NOMEANSNO
The Worldhood of the World (as Such) (Alternative Tentacles)
NoMeansNo sound like the kids in the audience who actually enjoyed the poorly
received pairing of Blue �yster Cult and the Ramones in 1976 Long Island.
They’re obviously punk rockers, but the influence of art rock hangs over them
like a methadone habit. So even though they attack the music with the feral
core of punk, they also tend to elevate their songs to proportions worthy of
Charlton Heston. When it’s on, you get the boogie-woogie/jazz bass and drum
workout of “Predators” or the amazing 78rpm war-on-dick-slaves of “Wiggly
Worm.” In spite of an incredible propensity for pulling off seemingly
impossible change-ups at breakneck speeds, NoMeansNo never lose sight of the
song itself, even when they’re clocking in at six minutes plus. Their tome-like
lyrics sometimes weigh down the longer and weaker songs (a relative distinction
here), but the vocals are delivered with an appropriate alternation of power
and restraint rather than the affected screams of most hardcore geeks. Once
again, NoMeansNo manage to capture all the good intentions of the unlikely
prog-punk hybrid without falling prey to the excessive gee-whiz bullshit
inherent in the territory.
3 1/2 stars — Greg Beets
JAWBREAKER
Dear You (DGC)
This album is like someone you go out with just because they’ll go out with
you: you might have a nice time and learn a little, but there’s no future
without magnetism. I’m sure Jawbreaker are a buncha nice guys capable of making
someone very happy, but Dear You makes me want to deliver the “Just Good
Friends” speech. The problem certainly doesn’t lie in Blake Schwarzenbach’s
lyrics. While some of his privileged, post-grad prose drips with excess quirk
and irony, it rises far and away above the “intellectual intercourse” passed
off as deep by whiners like Alanis Morissette. Without resorting to throwing a
yelp-laden fit about crosses borne, Schwarzenbach strikes with a more subtle
jibe like “Dreamt we were still going out/Had that one a few times now/Woke up
to find out we were not/It’s good to be awake.” Schwarzenbach’s tapestries of
high school dorkdom (“Chemistry”) and exes making out better than you at lame
parties (“Bad Scene, Everyone’s Fault”) also ring authentic. Unfortunately, the
songs just kind of lie there like music from a John Hughes-directed nightclub
sequence. Rob Cavallo’s flat production castrates the band even further. I
can’t figure out why anyone wouldn’t give this music bang. The sad result is
one of obfuscated talent in the name of radio friendliness.
2 1/2 stars — Greg Beets
TWO FOOT FLAME
(Matador)
When you think of New Zealand rock, you probably entertain notions of pretty
pop miracles a wee off-kilter, but you certainly wouldn’t peg Two Foot Flame
like that for fear of being doused with the aural equivalent of burning
jet-black bile. This trio of mechanical-minded melody-makers play their
instruments like flaming drill presses, but instead of giving you a headache,
Two Foot Flame deliver insidiously simple sounds that multiply in your head
until you’re one of them. An esoteric form of pop song is salvaged out of the
refuse of endless riff repetition and TV hiss while Peter Jefferies pounds out
hypnotic, neo-tribal rhythms a la White Light/White Heat. At the same
time, Jean Smith’s embittered vocal delivery hints alternately at Patti Smith
and Algebra Suicide, which only serves to build on the futuristic nihilism
underlying the music. Two Foot Flame are provocative and glorious in their own
way, but they sure don’t sound like a band from such a beautiful country. 4
stars — Greg Beets
DEFTONES
Adrenaline (Maverick)
There’s probably a killer middle ground to be found between Pantera and Rage
Against the Machine, only the Deftones aren’t it. What they’ve obviously
overlooked on this forgettable debut is that Pantera’s secret lies in groove,
not rage, and that Rage guitarist Tom Morrello’s innovations, mimicked here by
Stephen Carpenter, were more about offbeat rhythm than flashy filler. And as
for the Deftones themselves, they’re all about unoriginal whisper-to-scream
songwriting, repetitive riffs, and frontman Chino Moreno’s overblown
bowels-of-hell shouts, which taken together is more pitifully one-dimensional
than it should have been. As such, the one star below is only meant as a reward
for having the balls to name their record in homage to Def Leppard.
