Texas Platters
Fri., Oct. 4, 1996
Learning As You Go (Sony)
In the early Nineties, when Round Rock's Rick Trevino was making a notable
splash on the wave of country music's renaissance, the distinction of being a
Hispanic country singer, the critics said, made his potential for meteoric
stardom that much more assured. But in so far as Trevino would be measured by
the same pasty yardstick as country's newest stars -- Brooks & Dunn, Clint
Black, Garth Brooks, and Reba McEntire -- he's also suffered the same fate. His
music is as bland and clichéd as those he would join on the Nashville
circuit. This latest album clinches the deal with the over-produced muzak sound
of someone just trying to fit in -- not to mention Trevino's tired turn-of
phrase technique, (see "Learning As You Go," and "Running Out of Reasons to
Run") that passes for redneck wit. This 10-song mix is so formulaic and
ballad-heavy, it seems Sony was probably figuring that just by sheer numbers,
one of them would be a hit. Guess they figured wrong.
H 1/2 -- Louisa C. Brinsmade
THE BEST OF AUSTIN CITY LIMITS: COUNTRY MUSIC'S FINEST HOUR
(Columbia/Legacy)
Whoops. Looks like I spoke too soon. Two issues back, I criticized the latest
Live at Mountain Stage compilations for playing it too close to the vest
and failing to capture the live moment, adding that Austin City Limits
would never make such a mistake. I couldn't have been more wrong. Except
for the audience clapping, this collection is no better than a various-artists
compilation of a bunch of album tracks. No improvisation, no jamming, no
audience interaction, none of the things that have made ACL the greatest
music show on television -- except contributions by k.d. lang, Asleep at the
Wheel, and (I hate to admit it) Charlie Daniels. Much of the music is decent,
it just doesn't take any chances. This is the beginning of an ACL CD
series; perhaps this is just the mainstream country volume, and, like the
Mountain Stage series, future editions will highlight the broad range of
quality music featured on the show. On my wish list: cuts from the first five
years, when ACL was much more local in orientation and dared to bring
"outlaw" country to the world.
HH -- Lee Nichols
TEDDY MORGAN
Louisiana Rain (Antone's/Discovery)
Frankly, there isn't one single, solitary remarkable thing about this album,
and if there was, it wouldn't be half as much fun to listen to -- or half as
good as it is. When blues albums (chiefly those by anyone with `guitar' in
their name) strive toward greatness, most of the time they fall short, making
them that much more painful to listen to and that much easier to forget.
Louisiana Rain, on the other had, doesn't ever try to be anything more
than it is: a solid collection of blues, swamp pop, and blue-eyed soul. No
flashy guitar heroics, pointless vocal chutes and ladders, and other
nonsensical carryings-on, just solid songs, assured playing, and a welcome lack
of studio burnishing. You get the feeling Teddy Morgan and his cadre of
musicians -- including Kim Wilson, Gurf Morlix, Riley Osborn, Jeff Turmes, and
Steve Mugalian -- just walked into the studio and let the tape roll. They
couldn't have made it sound better if they tried. Which is why it's a keeper.
HHH 1/2 -- Christopher Gray
PORK
Slop (Emperor Jones/Trance Syndicate)
John Lydon once remarked of Morrissey's Bona Drag, "Never 'as an album
been more aptly titled!" Mr. Rotten should meet this record! And that's
no insult. The band themselves freely admit that slop has been one of their
defining qualities since the day the three (Mary Hattman, bass and vocals; Dana
Lee Smith, guitar and vocals; Edith Casimir, drums and vocals) first came
together as Pork. This frequently costs 'em points live with cursory listeners,
who can't get past missed beats and untuned guitars long enough to find the pop
beauty lurking beneath. Maybe Slop would serve such casual listeners
better, with at least 75 percent of the definitional slop excised, probably due
to inherent needs of presenting music on record. Producer Seth Tiven gets
focused and powerful performances from Pork without sacrificing their
rough-hewn charm, and what embellishment is there (the occasional shot of horns
and whatnot, from guests like Bill Jefferey and Walter Daniels) is unobtrusive.
All in all, a good, solid, raw pop record from three ladies who understand
there's not but a hair's difference between bands like the Ramones, Beach Boys,
and Jesus & Mary Chain.
HHH 1/2 -- Tim Stegall
MICHELE SOLBERG
Liquid (Crystal Clear Sound)
Every time R.E.M. releases an album, they make the cover of Rolling Stone.
