two blues albums in a row that haven't fallen flat on their faces. He would have been an intriguing addition to Scorsese's documentary series:  from blues r&b to bluesy organ combo to the free-est fucking jazz back to the blues is quite a journey, but that mighta been a little messy.  On this record, Muddy gets his props on a couple of obscure covers, as do Jimmy Reed's wife, Johnny Copeland, Earl King, John Lee Hooker, and somebody named Eddy Owens ("The Hustle Is On"). Vernon Reid continues to be the weirdest banjoist in blues, and Charlie Burnham saws his fiddle. Hey Blood--turn the next album over to them.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>James Carter: Gardenias for Lady Day (Columbia) </U></B></div> <div> Jazz's most lowdown saxophonist with strings. Why should rok and rollers care? Good question. I'd say his tone and conceptual audacity qualify as big middle fingers upraised to King Death. Speaking of audacity, only a fool would try to cover Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit," but only a ballsy earthshaker would try to do it by combining elegant vocals and unfettered, molten-lava free roaring.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>William Parker Violin Trio: Scrapbook (Thirty Ear) </U></B></div> <div> Yeah, more jazz, what of it, go fuck yourselves with your fancy rocknroll rehash. Parker's the king of avant-garde bassists, zzzzzzzzzzz...but the reason to hear this is Billy Bang's unhinged violin. A black Nero sawing as America burns.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Lyrics Born: Later That Day (Quannum Projects)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Surely the funkiest Asian on the planet, and one of the most original MCs in the country. He ain't topped "Balcony Beach" (the penultimate rap meditation--see his group Latyrx's first CD) yet, though he still loves to drift into rhapsodies, but like his fellow conscious undergrounder Boots Riley, he says to hell with lectures--let's party! The ATM skit is a trip.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Grandpaboy: Dead Man Shake (Fat Possum) </U></B></div> <div> Somebody slap the cigar out of his lips, please! A roots boutique label and boringly played rudiments do not a classic record make. This snoozer is further proof that Westerberg is the indie Rod Stewart--he's already covering Anthony Newley! Don't bring up his second straight other record.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Hamell on Trial: Tough Love (Righteous Babe) </U></B></div> <div> Car wrecks and Ani team-ups cannot staunch the forward motion of indieland's most aggressive folkie. He channels God on "Don't Kill," gathers the ghosts of Tina Brandon and Matthew Shephard on "Hail," and deliciously describes the medical advantages of  his near-death experience in "Downs." He's real, he's a motormouth, and I'll follow him anywhere.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Rancid: Indestructible (Hellcat) </U></B></div> <div> Strummer is dead, long live Strummer. This seems to me to be Rancid's London Calling--they're venturing out of the skacore ghetto into catchy neighborhoods, and they don't seem any worse for the wear after nearly a decade of  keeping it real. Punk rock has to have heart, and these guys do. May they put that pomade to use for another decade....</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Dark Bob: When I Grow Up to Be a Man (MITB)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Cross Dan Stuart with, oh, Richard Buckner (currently residing in the "Where Are They Now?" file) and you sort of get The Dark Bob. The words are fairly good, and they better be with that low-flying voice. Trouble is, they're just not as good (or as funny) as they need to be to get a second listen, and whoever advised him to stretch Andy Dick's guest appearance to nigh-on ten minutes (though he's listed on the cover sticker with D. J. Bonebrake, I expected him to be ringing a cowbell at best) is a fucking idiot. If I owned the label, I'd cut his ass for the indulgence.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: Down in the Basement--Joe Bussard's Treasure Trove of Vintage 78s 1926-1937 (Old Hat) </U></B></div> <div> Bussard's been collecting since the early '50s; he made a sale to Canned Heat in the early '70s that financed a pool he still enjoys. If you dug The Anthology of American Folk Music, you gotta have this. It's a bit more wide-ranging, a little more light-hearted, a little more focused on virtuosity, and a little less weird, but titles like "How You Want It Done?", the original "Greenback Dollar," "Get the 'L' On Down the Road," and "The (New) Call of the Freaks" let you know you're in for a wonderfully bumpy ride. Plus, Uncle Dave Macon plays his "Beloved Solo," and Blind Blake sings "Hastings Street" over a decade before the Hook made it famous.