Hits For The Misses (Unclean)

The minute you light the fuse on the second Sons of Hercules long player, the differences are apparent. Producer Mike Mariconda ladled on the production beef something fierce, and made sure the Sons were ushered into the studio before they had a chance to unpack their bags from a tour. Hence, the energy level is tweaked to an insane degree, and the sound is big and explosive. They also learned a few grooves other than "Pushing Too Hard"- meets- Radio Birdman: "Borrowed Time," with its touches of ska and "Pipeline," are especially impressive. All the geriatrics'll probably cream themselves over the Skunks cover, but there are 13 other sticks of punk rock dynamite just as deadly herein. Best local rock & roll record this year, so far.
HHH ¹/2 -- Tim Stegall

There's a grand party down in South Austin. Sheryl Crow stands in a corner, smokin'. No fun. Tracy Bonham yells madly into a phone. Lucinda Williams and Bonnie Raitt exchange notes. Abra Moore and Sara Hickman charm guests into seizures. Ricki Lee is passed out on a couch. That chick from Nickelodeon is screentesting a technicolor yawn in the bathroom. "Liz! Put your skirt down!" someone yells. The queens are all here, but an uninvited guest lingers on the lawn, singing trailer park anthems and sad love songs with clever titles like "Hand to Mouthville" and "Melancholy Bridge." Her voice is a white-girl blues moan edged with plenty of piss and vicious zeal, bad-girl honey dripping from every word. Her words are vivid, bringing the stench of Milwaukee's Best, open sewage, and other smells of white trashdom right into your living room. Raitt and Williams walk out onto the porch and motion the local gal in. "What's your name, honey?" Raitt asks. "Kacy Crowley," she says. "Ms. Crowley," Williams drawls, "You should do an album." Welcome home.
HHH -- Joe Mitchell

The Luxury of Wings (Carpe Diem)

Can I still use the word "Beatlesque," or has Oasis ruined it for all of us? I mean, I'm not using it in the current sense of "trying desperately to be the Beatles," rather just in the old way -- indicating catchy hooks, nifty, oddball harmonies, and such. Okay, I'm also using it in the sense of a band that uses the word "Yeah!" unashamedly. With The Luxury of Wings, plum has created a sort of Rubber Soul that doesn't want to change the world; a really cool pop album that just eases by you. A sizable part of the leisurely quality seems to stem from the fact that the band's a three-piece that doesn't add a lot of extra augmentation to the guitar, bass, and drums simplicity. When they do, it's to good and noticeable effect, as with the oddball drum loop on the XTC-like "Low." The first two thank yous on the album (God and Danny Crooks) may leave you wondering about plum's priorities, but their music won't.
HHH -- Ken Lieck

Telephono (Matador)

A 57-second wall of distortion introduces Telephono, dropping out to introduce the record's opening riff -- a knob trick that nicely buys into Spoon's reputation by managing to be both pretentious and undeniably cool. The technique won't stop you in your tracks, but, like the record that follows it, it gains something on every listen. By the time you've figured out that producer John Croslin's 8-track illusion on "Don't Buy The Realistic" is indeed pretentious, because it's intended to prove an indie record can be both cheaply recorded and sonically challenging (which this is), you're already too busy anticipating the chance to once again sing along with the "come on and take my hand" chorus to care. You'll no doubt try singing on the next 12 tunes, figuring each song's brevity and lyrical repetitiveness are fair game, only Spoon frontman Brit Daniel's too smart -- or insecure -- to actually try anything here more than once, opting for the sneaky hook, melody, or sub-groove rather than another easy sing-song chorus. From there, the more you listen, the more Telephono is never again what it first seemed. Daniel's scream & whine deliveries -- nicely mimicked with an amplified acoustic guitar throughout -- begin to seem even more consistent in their convictions. Best of all, only two spins in and the Spoon-Pixies debate all but solves itself, not because Spoon doesn't really sound like them, but because bothering to cross-reference five Pixies records would mean taking Telephono out of the CD player.
HHHH -- Andy Langer

(Peg)

This one's for the disciples of nasal pop squirts that ache under the weight of their hooks and irony. "Sinny" kicks things off with a Dead Milkmen backbeat and a fun burst of call-and-response. "I Think I Can" is another competent number that might provoke you to dance like Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club. Typically, most of the 10 songs are replete with words of romance and longing, but thankfully, there isn't any of that awful, self-important hypersensitivity going on. While there's little here to distinguish "the Jels" from "the Pack," at least you won't have to stop what you're doing at the pool party to change stations. Why give your hard-earned cash to whatever similar band DGC is trotting out this month when you can Buy Greater Austin?
HH -- Greg Beets