Must be nice. Wade through the overlong ass-kissing and you'll learn they
slapped a meaningless title on the new album at the last minute. Do a 180 from
that mode of thinking, and you have Michele Solberg. Her album is not just
called Liquid, it is liquid. It's actually a variety of liquids, from
those exchanged between lovers ("He mistakes a kiss for an invitation") to the
kind that trickles down the windowpane when love is only a dull ache of a
memory ("Alone/With only the sound of my breathing"). Solberg's meandering
voice, Freddy Cruz's flowing guitar, and the sweet molasses of Chris
Threlkeld-Wiegand's bass cello all complement Liquid's fluidity.
Sometimes, Solberg's melancholy mood overwhelms the lilting arrangements, but
if R.E.M. still put this much emotion and feeling into their records, they'd
actually deserve all those Rolling Stone covers.
HHH -- Christopher Gray
MEREDITH LOUISE MILLER
ifihadahifi (Steve)
The line between cloying and charming -- the latter being a term used
frequently with Meredith Louise Miller -- is a fine one indeed. One Miller
crosses all the time. Maddeningly so. In fact, this not so-balanced-act kicks
off ifihadahifi with "Dreams of You and Elvis," a song whose chorus ("I
wanted you/I got the King of Rock & Roll") is as annoying and it is catchy;
like that fly in the frigging chardonnay song. Now I can't stop dreaming
of me and Elvis. (Little Richard is pissed.) Miller sounds like a follower of
Lucinda Williams, but that sound can be elusive as hell; one minute it's there,
the next it's gone. Some songs divide into camps, like her wistful cover of
Buddy Holly's "Wishing" versus the horrible "Whole" ("You don't have to say
you're sorry/I'm sorry I was a virgin/In a manner of speaking/You don't have to
say you love me/I can feel it/I am a woman/In a manner of speaking"). Mostly
though, MLM walks a fine line. She definitely knows how to write a song. How
they settle on you probably depends on how you feel about anagrams.
HH 1/2 -- Raoul Hernandez
IAIN MATTHEWS
God Looked Down (Watermelon)
After the first three songs on God Looked Down, there's a flagrant
drop-off in inspiration. Shame. Given the start, Matthews could've made a
record on par with Richard Buckner's Bloomed for starkness or Jeff
Buckley's Grace for ardor. On a knee-jerk level, Matthews sounds like
he's unintentionally produced an album for the adult contemporary marketplace;
yet to imply that Matthews' work is that cut-and-paste cheapens his abilities.
Pay more than casual attention and God Looked Down's defect becomes
plain as vanilla. You can have all the necessary elements: fertile imagery,
tight narratives, the turn of a phrase, even a Panglossian naiveté to
accompany the detailed disappointments of your life' story. You can strum the
chords and sing the words, but "Insert Tab A into Slot B" isn't always
sufficient. Matthews has all the raw materials, and the tools, but he stopped
going beyond simple assemblage. Maybe God Looked Down a little too
cut-and-paste after all.
HH 1/2 -- Michael Bertin
DOYLE BRAHMALL II
(Geffen)
The rest of the country is likely not to know about the Brahmall blues legacy,
and certainly not about how dark this record could have turned out, although on
this absolutely blooze-free debut set from Doyle Brahmall, Jr., they'll likely
guess he's a bluesman at heart anyway. Bramhall's urgent whisper and lyrical
directness are the initial clues of heritage, but his strengths are a more
ethereal vibe thing, where blues trademarks like loss, despair, and eventual
hope find themselves actually making the rare transition onto studio tape. The
mysticism may sound like bullshit, but it's not, because even in the moments
where the songwriter in him is more Adam Duritz than Bob Dylan, there are
soulful undertones more about Curtis Mayfield than Prince. Which isn't all to
say Brahmall's just getting by on feel, or to slight local co-writers Craig
Ross ("Part II") and Will Sexton ("Jealous Guy") for providing the album's pop
and soul centerpieces, respectively. Rather it's the clever simplicity of
Bramhall's own songwriting that makes this debut so remarkable, as surprising
as Wendy & Lisa's production restraint and Bramhall's overall guitar bypass
-- the one move, by the way, that proves you don't have to play the blues to
emote the blues.