1 star — Andy Langer
BLACK GRAPE
It’s Great When You’re Straight … Yeah! (Radioactive)
When Americans get really depressed, I mean really, really depressed,
like turn-up-the-Cure-and-break-out-the-carbon-monoxide depressed, one thought
never fails to console them: “Well, at least I’m not British.” I mean, really,
could you imagine millions of red-blooded Americans getting their knickers in a
knot over Oasis? And Blur?!? Puh-leeze! Is it something in the
water? Maybe the same thing that makes their teeth look so godawful? But I
digress. I came to praise those damn Brits, not to bury them. You see, every
once in a while their advanced state of degeneracy works in their favor, and
they fathom depths we Yanks don’t even have names for yet. Like Black Grape.
Don’t even ask me what this stuff is, like maybe New Order takes uppers
and goes to Jamaica by way of North Africa and upper Mississippi, or something
even more convoluted than that. But by the same token, find me something from
this country that commands you to shake your skanky little ass like
this. Couldn’t do it? Didn’t think so. Cheerio!
3 stars — Christopher Gray
TRACY CHAPMAN
New Beginning (Elektra)
Picture the throes of ecstasy at KGSR the day the new Tracy Chapman CD
arrived. You know how tense they were over there waiting for the perfect disc
to sandwich in between the Jayhawks and “Free as a Bird” since 101X copped
their copy of Cracked Rear View. Well, they can uncross their legs now.
Here it is, and here comes Chapman bursting out of the “Where Are They Now?”
file singing “Start All Over” but sounding exactly like she did when “Fast Car”
was one of the prime reasons this whole AAA thing started up. Unless you’re a
Chapman fan — and no, this disc won’t make you choke on your granola — this
album will be of historical interest only because it must be one of the last
ones Don Gehman produced before he unleashed the Hootie virus on an
unsuspecting but all-too-willing nation. Think about it: how seriously can you
take a record that calls itself New Beginning, but whose best song,
“Give Me One Reason,” was written in 1986? (Tracy Chapman plays the Austin
Music Hall February 2)
2 stars — Christopher Gray
K.D. LANG
All You Can Eat (Warner Bros.)
The crits’ and public’s reaction to this LP has been mixed so far and it’s
justified: Lang herself seems to be languishing in ambivalence here. The tunes
are smooth, cool, and damn well listenable, but there’s an underlying degree of
reticence and melancholy that suggests Lang is a bit unsure of herself. She’s
touching on something, but not quite achieving a grip. Many of the songs seem
like rehashings of each other. A few ideas in lyrical and musical motif keep
reincarnating themselves over and over in various emotional, rhythmic, and
tonal forms, yet never achieve the fruition and polish one expects of Lang.
All You Can Eat is still a decent effort (Lang on a bad day is better
than half the industry on its best), so let’s just call this a “work in
progress” rather than a bona fide LP.
2 stars — Joe Mitchell
PAUL KELLY
Deeper Water (Vanguard)
When I saw this Australian play with David Wilcox here in the spring, I was
quite bemused by his joy of being in the homeland of his heroes, the
Flatlanders, and by his abundant chutzpah as he took Jimmie Dale Gilmore’s
“Dallas (from a DC-9),” and rendered it “Sydney (from a 727).” But despite all
his homage to Gilmore and an affection for Butch Hancock-esque
one-guy/one-guitar rambling, this newest LP sounds more like Irishman Luka
Bloom playing with Jackson Browne’s band. The songs are superb, but the
production, more often than not, is over the top. The instrumentation tends to
get in the way of the lyrics, which is terribly unfortunate, because good
lyrics, are what Kelly is all about. But there are those precious moments when
Kelly’s voice takes command or gets just enough leeway to peek above the fracas
(“Queen Stone,” “Deeper Water”). These are the moments that save this LP from
drowning in its own ambition.
2 1/2 stars — Joe Mitchell
JOE GRUSHECKY AND THE HOUSEROCKERS
American Babylon (Razor and Tie)
All the promo material that came with this LP screams so loudly about Bruce
Springsteen’s involvement that the real artist gets lost in the fray. El Jefe
produced, co-wrote a couple of fine songs, and played guitar on a majority of
tracks, but it’s Rust Belt Rocker Grushecky’s pen and voice that make this one
of the most impressive roots-rock LPs this reviewer has ever heard. Grushecky
eschews all the “hoodoo,” “mojo,” and other machismo-burdened roots-rock
conventions for an intelligent and soulful approach that reveals a man of
emotional fervor and a strong sense of self and place. The images are of life
as it is today (the title cut and “Talk Show” angrily ponder the ugly, “white
trash” media image that has zapped the working class of dignity) and how it was
for his Iron City forefathers (“Homestead” and “What Did You Do in the War”).