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Tyler Keith and the Preacher's Kids: Wild Emotions (Get Hip)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Tyler Keith--remember the name, 'cause this Mississippi boy may be the greatest pure rock and roller walking American turf. Unless wild old rock and rollers Pop and Westerberg check in with compelling arguments against aging at the end of October (based on recent evidence, not likely), this, the 2nd Preacher's Kids record, is gonna be my rock and roll record of the year . Wild, emotional, chock full of passion, anger, and good ol' release, it evokes that archetypal beautiful, drunken, horny foray into the night like nothing in a long while: if you've ever found yourself wishing the Stones were poor, or Johnny Thunders were alive, or Richard Hell gave a shit, you'd better pick this up pronto. Answering his southern buddies The Reigning Sound's  "Time Bomb High School," Keith declares himself (and us) ready for "Adult High," vents about a Key West honeymoon gone to hell, demands respect, vies with the MC5's Back in the USA on "Animal Instict," inveighs against female face paint, mourns "The Death of a Rolling Stone," warns against running from sin (Jerry Lee, you're alive, but are you listening?), levels a wholly credible, autobiographical statement of purpose, and slows it down without falling on his face (for the second straight album). In other words, this is a garage rock record that transcends the genre. I may be square for holding out for stuff like this sweaty, locked-in testament to staying alive inside, but so be it. The benighted need to move on from this to the Kids' first release, Romeo Hood, and the two Neckbones records on Fat Possum, Souls on Fire and The Light is Growing Dim, where Keith first staked his claim. UNEQUIVOCALLY RECOMMENDED! (Available at www.gethip.com or www.thepreacherskids.net --this is 2003's version of Southern Rock Opera, so don't wait for the fucking record stores to get it in!)</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Hard Feelings: Rebels Against the Future (Dropkick/Beerland)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> The thinking man's garage rockers. If you don't believe me, check out auteur John Schooley's own song explications at <A HREF="http://www.thehardfeelings.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.thehardfeelings.com"><U>www.thehardfeelings.com</U></A>, where he demonstrates Mekons-style that purveyors of supposed low-brow rock and roll do too read (and, hey, their last record got reviewed in that bastion of rock intellectualism, Rolling Stone)! That aside, there's plenty of other reasons to dig this band. For one, they keep getting better, and it's mainly a matter of confidence after three progressively better records. For another, they're not afraid to fuck with the program, grafting country picking onto "Coalmine" (courtesy of Merle Haggard vet and Roy Nichols protege Redd Volkeart), and wailing harp (courtesy ex-Jack O' Fire Walter Daniels), rocking keybs (courtesy ex-Scorcher Earle Poole Ball and producer Mike Mariconda) and verging-on-oi tempos onto others. Plus, they excavate Joe Tex's classic "You Said a Bad Word" from a bad record, and dare to wax Little Richard's "Directly from My Heart to You." Talk about chutzpah! Add some fuel to their momentum by picking this up from Dropkick Records (<A HREF="http://www.dropkick.com.au" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.dropkick.com.au"><U>www.dropkick.com.au</U></A>).</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Mutants: Voodoo Blues (Spinefarm)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> When's the last time you heard a great instrumental rock and roll album? Admittedly, if you exclude multi-artist comps and Link Wray, it's not exactly a fecund field of wildflowers. Which is why, if yer interested in such a thing, you need to make the Mutants' acquaintance. They describe themselves as "afro-garage-mambo"--and the wonder is that they do not lie. Their last record was a collection of sweaty, movin' singles; this is their first album-as-album, and it does not let up. They've cranked up the guitars, and thus gotten even better--"Stampede Caravan" is the best horns 'n' sax wig-out since the glory days of High Time and Funhouse. Wish we could claim 'em here in the States...but they're Finns, and more power to 'em. They have to be a gas live, so let's hope they visit soon. For purchase info, check out <A HREF="http://www.spinefarm.fi or run.to/mutants" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.spinefarm.fi or run.to/mutant"><U>www.spinefarm.fi or run.to/mutants</U></A> . </div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Merle Haggard: Haggard Like Never Before (Hag) </U></B></div> <div> Hag's return to politics is softer than scrambled eggs. CNN chose