HHHH -- Andy Langer
THE GOURDS
dem's good beeble (Munich)
I've never been sure whether those Gourds/Band comparisons were fair or
accurate, but now I'm convinced. And when all is said and done, the songwriting
team of Kevin Russell and Jimmy Smith could end up just as storied as the Band
-- or at least as much as Uncle Tupelo. Russell and Smith craft perfect little
pieces of beauty, simple lyrics, and often only a few -- a mere six lines or so
can be an entire song -- yet, like Walter Salas-Humara of the Silos, they can
convey so much in those few words and sing them with so much passion that any
more might wreck it. Even if you're not clear on their lyrical message, you'll
get the emotional one; when Russell sings about a "Clear Night," you really see
one of those perfect, romantic nights with a big, silver-dollar moon overhead,
and you know what it means to him. And no, I can't specifically decipher "It's
your Rasputin tootin'/Makes me roll," but the message of endearment easily
comes across. It's not storytelling, it's image creation. And with the music
they create, a sweet blend of mandolin plucking, pretty guitar chords, and
feathery accordion, they could probably put emotional content into the phone
book. If you've been waiting for Austin's major contender into the Son Volt
alt-country fray, here it is.
HHH1/2 -- Lee Nichols
LUCKY STRIKES
Twelve Past Midnight (Lazy SOB)
It's refreshing to enjoy music for once. All the pervasive heroin-addled
noise, musicians dropping like flies in a pesticide stream, and the growing
fuck-it-all attitude a rotting entertainment industry has helped spawn in the
world market has become -- to put it calmly -- a goddamn outrage. The Luckies
are the antithesis to the present nihilistic rape-pop crisis. They bring
seduction and romance back into the fray, wooing and enticing the senses with
artful slights of hand that keep bringing the enthralled listener back for
more. But don't let that retro sound fool you. This is no frightened retreat
into a never-never land of post-War Swing and Brat Pack Lounge. Singer Craig
Marshall is piping out complete originals that can give all the pens from the
genre's first incarnation a run for the roses. The Luckies are fresh, sincere,
and relevant for the Nineties. It's good to know that poetry and beauty haven't
been completely lost on the musician populace.
HHH -- Joe Mitchell
COMET
Chandelier Musings (Dedicated)
Who woulda thunk that the pinnacle (to date) of the peculiar Lone Star strain
of shoegazing would be reached in Mesquite, Texas? Chandelier Musings
has irrevocably altered the playing field in this pigeonhole, and it's going to
take more than a little inspiration to catch up. Comet may hail from the land
of Bedhead, but this album is so much more than just aural Seconal or
pedal-happy feedback. Intimate melodies suddenly exploding into psychedelic
euphoria have long been a linchpin of this sound, but Comet distinguishes
itself with a keen ear for song structure and the ability to create
surprisingly lush arrangements. We're not talking about a string or horn tossed
in for good measure; these parts have an elegance that belies the album's
indie-label pedigree. Songs like "Day at the Races" and "Soundtrack to the
Short Film: `Lifelines'" share uncommon depth and grace that transcend musical
boundaries. Without losing track of their own musical vision, Comet cites
Britpop references from the Beatles to Pink Floyd to the Cure with
peer-reviewable tenacity. Throughout it all, Comet projects a sense of
wide-eyed wonderment and homemade warmth. Chandelier Musings is one of
those rare works that's as fully realized as it is ambitious. Mesquite will be
hard-pressed to cough up another one like this.
HHHH -- Greg Beets
THE AMERICAN ANALOG SET
The Fun of Watching Fireworks (Trance Syndicate)
The hardest thing about music is actually listening to it. Not reading or
cleaning or even thumbing through the CD booklet. Listening to it.
Concentrating. Like reading a book. And Austin's American Analog Set doesn't
make it any easier. No matter how many times you spin this tightly edited
little gem, you'll get lost somewhere between the space travel of "Diana
Slowburner II" (a great 45 in it's own right) and the early Floydisms of "Too
Tired to Shine II." There is simply no gravitational pull here. You just float
away with the keyboards. Lost in space, Will Robinson. And what a wonderful
feeling that is, floating weightlessly through an endless universe of 4AD
ephemera. Wish I could grasp it, but I just keep tumbling farther and farther
away. Don't bother sending the pod, I won't be back.