Even Grushecky’s love songs are staunchly blue collar. They are of the “if we
ain’t got money, we got each other” variety that hold steady to the high road
of temperament, never swaying an inch toward the maudlin or cartoonish. This is
a venerable LP which reassures that the viability of real music by real people
for real people hasn’t been completely lost on the music biz.
3 1/2 stars — Joe Mitchell
CECIL PAYNE
Cerupa (Delmark)
For over 50 years, baritone saxophonist Cecil Payne has been influencing the
progression of modern jazz. Raised on Planet Brooklyn in the company of JJ
Johnson, Roy Eldridge, and Dizzy Gillespie, Payne acquired an extended
education in bebop while he developed into an accomplished improvisor. As his
aesthetic matured he expanded the curriculum of bebop by translating the
lyricism of his mentor Lester Young across the chordal structure of his
compositions. On his current release, Cerupa, Payne leads a sextet on a
mission to promote the pairing of thematic melody and rhythmic complexity.
Exploratory by nature, his adaptation of Ravel’s “Bolero” serves as a fine
example of creative reconstruction. With a rich tone and majestic phrasing,
Payne introduces his ability to play the flute on the title track and a Latin
piece called “Bosco.” Trumpeter Freddie Hubbard makes a guest appearance on “Be
Wee” with a scorching solo that blurs the distinction between individual notes.
Throughout the album, Payne’s saxophone expressions protrude as the meat of the
dish, but his mind for balanced texture implied by his musical concept may be
what actually makes the work appealing.
3 1/2 stars — Rashied Gabriel
BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
The Ghost of Tom Joad (Columbia)
Mr. Springsteen, despite living at a severe distance from we mere mortals,
seems to have his forefingers planted firmly on the pulse of a terrified nation
grappling with crime, racism, poverty, despair, and a seemingly irreversible
slide into the valley of the Third World. Hot soup on a campfire under a
bridge, shelter line stretchin’ `round the corner — welcome to the New World
Order, sings Springsteen on the title track, failing to mention that his
beloved label (owned by Sony) is no small catalyst of that Order. One can go on
forever about the inherent contradictions, the disparity of experience betwixt
subject and songster going on here, and hell, even listener and songster, but
one thing is sure: Springsteen poured a lot of heart, soul, and mind into
writing this LP. As the title would indicate, Ghost… has literary
aspirations. But the images, characters, settings, and plots Springsteen weaves
here are so vivid and three-dimensional that they forsake the realm of
Steinbeck for that of John Ford, jettisoning the literary for the cinematic.
Every cut, save the first and last, which serve respectively as the LP’s
introduction and conclusion, is a drama in three acts. In “Highway 29,” a
simple barkeeper is seduced by a woman in Act 1, robs a bank with her in Act 2,
and dies with her in a car crash on a mountain pass in Act 3. “Galveston Bay”
introduces two fisherman, one Vietnamese, the other U.S. born, then moves on to
a self-defense killing of a Klansman by the Vietnamese man, with an uneasy
mutual tolerance between the two characters in the final act. All the stories
are unique on the surface, but one theme runs throughout: America is ripping
apart at the seams. This assertion is far from new and even further from
provoking ecstasy from sea to shining sea. Yet Springsteen lays it out with
such clear insight and powerful soul that not only is the current alarm made
louder, but these times of tribulation are actually rendered in a resoundingly
poetic light. (Bruce Springsteen plays the Austin Music Hall January
25.)