Fue Mucho Mas Que Amor (Arista Texas)

The sophomore effort by the front-runners in a burgeoning Arista Texas Tejano stable, Fue Mucho Mas Que Amor is a sound engineer's wet dream. Held together at peak production by the impressive lead vocals delivered in true-tone, natural reed-vibrato by Ricardo Castillon, the record is heavy on solid, if mushy, romantic balladry. Castillon is on his way to being ranked among crooners like Julio Iglesias and Luis Miguel. Backed by the tactical elite, second-generation Tejano music crew from Illinois -- los hermanos Cardenas -- and Miguel Spindola penning lyrics left and right, La Diferenzia launches itself even further into the international arena with "Antonieta," a brassy merengue, and the spine-tingling "Lloraras (You Will Cry)," a cumbia spiced by gypsy guitar inflections. With "Entregate a Mi (Give Yourself to Me)," a Latin pop-rock scorcher worthy of MTV Latino, the formula clicks into high gear. Producers Ron and Michael Morales provide an edge to an already sharp, tight sound.
HHH -- Abel Salas

Viva Seguin (Strictly Country)

This reissue of Viva Seguin is notable enough solely as a historical document. In the multiple times I've seen the Jimenez brothers, I don't think I've ever seen them play together, nor have I heard records of them together. It's almost like they're unrelated, leading two separate careers. This 1961 recording, licensed from Santiago's Chief label by Holland's Strictly Country, offers the rare treat of Santiago on accordion and Flaco on bajo sexto. Of course, it's valuable for more than that -- it flat-out kicks butt. Accompanied only by a bassist, in the style pioneered by their father decades earlier, the brothers romp through a 12-song set, all tunes either written by Santiago, Sr. or traditional numbers. You'll feel like you're in an old-style living-room dance, with the furniture pushed out of the way and the musicians set up in the corner. That probably explains the audible tape hiss and superb execution as well as the incredible jump this album harnesses.
HHHH -- Lee Nichols

Redemption Day (Club de Musique)

Sure is a lotta twang in the air these days. I wouldn't call the Sleestacks a roots band, mind you, but then I wouldn't call them a bunch of hissing Altrusian lizards stuck in the Land of the Lost, either. Or maybe I would. Carroll's lyrics have nothing specific to do with the old Saturday morning show from whence springs the band's name, but they certainly evoke the cries of a man who's lost in a world out of control. The biggest revelations on Redemption Day are that "heaven's a bar that opens up early" and that "you ain't got a prayer." Keep in mind, though, that the country/Stones-tinged, radio-ready pop on this album is far more upbeat than the lyrics belie. In other words, if Walter Tragert is Club de Musique's Graham Parker, Kevin Carroll is their Gram Parsons. My personal favorite: "I Just Can't Fall," which sounds for all the world like it should've been a mid-Seventies John Lennon tune.
HHH ¹/2 -- Ken Lieck

West Texas Heaven (Justice)

Which one of these things is not like the other: Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Joe Ely, Townes Van Zandt, Kimmie Rhodes? If you said Rhodes, you're right -- she does not enjoy the renown of those four legends, and even if you pride yourself on a mastery of Texas songwriting fluency, you may have said "Kimmie who?" But if you answered "None; they're all really great," you're also right. Rhodes definitely deserves peer status with that bunch. She's probably the most underrated singer-songwriter in Austin, and one who easily draws comparisons with her famous friends. Especially Nelson and Van Zandt -- Rhodes' style is a similarly lazy, dreamy kind of country, one that is unmistakably Texan; it departs somewhat from Texas dancehall sensibilities, but still obviously revels in the legacy of Floyd Tillman, Lefty Frizell, et al. It can be intensely sad and lonely, an aural picture of the flatland plains, or it can happily take joy in things like Texas wildflowers. Willie, Waylon, Townes, and Joe all join her here, ostensibly to give her some name-recognition support, but frankly, this wonderful gem would have been even better riding on her talents alone. Rhodes' profile around town has been much too low of late -- this should raise it considerably.
HHH ¹/2 -- Lee Nichols

Three Women (Crystal Clear Sound)