to publicize his vaguely anti-war "That's the News," but beyond casting a cold eye on tabloids and reminding us that the kids do the dying our "politicians" send 'em to do, he doesn't dare impugn our naked emperor. "Yellow Ribbons" isn't scared or sarcastic enough. And on "Loneome Day," he mourns the vanishing rebel, but doesn't specify--you'd think he'd at least give himself credit. I suppose we should count our blessings and thank Cash that one country record is calling out for change, but he could be a lot gutsier, though that song's as good a goodbye to Johnny as one could wish. Still, his quality control instinct is still functioning flawlessly in the 21st century; this is his 3rd straight enjoyable record. It's great to hear his vocals and his crack band so unadorned (it's clearly a commitment)--play it back to back with the best Nashville product and you might call it a masterpiece. The highlights are a romp through a naughty old Milton Brown chestnut ("Garbage Man"), the slightly corny goodbye-to-the-road title song, a simple and moving heart song ("I Dreamed You Didn't Love Me"), and a meditation upon death and family ("I Hate to See It Go"). The duet with--guess who?--Willie Nelson ain't half bad, either. Imagine that. Available at www.merlehaggard.com .</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Howard Tate: Rediscovered (Private Music) </U></B></div> <div> The great unsung soul singer of the '60s, whose Get It While You Can equals any non-comp soul album ever recorded, was discovered a few years ago preaching outside Philly after over a quarter-century in obscurity. Here's the result, and it's at least as good as Solomon Burke's recent Fat Possum slab. Reunited with fellow legend Jerry Ragovoy, who wrote or cowrote 11 of the 12 songs and tinkles some refreshingly unslick piano, Tate has lost nothing from his fabulous chops--if anything, he relies a little too heavily on his trademark falsetto punctuations. The material is pretty impressive when you consider it was generated exclusively for this project and does not lean on covers; the man's fabled for his range, and there's everything from straight soul to blues to funk to gospel here for him to explore. Like Burke's album, though, it's a little light on driving rock 'n' soul, the stuff that inspired both men to their most dizzying heights. And it could be a little crazier--"She May Be White (But She Be Funky)" is as close as he gets to "Look at Granny Run Run," "She Shot a Hole in My Soul," and "Keep Cool, Don't Be a Fool," nutty spikes from the Ragovoy/Tate songbook of yore. Still, this is a gift at a time when rock and rollers can use anything passionate they can lay their ears on.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: Soundtrack to the film </U></B><I><B><U>Masked and Anonymous </U></B></I><B><U>(Columbia) </U></B></div> <div> The film is reputedly a dog; I have no expectations, nor plans to see it 'til it goes to DVD (soon, I bet). Music's what his legend's based on, and he's been on a roll lately (Japanese poetry plagiarism be damned--he's always been an inspired thief, and why in hell do you think he called the last one "Love and Theft" anyhow?), so this is what I was anticipating. Well, the idea behind it's ok--a roll call of international and ethnic Dylan-takes to show his pervasive influence, with a few live remakes and covers by the man himself thrown in for the junkies--but it's ultimately as slap-dash as I bet the movie is. Really, the Japanese, Italian, and Turkish versions are interesting at best, Jerry Garcia is dead, Los Lobos are slumming, and Dylan's just fucking around with arrangements. Verdict: skip this, too.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Stud Cole: Burn Baby Burn--Raging Unknown L. A. Recordings 1963-1968 (Norton)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Where do they find these guys? Buffalo native Patrick Tirone got bitten by the rockin' bug, and, after his family moved to Southern Cali, changed his name (you've got to hand it to him--"Stud Cole" is hard to top), wrote up some rockers, and recorded 'em. Despite the excellent pseudonym, a hunky look, and a flair for self-promotion (created his own label--P. A. T.--and even included official Stud Cole matchbooks with the demos he sent to programmers and deejays), he never made it to official wax. But what about the music, which has been described in garage rock quarters as "Elvis fronting the Yardbirds"? You know how desperate these folks can get for obscure giants, after all (I definitely know the feeling, though).  Well, actually, the description isn't too unfair. The unknown band seems too rudimentary to get within shouting distance of the 'birds, but as we all know, "rudimentary" often beats "accomplished" in the rockaroll world, and the guitarist obviously knew how to wring mean, ugly noise from his blues-stabs and cliches. In fact, he reminds me of Robbie Robertson during his Ronnie Hawkins years!  