4 1/2 stars — Joe Mitchell
RUTH RUTH
Laughing Gallery (Venture/American)
Whomever actually masterminded 1995’s Cheap Trick revival is anybody’s guess,
but every garage band in America can move on, because Ruth Ruth has
definitively nailed it. With buzzing guitars, simple grooves, and witty
self-referential sex, drugs, and rock & roll retreads, Ruth Ruth is luckily
as Smart Smart as they had to be — mostly because anybody with a lesser knack
for distinctive stand-alone pop hooks would fall all over themselves recycling
the same pop structures as Rick Neilsen’s monster. And although there’s
evidence on the album opener and single, “Uninvited,” that, like Cheap Trick,
Ruth Ruth’s not afraid of commercial concessions, it’s not until Laughing
Gallery wizzes by perhaps two or three times that it becomes obvious Chris
Kennedy’s hyperkentic vocals are actually far more intensely soulful than
typical of the recent glut of pop for punk’s sake. So come to think of it,
perhaps making a pop record as singularly digestible (“Uptight”) and
disenfranchised (“I Killed Meg the Prom Queen”) as Laughing Gallery isn’t just a cheap trick.
3 1/2 stars — Andy Langer
POE
Hello (Atlantic)
By combining hypnotic beds of trip-hop, folksy instrumentation, and
sophisticated guitar-groove dynamics, Poe’s perhaps more experimental and
clever than any debut artist should be. But when she’s at her anthemic best
(“Angry Johnny,” “Trigger Happy Jack” and “Junkie”), she actually does herself
and all of us one better by single-handedly debunking Liz Phair and Alanis
Morissette, finding a completely seductive power in innuendo their
gutter-mouths can’t touch. “Angry Johnny” is perhaps her most perfect piece of
evidence. And even if it’s not the radio smash it seems destined to be,
Hello itself more than follows through on her threat.
4 stars — Andy Langer
ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL
Wheel Keeps on Rollin’ (Capitol)
Whatever Asleep at the Wheel may have been at one time, all of the juice has
run out. To me there’s always been way too much Manhattan Transfer going on to
even consider calling them (whatever group of brand new members they may be
harboring) Bob Wills revivalists, which Ray Benson proudly thinks they continue
to be. The only song on here that comes close is “How the West Was Swung.” What
they don’t understand is that the cool thing about Bob Wills was that he was a
little weird and kind of worried about it. I’ll admit it’s weird to do two
crappy versions (there’s an inexplicable extended remix) of “Layla” on one
album, but I don’t think they’re worried about it. This is so whitebread as to
be difficult to listen to.
1 1/2 stars — Kirven Blount
GOLDEN SMOG
Down By the Old Mainstream (Rykodisc)
Blame Eric Clapton for the “supergroup” — bloated egos, paydays, and press
coverage — and the idea that rare elements can result in musical fusion rather
than slaps on the back and mediocrity for all. Certainly there’s plenty of that
on this gathering of ex-Tupelos (Jeff Tweedy), Jayhawks (Gary Louris, Mark
Pearlman), and Soul Asylum escapees (Dan Murphy) — mediocrity, that is. Take
the songs: They’re simple and stupid, feeling like slapdash studio jams — a
suspicion borne out by a couple notable song fades. David Spear and Jarret
Decatur (Murphy and Run Westy Run’s Kraig Johnson) singing? Don’t and next. But
wait, Decatur’s snorter “He’s a Dick” may also be the best tune on the album —
helped immeasurably by Murphy’s tasty slide. In fact, on an album full of lazy,
back-porch strumming, Murphy’s guitar playing always stands out. And Gary
Louris. Hail Gary Louis. Ex-partner Mark Olson may have run off with Victoria
Williams to be the John and Yoko of the alt country set, but Louris really
stands out here, making the opener “V” vintage Jayhawks. Scott Summit (Tweedy
— don’t ask me about the nom de tunes) still is doing a great Uncle Tupelo
(“Won’t Be Coming Home”), and when he and Louis get together on a couple of
cuts you’ve got your fusion. Chemistry. Just like rest of the album. Come to
think of it, I liked that Blind Faith album. And Layla.
3 1/2 stars — Raoul Hernandez
SWEET HONEY IN THE ROCK
Sacred Ground (EarthBeat!)