I want to love this LP, but can't. It doesn't lack worthiness. It sounds wonderfully crisp, clean, and perfectly mixed -- a credit to the credo of self-production. The songwriting by Club members (Sara Hickman, Robin Macy, and Patty Mitchell Lege) and notable friends like Colin Boyd and Nanci Griffith transcends reproach. Even the cover and inner-sleeve artwork is a knockout, clever enough to keep the curious motif-seekers busy for days. Unfortunately, no balance is struck between the songs and the music. This folky, sometimes bluegrass, sometimes rock LP turns too often into aural candy. In its weaker moments it's downright audio white bread. Too much emphasis gets laid upon the instrumentation and the vocal harmonies of the triumvirate. It's not that the vocals aren't enjoyable as a be-all-end-all, they just too often seem to be creating so much clutter, leaving us substance-seekers rifling through the lyric sheets. The band had lots of vitamins and iron to work with, but only managed to jettison it all by over-processing. Still, a little sweet binge now and then never killed anyone.
HH -- Joe Mitchell

Plastastic (Chocolate Chunk)

This album just won't leave me alone! Bongo Hate pull out every gimmick in the book with this one, from the secret bonus track to the suggestive back cover photo to the lyric-sheet-in-play-form-just-like-in-Joe's-Garage, to draw you in. Ironically, the melodies on Plastastic are more than adequate without all the showboating and even suffer a bit from all the rigmarole. After all, this album, created by former Duckhills and, um dozens of other people, is much more influenced by Sixties/Eighties pop than anything particularly avant-garde -- as it seems to want to be. Self-conscious weirdness (and somewhat tinny production) aside, though, Plastastic is a fun little disc, peppered with quirky melodic turns and lyrical observations like "You can't be cool with a paperclip on your nose." Just keep it turned down low or it won't leave you alone!
HHH -- Ken Lieck

(Rykodisc)

Well, one thing's for certain: Bob Mould's a unique beast within the entire Mould discography. The overall tone's as moody and morose as every other record, the only light penetrating the harsh, acidic lyrical snap being melodic in nature. In many ways, it seems a proper follow- up to FUEL -- minus the actual participation of Sugar -- rather than any sort of sibling to either Workbook or Black Sheets of Rain. As with Sugar, there's a clutch of lilting, semi- acoustic tunes and blown- out rockers (including one thankfully titled "I Hate Alternative Rock"), but with the introspection and vitriol cranked to nearly pathological levels. Unlike Sugar, however, there's an emphasis placed on the quieter material, which, in cases like "Next Time That You Leave," is as ornate and gorgeous as anything the Left Banke ever created. Nevertheless, I don't recall any Michael Brown composition tasting quite this bitter. This isn't an immediately gripping record, but savor it anyway, please.
HHH ¹/2 -- Tim Stegall

Bite (Yellow Moon)

For the better part of a decade, the Wayouts have played the white golf cap brand of New Sincerity, seemingly oblivious to their chosen sound's current and future efficacy. Bite features the requisite grand twang of guitars, a beat anyone could dance to, and vocals that sound frighteningly like the guy from the Outfield. These overwrought vocal dramatics tend to work against the airy Southern pop songs, even on an otherwise thoughtful tune like "Cassius Clay." Though this album is already three years old, that's no big deal since their formula has been out of step with the musical climate since at least 1988. If the Wayouts can hang on for another 5-10 years, their wave will sweep town again and they can say, "We were there, man!"
HH -- Greg Beets

6ix Ways to Sunday (Mercury)

Prescott Curlywolf opened 1995 with Dang, an indie debut that crossed Willie Nelson, Alex Chilton, and Nirvana, somehow yielding a cross of Everclear, The Refreshments, and Sun Volt long before we knew them as alternative rock staples. Only one year and 14 songs later, Prescott's upped the ante with 6ix Ways to Sunday, growing towards Johnny Cash, Cheap Trick, and Guided By Voices -- this time yielding Prescott Curlywolf. Unlike Dang, which was ambitious but unfocused, 6ix Ways... finely controls its mess, perfectly balancing Texan twang ("Rather Be") and Everywhere, USA alternative sensibilities ("Celebrate Ray"). But even at an average length of under three minutes, the CD's 15 songs may seem like a lot to swallow if it weren't for the three singers/three songwriters approach that nicely adds depth, not distraction. And what all three lack in style, they more than make up for with the substance of the songs themselves -- unwavering assaults of the ragged, heavy, and subtly graceful type. Add another three adjectives -- quick, cohesive, and memorable -- and you have the perfect 6ix ways with which to debut nationally.
HHH ¹/2 -- Andy Langer