Cole does sound a lot like the King, only a good deal surlier; it's hard to imagine him agreeing to sing "Love Me Tender," though he does put over a few slow ones. Conjure Elvis' post-war-stint "Reconsider Baby" and "Down in the Alley" to your mind's ear, then imagine them without the faintest smudge of polish. Pretty, well, attractive, huh? The production, apparently by Cole himself, is demo-y, yes, but also peppered with weird echo and reverb and extreme guitar mixes that accentuate the seething quality of the music. I must admit, I've become very addicted to the best of the songs: the spooky "Burn Baby Burn," which lives up to its title from crazed opening (and this guy had the knack for 'em!) to final note; "Hard Luck Games," which sounds like Elvis fronting early Zep; the uncomfortably convincing "The Devil's Comin'," complete with Screamin' Jay Hawkins-style "schizo" double-tracking; the bottlenecked "Oh....I Love You"; and all 1:42 of "Feels Good," which kicks in with some serious--and intentional--feedback but also features decent, uh, flute! Though not every cut is as fine as these, there's no total dogs, and I'd have to say this record is the surprise of the year. The Studly one should have been a contender, an injustice that becomes mighty poignant when you get to the final track: a funky real estate ad sung by the remonikered Mr. Tirone.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>James Luther Dickinson: Dixie Fried (Sepia Tone/Atlantic, '72); Free Beer Tomorrow (Artemis, '02) </U></B></div> <div> He recorded the last great Sun single with the Jesters ("Cadillac Man"). He worked on the Sticky Fingers sessions (and reportedly talked Mick into keeping the "Brown Sugar" lyrics "Scarred ol' slaver know he's doin' alright/Hear him whip the women/Just about midnight!"). He twiddled the knobs for Big Star (on Third, one of the creepiest records of all-time). the Replacements (on Pleased to Meet Me) and Barrence Whitfield and the Savages. He founded one of Memphis' greatest cult rock and roll bands, Mudboy and the Neutrons. He was a catalyst and session musician for Bob Dylan's comeback on Time Out of Mind. The North Mississippi All-Stars sprang from his loins. What a resume, huh? That's why the recent release of these two records are so exciting (though I'm a little slow on the draw writing about them). Do they live up to that cred? I think so, but the idea of Dickinson's music is easier to react to than the reality. For one, it's piano-based, and while that shouldn't be a problem for any dyed-in-the-wool rock and roller, it isn't as raw as most will expect. Think Jerry Lee with no vocal chops and a liberal arts education, and you've got it.. Which brings us to his vocals, which are far better than Kris Kristofferson's (not to mention Jack White's) but aren't greased for youthful ears. Dickinson sings like what he is, a soulful, wizened man (late Jim Morrison, Fear-era John Cale), with no Waits-like affectations. If you're still interested, you better buy the records, the former his first, the latter his second, because they are the strangest, deepest, and wooliest things to appear in awhile. There's flat-out rock and roll ("Wine," "Dixie Fried"), sincere emotin' ("The Strength of Love," "If I Could Only Fly"), dedications to his man Furry Lewis (the hippest "Casey Jones" any white man will ever cut, "Home Sweet Home"), protest both general (the first legit version of Bob Dylan's "John Brown") and specific ("Asshole"), and lots of sui generis, only-in-America, oddball stuff (Dave Hickey's inspirational "Ballad of Billy and Oscar"--that's "the Kid" and "Wilde"--the freakshow classic "O How She Dances?" and "Wild Bill Jones").  In short, these two records will grow on you if you have a head and soul connected to the rock and roll wellspring.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Mississippi Fred McDowell and Johnny Woods: Mama Says I'm Crazy (Fat Possum/Epitaph)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> Recorded live in '67 at McDowell's house, with no rehearsal, no second takes, and the performers having not played together formally in eight years. As such, they lean on material from collective blues memory, and a staccato boogie rhythm that gives way about halfway through to more varied musical paths. If this sounds like one of those pro forma front-porch jobs, though, it's not: the jagged interjections of McDowell's slide and abrasive textures of Woods' harmonica make for a very exciting and visceral listening experience, more so in fact than many of Fat Possum's modern atavistic projects. Needless to say, at the very least it's a tall drink of tonic if your systems ailing from an infection of overproduced "rock" </div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Local