HHH 1/2 -- Raoul Hernandez
THE BORROWERS
(Guardian)
Many bands come to mind when you hear The Borrowers. Unfortunately,
none of them are the Borrowers. "Jawant's Rain" is reminiscent of any slow song
by Tom Petty, and "Helicopter" might as well credit the Beatles for
inspiration. To be fair, "Helter Skelter" wasn't played on a didgeridoo, and
each song on this record does have a distinct uniqueness. The sexy
"Ophelia" owes its polish to the cool jazz bass and sax supporting the basic
tune, which is so poppy it compels you to sing along to a refrain as dippy as,
"Ophelia, let me take you where I want to go." And the album's gems ("Beautiful
Struggle," "Mercy Bound," "Strange Companion," and "Uncertain Terms") sucker
you in with their simplicity, while the supporting effects hook you; it's this
half L.A./half Austin band's strategic but subtle use of mandolin, drums,
backing vocals, edgy guitar, violin, and upright bass that places you and the
band in that hard-to-reach space called connection, the truest reward
for slogging through such a messy mix of accidental cover tunes.
HH 1/2 -- Melissa Rawlins
PAIL
Volume One (Pinche Gringo)
This 1992 recording features former Auschwitz 46 guitarists Powell and
Titsworth running rampant in the studio. As you may well surmise from the duo's
previous affiliation, Pail is a loud and obtrusive fusion of metal and
industrial dance music. Replete with indecipherable lyrics screamed through
effects boxes and aggressive guitar mechanics, Volume One certainly has
the potential to be nothing more than a sexual frustration outlet for
handsomely mullet-headed young men. However, Powell and Titsworth forego that
scenario by investing heavily in the production underneath the rage, creating
an enthralling pastiche of noise. The album plays out in one 27 minute-long
(minus the 30 minutes of fuzz included as a "bonus track") soundscape that
conjures up visions of Helios Creed scoring the sequel to Liquid Sky.
Pail succeeds because they sustain a mysterious energy throughout the project
without collapsing into banal self-indulgence. It's the kind of ambitious
experimentalism that could be run opposite acts as disparate as Brown Hornet
and the Skatenigs without losing relevance.
HHH -- Greg Beets
HIGH NOON
Stranger Things (Watermelon)
High Noon doesn't have to justify their hair grease and arrow-trim jackets
anymore. It takes but one listen to the 15 original rockabilly "classics" on
Stranger Things to know these longtime local stalwarts are the real
thing. "Call of the Honky-Tonk," is one of the album's best efforts, and the
smoothest shuffle I've ever heard. There are some disappointments, natch. Where
"Long Empty Stretch of Highway" brings forward the best aspects of a hillbilly
folk melody with traditional country/rock lyrics, "High on a Hill" is forced --
Shaun Young is quite obviously jamming the folk lyrics into a rock base. But
these errors are slight, and can't detract from the album's true beauty. Yes,
some say High Noon's nostalgia is hackneyed, but that's probably a Mojo Nixon,
or Doo Rag fan. Goodness knows, you need the real thing sometimes, and if
anything will satisfy country and rockabilly purists in this town, this is it.
HHH -- Louisa C. Brinsmade
SWEETPEA
Chicks Hate Wes (Trance Syndicate)
Most records have songs. Nothing but songs. Chicks Hate Wes does too,
and some really good ones at that, but here they bubble up from minute after
minute of a thickly stoned haze of noise, hum, and throb that sounds brilliant
if you're high and pointless if you're not. Occasionally, almost randomly,
"Sueño House," "Heartbreaker Dean" and other bite-size nuggets from the
fine Scratch Acid/Buttholes trash-rock vein appear. The shiniest is a
letter-perfect gender flip of the Nails' "88 Lines About 44 Women" that
understandably made 101X's face a little red. (Of course, morning jock Rachel
could make Crime and Punishment sound like a Penthouse letter.)
Top it off with a wicked sense of humor on everything from pedophile
babysitters ("Aunt Jody") to indie-rock pretensions ("Tend Animals," required
listening for every geek shoegazer who thinks he's special), and Chicks Hate
Wes emerges from the fog as a snapshot of everything that's bitter (too
many bong hits) and sweet (irony, heavy-ass, rockin'-out noise) about Austin's
unique Trance flavor.