Because Austin’s only African-American radio station is buried on the FM dial
just barely to the right of where the knob won’t turn anymore, records like
Sacred Ground are doomed to come and go almost unnoticed. Talk about
injustice — it’s right up there with what this female a capella group
talks about on “No More Auction Block” and “Stay on the Battlefield.” First of
all, these women have pipes that put Mariah Carey to shame and more rhythm than
Janet Jackson, Jimmy Jam, and Terry Lewis combined. Next, instead of “Baby Baby
Baby Baby (Baby),” their subject matter goes beyond a note on your pillow the
next morning … way beyond, like to the next life, world, consciousness, or
whatever it is you believe (and these ladies are righteous enough to recognize
that it doesn’t really matter). Sacred Ground is an organic record,
connecting upbeat, doo-woppy spirituals (“Can’t Hide Sinner,” “I Remember, I
Believe,” “Jesus Is All”) with New Age esoterica (“Mystic Oceans,” “Inner
Voices”) and lengthy song-cycles (“Sing O Barren One” “Jordan River”) with the
singular theme of spirituality, and held together by faith. These women will
never crack commercial radio, and it’s a shame, because unlike the diva du
jour, these women know where they’re going when the battle is over.
3 stars — Christopher Gray
BRIAN WILSON & VAN DYKE PARKS
Orange Crate Art (Warner Bros.)
The last release with Brian Wilson’s name on it, I Just Wasn’t Made for
These Times, may have been an abomination, but this is far worse. The music
wasn’t even composed by Wilson — the only point of Brian Wilson is the music
in his deranged brain — but by Van Dyke Parks, a lyricist collaborator from
genius songs like “Heroes and Villains,” “Wonderful,” and “Sail on Sailor.”
This latest exploitation of Wilson sounds like a Beach Boys caricature —
terribly average songs bludgeoned with aggressive harmonic clubs, grossly
nostalgic lyrics about California (in the Sixties, the Beach Boys were singing
about a scene that was very much alive), and the adult voice of Brian Wilson
that critics of late have very generously been calling “childlike.” Once, it
was a flawless tenor. Now, it’s gone the way of the loud, fat, freckled kid
whose voice used to carry above the others in the grade school choir, like a
warbling duck or a car horn with a short circuit. If that’s childlike, so be
it, but it’s endearing only for a few minutes, then it’s chafing as all hell.
So’s this album.
1 1/2 stars — Mindy LaBernz
PAIN TEENS
Beast of Dreams (Trance Syndicate)
Houston’s Pain Teens are renowned for industrial-strength musical nihilism
accented by a liberal helping of allusions to bondage and serial killers.
Consequently, it’s a surprise to slap on “Swimming,” the first cut on Beast
of Dreams, and hear something more akin to mid-Eighties Siouxsie & the
Banshees. Yup, vocalist Bliss Blood purrs lyrics right out of a Black Forest
Harlequin Romance as multi-talented instrumentalist/producer Scott Ayers layers
on enough tribal rhythm and Eastern influence to keep the music interesting.
After the first two tracks, the Teens harken back to their industrial wasteland
tack, but it doesn’t come off as abrasive as their earlier work. Dare I say
mature? Throw in some marketing goon and this could pass as a
Calgon-take-me-away soundtrack for the boys and girls who spent their youths
cloaked in black, waiting for the bombs to drop.
2 1/2 stars — Greg Beets
TEEN ANGELS
Daddy (SubPop)
Of all the bands from the great Sub Pop global takeover of 1989, the
short-lived Dickless was my unapologetic favorite — sloppy, sludgy, all-female
punk fronted by the sandpaper-voiced Kelly Canary. Shows would last 20 minutes,
wrap up with their deconstruction of Bo Diddley’s “I’m a Man,” and people could
not get enough. Canary is back in music after years of managing a chain record
store, she’s learned guitar, and she’s pulled an ex-bandmate and an
ex-cheerleader into a new girl gang flaunting its grunge roots without shame.
When drummer Lisa Smith and bassist Julie Ransweiler lock into a slow
power-plod at the end of “Tijuana Pavement Princess,” for instance, it’s clear
that they’re either tongue-in-cheek grunge or have just emerged from a
seven-year time capsule. Canary, between her reckless Mudhoney guitar and
unrelenting rasp, is the star court jester here, but Houstonite Smith is a
phenomenal drummer, and the album’s formula is perfect: 12 songs, 25 minutes,
everything circling back to a voice so excoriating you’ll be moved to running
commentary. Anything more would be taxing; anything less would be
disappointing. (Teen Angels play Emo’s January 27)
3 1/2 stars — Phil West
This article appears in January 19 • 1996 and January 19 • 1996 (Cover).