H: No Fun (Thick EP)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> I'm a total sucker for the sound and attitude of the "H," plus they give me some regional pride. I'm fucking pissed off at this country right now, and Scott Lucas' cynicism--for better or worse--feeds right into that rage. When he screams "NO FUCKING FUN!" over and over on the title cut, I know exactly how he feels and what he's talking about. When he inhabits an asswipe celebrating being "President Forever," I know exactly what he's worried about. When he covers the Godfathers' "Birth, School, Work, Death" (even though the band doesn't quite match the fury of the original, what a GREAT idea!) and the Ramones' "I Just Want to Have Something to Do," I know exactly why. That's how great rock and roll is supposed to work. As for "Cooler Heads," a scene-basher that's not only beneath them by now but also, inexplicably, the lead single, and Primal Scream's "Fuck Yeah, That Wide," I ain't connected.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Kills: keep on your mean side (Red Meat Heart/Rough Trade) </U></B></div> <div> This is too easy, I know, and maybe too kind to the Kills, but they're the Stones to the White Stripes' Beatles. The White Stripes are too cute by half--I'm rooting for them to break up, so they can change clothes; the Kills are grimy, rancorous, and more than a little feral--a reminder of how far ahead (or behind) her time Polly Harvey, a clear inspiration, was. As such, I'll take them in the two-piece sweepstakes. They're partnership's more equal, for one thing: they sing together, write together, play together, in equal portions. They've got more sense, for another: they never interrupt their rocking out with, oh, paeans to squirrels or plaints about mismussed hair strands--the closest they come is downshifting into a Velvetsy tale of strange love. And they do rock out: I'd put "Cat Claw," "Fried My Little Brains," "Black Rooster (Fuck & Fight)," and "Fuck the People" up against any four on Elephant--and wait for the blood to spray.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Transplants (Hellcat) </U></B></div> <div> Like Local H's Scott Lucas, Rancid's Tim Armstrong's got my ear and heart and can take me anywhere he wants. Here, that's a weird place. Aided by lusty vocalist Rob Aston and Blink 182 drummer Travis Barker (who has his work cut out for him and never stumbles), Armstrong adds hip-hop flavor to his already potent punk-ska brew, not just by using loops but by daring to cut loose (with Aston) on some very white yet very impassioned "raps." Ironically, he also blends the concoction--and this is may be his greatest achievement--closer to mainstream rock: that's how expertly he incorporates the disparate elements. It even rolls a bit, thanks to Barker and some catchy piano, causing one to suspect that he may have reached a musical peak on which his revered Clash never quite planted their feet, though they damn sure tried. The faithful need not be worried about the dreaded sell-out, though. Armstrong's commitment to street solidarity and compassion and living life to its fullest remains strong: "You choose to live on your knees/I'd rather die on my feet." A recurrent subject is substance abuse; I wonder what the Wu will think of "D. R. E. A. M. (Drugs Rule Everything Around Me)"?</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The White Stripes: Elephant (V2)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> I've tried, good lord, I've tried. I really like it when he plays loud, crushing guitar. I really like it when she bashes, especially when she's a bit ham-handed. I really really really like it when they rev up. But then there's Jack's lyrics, so pleased with their eccentricity and "innocence" that I begin wishing he'd get trapped for a few days with the people for whom and about whom the music he professes to love was originally written. (How many times do they need to name-check Loretta Lynn in interviews?) Then there's his strangled Plant-cum-Chilton singing. Sometimes they get it all together, even the writing and singing, as on "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine." But mostly they just irritate the shit out of me, and not the way they should. Don't get me started on their look.