HHH -- Christopher Gray
TOM X
Lost in North Austin (Akashic)
My best friend and I were sitting around our house a few years back, adopting
a different outlook on life (if you know what I mean and I think you do), and I
popped in this tape called The Tom X Collexion of Aquarian Age Hymns by the
X Family Band. There was this one cut ("Cabin Party") wherein Tom X
(Hancock) and band were obviously sitting around in the same condition, making
blubbering noises with their lips to the tune of the "Star-Spangled Banner." It
was one of the most hilarious moments in the history of stonerdom that I've
ever heard, and cemented the funnyman founder of the Supernatural Family Band
as one of my favorites in Austin's music scene. Now the cassette has been
repackaged, with a few modifications, and you can experience his weirdness in
hi-tech. I'm lukewarm on comedy music, but Hancock, a frequent contributor to
the Chron's "Live Shots" section, is brilliant. His tales of getting
lost on Hwy183, his George Jones parody "The Rice Is On," his Dave Dudley
parody "Six Roads in a Daze," the simple logic of "Don't Ask Me Questions (When
I'm Stoned)," and several solid non-humor cuts featuring the female Hancocks
(now known as the Texana Dames) make this a classic of underground Austin.
HHH 1/2 -- Lee Nichols
SPOT
removals...and other isms (No Auditions)
As explained in the typically cracky liner notes, what you get here is and
isn't a Spot solo record. It started as a Spot Removal record, then the bass
player (ex-Happy Family/current Horsie Julia Austin) quit. So, they got another
bass player (rockabilly-about-town Kevin Smith), and he showed for one session,
but the drummer (Dave Cameron, a veteran of too many bands) didn't. Then
someone (Wayne Alan Brenner) who is neither Spot nor any member past or present
of Spot Removal reads "one of his stupid poems." Somewhere in this mess,
Austin's skewered punk record-producer-cum-multi-instrumentalist manages to
slip in some of his fine musical mess. And if you haven't heard this breathless
mash of jazz, punk, country, rockabilly, Irish jig, surf,
too-many-effects-boxes music -- all filtered through the man's
dropped-on-his-head-as-a-child brand of humor -- then you're never gonna get it
from black words on white paper. Still, it's quite possibly the first time that
glorious mash had made it onto CD, and it's wonderful all the same
HHH 1/2 -- Tim Stegall
RONNIE DAWSON
Rockin' Bones -- The Legendary Masters
(Crystal Clear Sound)
Not having been impressed with either his newer material or his live
performances, I am now totally wowed by the teenage Ronnie Dawson. As heard on
this 2-CD collection spanning 1957-62, Rockin' Bones... captures
rockabilly the way it was truly meant to be played -- by a teenager. His
boyishness leaps out of the speakers with a high-pitched, 18-year-old (and
sounding even younger) voice. Many things come out of this voice: the awkward
nervousness of adolescence, the swaggering determination not to let it show,
lyrical attempts to sound experienced beyond his years, and the ever-present
hormonal obsession with pretty girls. The tracks just explode with the energy
and fire that burned in that first generation of rock & rollers. The only
fault of this set are some of the very first tracks, hurt by both recording
equipment that was inferior even by the standards of Fifties local labels and a
Dawson who still needed some more practice. These few tracks are valuable only
for historical reasons, but the other 95 percent of this collection is classic
study of the youth revolution that was rock & roll.
HHHH 1/2 -- Lee Nichols
ZZ TOP
Rhythmeen (RCA)
After the atomic wars of the late 23rd Century, while vacationing in the
Brazilian desert, Theodore Sandlot risked certain teledeportation when he
shoplifted an artifact from the Indian resort gift shop. Sandlot giggled with
glee upon returning underground and immediately locked himself in the lab (his
wife's sewing room, actually) with his new treasure -- a bottle of
Rhythmeen. Trembling with excitement, he poured the smoking brown
crystals from the ancient vessel into his glass of synthetic lactate. It mixed
chocolatey, but the drink tasted foul anyway, and within minutes, Sandlot was
tripping hard: Visions of ramshackle roadhouses, neon signs, barroom boogie
bands. A timeslip into the fabled Lost Continent of Texas. Just what he'd
planned. Unfortunately for Sandlot, he hadn't planned on a "Zipper Job." Next
morning, when Sandy Sandlot went to get a sewing needle for her synthetic
beef-kaboob, she found a small mound of ashes on the couch -- ashes, three pair
of sunglasses, and what looked like a very large brillo pad. A Republikan
forensics team ruled that the expiration date on the bottle had long since
rendered the Rhythmeen crystals mostly harmless, concluding instead that
Sandlot had expired because his red vinyl cowboy boots had been on too tight.
HH 1/2 -- Raoul Hernandez