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Detroit Cobras: Seven Easy Pieces (Rough Trade EP) </U></B></div> <div> The most underrated band in America's garage likes its records short and sweet--you can still squeeze their complete works onto a single CD. Like this one, though, they're filled with dead spots, and here that's really frustrating, especially considering that a former Oblivian is playing lead guitar. It's dead-on out of the gate, Rachel Nagy's tough, sexy vocals combining with Greg Cartwright's rough six-string junk to knock the first four cuts out of the park, on typically ingenious covers of fossils you've never heard (“Ya Ya Ya,” “My Baby Loves the Secret Agent,” the Standells' “Heartbeat,” and Pop Staples' “You Don't Knock”). Unfortunately, the second half offers us a flat ballad, and entertains the silly notions of letting Nagy challenge the memory of Dorothy Love Coates and Wilson Pickett on “99 1/2” (she loses that one) and share vocals with Cartwright on Willie Dixon and Koko Taylor on “Insane Asylum” (sounds good, isn't). Still, that rough six-string junk might put the latter two over for you, and the first half's the most exciting music I've heard this year. Nagy deserves to be a BIG star.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Guitar Wolf: UFO Romantics (Narnack) </U></B></div> <div> Japan's loudest guitar band (they are Charles Gayle to Thee Michelle Gun Elephant's John Coltrane) show signs of--can it be?--growth. Their last record (at least, the last one I heard), Jet Generation, was such an ear-coring assault you had to make sure your stereo was turned down to 4 or so to avoid having to replace the speakers. No kidding: it's even louder than Iggy's remix of Raw Power. Here, more secure, maybe, they reduce the blare and let the riffs and solos do the talking, and talk they do: a few actually have the soaring take-off of the MC5's “Looking at You.” They also flash a little humor, if you think that a high-cred garage band copping an Elmore James slide cliche and the hoary old intro to Eddie Cochran's "Somethin' Else!" is funny. </div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Jon Langford and his Sadies: Mayors of the Moon (Bloodshot) </U></B></div> <div> It almost defies belief that Langford can write so well so goddamned prolifically; though this isn't up to the recent Wacos and Mekons releases of the past half-year, these beat the shit out of any other roots rock song set I've heard in 2003. And, as Robert Christgau once wrote of another compulsively political thinker, Gil Scott-Heron, he's developed into not only a reliably good but a comforting (in the sense that a couple of shots of whiskey on a bad day is comforting) singer. In fact, he's developed into the George Jones of political despair.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The White Liars: Pharmacia (24 Carrot) </U></B></div> <div> Furious heavy rock from Stanton, California. Highly recommended to anyone missing Monster Magnet. Picks to click: “Count to a Million,” “Normal,” and “Everybody Loves You (When You're Dead).” Vocalist Barry Stevenson exercises a major “Raw Power”-era Iggy jones. The lo-fi production definitely improves on the usual hi-tech job done on similar projects. Check out the band's site at <A HREF="http://www.whiteliars.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.whiteliars.com"><U>www.whiteliars.com</U></A>.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Wire: Read and Burn 1 (Pink Flag EP) </U></B></div> <div> As their label name signals, the brainy wing of Britpunk `77 has gotten its dirty noise back. Lots of brutish guit (“The Agfers of Kodack”--yeah!!!), only a couple of chords per song, very little keyb nonsense (actually, what there is is pretty dirty, too), and words I'd be sure were darkly ironic if I could only pay attention to them. Though the six songs are about twice the average length of Pink Flag's, that still equals a little under three minutes apiece, and they give you about as much time to react `tween time as a string of firecrackers.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>David Johansen and the Harry Smiths: Shaker (Chesky) </U></B></div> <div> David Jo's second installment of songs from that older, weirder America. My initial reaction to the first volume was that the material encouraged Johansen's pre-existing minstrel tendencies (exploited for humorous effect on the Dolls' records, grating on the Buster Poindexter releases), but the more I listened to it, the more I was convinced he'd actually gotten inside the songs. I was also mildly annoyed that he'd been beaten to many of the songs by a country mile; now, I think his “Delia” tops Dylan's, and even prefer his “Somebody Buy Me a Drink” to Oscar Brown Jr.'s original. So buy it if you haven't already. This is more of the same, and that is a compliment: the personnel's slightly different but just as sympathetic, the man's in good voice, and damned if he doesn't again successfully tackle songs great cover versions of which are fresh in the memory (“Deep Blue Sea,” Alvin Youngblood Heart”; “Death Letter,” James Blood Ulmer AND the White Stripes)--he even places a Gillian Welch song in their midst and puts it over. Nobody (`cept maybe Syl Sylvain) has ever accused Johansen of not having balls. Inspirational covers nobody's beaten him to: Rube Lacey's “Ham Hound Crave,” Lightnin' Hopkins' “My Grandpa is Old Too,” and the anonymously-penned “Jailbird Love Song.”</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Various Artists: Gimme Dat Harp Boy! Roots of the Captain (Oz-It Morpheus Import)</U></B><B><U> </U></B></div> <div> These Cheshire cats have put together a strange and ancient collection that would make the folks at Yazoo proud (try their Roots of Robert Johnson or Roots of Rock if you get the chance), only they outdo their models by stepping outside of the Depression Delta and pulling in even stranger stuff. Beefheart, I'm sure, would approve. So we have Blind Blake shoulder to shoulder with the croaking doo wop of the Boss-Tones' “Mope-Itty Mope,” Nervous Norvus juxtaposed with Satchmo (who's represented with a killer rarity), Roland Kirk duetting with wolves, some whacked-out R&B courtesy of somebody named Duke Mitchell and his fuzzed saxophones, Lord Buckley tweaking cops, and even “Rubber Dolly”! That ain't all by a longshot; there's 34 tracks in all, interspersed with comments and brief musical tracks from Mr. Van Vleit himself. MIA are Richard Berry, Charlie Patton, and Howlin' Wolf, but maybe the compilers figured that was too obvious.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>Mr. Lif: Emergency Rations (Def Jux EP) </U></B></div> <div> Imagine Rakim risen from the grave to which all hoary rappers are condemned, with a refined political consciousness, looser beats and samples, and a concept, and you've got Lif. I, Phantom is the richest record Def Jux has produced; this EP, if I'm not mistaken, preceded it, documenting Lif's transformation into a phantom, missing in action `cause he speaks too much truth. What makes these records so shocking in the context of the label's other releases is how their forward motion and charisma cut through the thick fog of Def Jux's musical and lyrical pessimism. </div> <bR> <div> <B><U>David S. Ware Quartet: Freedom Suite (Aum Fidelity) </U></B></div> <div> I really hate to say it, but jazz fiery enough to be mentioned in the same breath as the best rock and roll has become as rare as a dissenting Democrat. In fact, I didn't hear a single jazz record last year that I'd foist upon a committed rock and roller--except this one. Ware plays huge tenor sax: he can buzz like Link Wray riffing or breathe like Dusty in Memphis, sometimes simultaneously. Most of his output is probably too free for your average three-chord enthusiast, but this record, which is an exploration (rather than a cover version) of Sonny Rollins' 1958 civil rights-heralding classic, is perfect for anyone who's ever said “Yes!” to A Love Supreme. Rollins' structures and melodies keep Ware relatively earthbound--a gesture of serious respect on the saxophonist's part--but obviously their theme empassions him immensely, and at his least inspired he's already the most emotional hornman in jazz.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Mutants: “Timba Am Gaya”/ “Lai-Thong” (Dull City) and “Hojo Hojo” / “Rintamaen Lentokentta” (Nieminen & Litmanen) (Sorlem Baboon)</U></B> </div> <div> The insane groovemeisters from Finland are at it again on these two 45s (the latter a split with a Hypnomen offshoot). If you yearn for the days of funky, eccentric instrumentals to quaff pints and scrog to, you owe it to yourself to check `em out. If you can imagine six guys ecumenical enough to mix Duane Eddy, surf music, Manu Dibango, the Stooges, and “Hey Leroy” into a soup that'll make your forehead bead up....just BUY NOW! <A HREF="http://run.to/mutants" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://run.to/mutants"><U>http://run.to/mutants</U></A> . Note: Their first full-length CD, The Mutants, on Greek Cookie Records (out of Greece), is on my best of 2002 list, but the 45 cover art is so cool it's worth going for it ALL.</div> <bR> <div> <B><U>The Agenda: Start the Panic (Kindercore) </U></B></div> <div> Raving hypergarage from, of all places, Athens, GA. Lead singer J. R. Suicide sings like his finger's stuck in a light socket, Ryan Riot's Hive-y guitar chops and riffs away, and Digital Dan's organ (suddenly, keybs are the thing!) pumps away in the distance. Along with Andrew WK's I Get Wet, this may be the rock and roll party album of the year; besides the manic music, the titles/lyrics/slogans lend themselves to yell-along: “Crash! Crash!” “I Want the Panic” “Shake! Shake! Scream!” (they love those exclamation points). Exciting if superficial, just what the “notes” claim we want, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that these guys are trying to parody primitivism. Me, I don't find style and substance need to be mutually exclusive, but in times like these I'll take any action I can get, even if it's snide. <A HREF="http://www.kindercore.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.kindercore.com"><U>www.kindercore.com</U></A> </div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>