fresh from the oven:
THE FALL OF '07 BATCH
- BETTY DAVIS
- TED NUGENT
- 50CENT
- KANYE WEST
- THE DRAGONS
- THE PIPETTES
- BLACK FRANCIS
- FRANK BLACK
- MOANERS
- BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
- THE DONNAS
- THE REAL TUESDAY WELD
- THE SADIES
- THE BOSSHOSS
- JEFF BUCKLEY
- MICK HARVEY
- LAURA PEEK
- PAUL MCCARTNEY
- CALL ME POUPEE
- THE CLASH
- MAVIS STAPLES
- THE SHOVELS
- WHITE STRIPES
- MARIA MULDAUR
- ARTHUR & YU
- JOE STRUMMER
- X27
- RASPUTINA
- HAIRSPRAY
- ALAN VEGA
- JUSTIN HINES
BETTY DAVIS
BETTY DAVIS (Light In The Attic)
THEY SAY I'M DIFFERENT (Light In The Attic)
The woman who was too wild for Miles Davis, making a couple of killer sexed up funk slabs with Sly Stone's rhythm section? Pinch me. Betty Davis had the afro, had the outrageous clothes and best of all, had the music to turn the music world upside down. Gloriously soulful, and fantastically outrageous, Davis translated her heart-racing persona to wax on two stylish records back in '74 that for whatever reason, sank without much trace. Perhaps it was the grey, post funk pre-disco malaise, or maybe her overt sexuality, who knows. These records were great, and now thanks to their reissue everyone can check out the goddess of slinky seventies funk, and why everyone from Rick James to Herbie Hancock was singing her praises.
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TED NUGENT
LOVE GRENADE (Eagle)
The Nuge is back - it was only a matter of time. There's no holding back the demonic amazon king of the six string - an entity that has gone to much higher powers than we mere mortals could ever imagine. Feel fortunate you plebians to be blessed with the awe inspiring power of the three chords (and plenty of noodling solos) that grace this mighty audio slab. Ted's a smart ol' boy, ressurecting his Amboy Dukes anthem "Journey To The Center Of The Mind" - a classic sixties nugget perfectly primed for an unsuspecting generation. The rest is all wango tango geetar attack with the requisite red-neckin', huntin', American Indian references. As usual, off the grid, out of his mind, The Nuge is way ahead of his time. Excuse me, time for an air guitar solo ...EEEEEYYYYAAAAWWWW!!!!!
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50CENT
CURTIS (Interscope / Shady)
KANYE WEST
GRADUATION (Roc-A-Fella)
With gloves clearly off in the Thrilla in Manila version of rap, shouldn't there be more of a fight goin' on here? Kanye West, with his slick and smooth delivery is all over the pugilistic stumbles of former heavyweight 50cent. No rope-a-dope needed here as the lumbering chump stumbles over his own missteps, offering nothing but empty bravado and tiring gangsta machismo. All rap and no action. West meanwhile, never breaks a sweat, or sweats a break - meshing super cool Euro lounge swirls with velvety rhymes. Stealing Stealy Dan riffs aside (ouch), it's no contest. Still there's nothing on any of these easily digestible (burp) platters will save the spiralling genre. Hiphop is dead - long live hiphop.
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THE DRAGONS
BFI (Ninja Tune)
Anyone thinking that the Captain of The Captain and Tenille seventies single powerhouse combo was just a silly keyboard foil in a skipper's hat will have to rethink their rock and roll history. Turns out The Captain, er Daryl Dragon was actually part of a revolutionary synth happy trio with his brothers decades before DJs and ambient lounge tripsters took those sounds up the club charts. This was 1969, and The Dragons managed to combine the trippy psychedelic vibe of the times with a carefree, sunny pop aesthetic, not to mention some bombastic keyboard movements. The result was a time capsule masterpiece that wasn't meant for their time. It's true, no one would release it. Fast forward 37 years and music detective DJ Food unearths this gem and decides the masses are finally ready. Whether this authentic retro soundtrack that captures an all but forgotten time will fly now is up to you. No pressure, really ... no pressure.
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THE PIPETTES
WE ARE THE PIPETTES (Cherrytree / Interscope)
"Your kisses are wasted on me!" They're saucy. They're sassy. They're spicy. They're the peppy pop throwback to hairspray-heavy doo-woppy harmonies laced with kittie purr grrrl power we've been craving. They're larger than life, polka dot dressed babes squishing their hapless male suitors under their collective thumb. They're hip. They're happenin'. They're heavenly. They're the Shangri-La's all over again. They're Rosay, Gwenno and Riotbecki - and they are indeed The Pipettes. Sigh. (
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FRANK BLACK
93-03 (Cooking Vinyl)
With the astounding glut of Pixies material flooding Wal-Mart shelves you knew old Black Francis would swoop in to remind everyone that there was indeed life after the band's initial demise, and before the subsequent tearful cash grab reconciliation. Call it the lost decade, this black jack (count 'em: 21 tunes bub) comp shows Frank's better sides whilst wandering in the solo forest, and plunks down yet another testament to the live show in a bonus shiny DVD. Oh goodie - another coaster! But I kid. Frank's always been worthy of a listen and the proof is right here. The crunchy guitar chords and a desperate voice that thrilled back when grunge was still in incubation form, never really left. Thanks Frank, and good luck with that reunion income.
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BLACK FRANCIS
BLUE FINGER (Cooking Vinyl)
Black Francis reverses his name (yet again), dangling another carrot to Pixies fanatics. Then he opens the new record with a scorcher anthem that could easily pass as material his old mates would gleefully crank out. Better rinse that lather off, cuz Frank is just messin' about. He follows his nineties flashback with a Beastie Boys bow, before travelling further up the river as the album evolves. Frank's all over the place, but as with all his varied excursions, the crunchy guitar chops and intimidating vocal growls deliver the necessary familiarity we all crave. It has more Pixies style oomph than his recent rootsy explorations - call it his mid-life rock and roll crisis record. Yes Frank, you're still the man.
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MOANERS
BLACKWING YALOBUSHA (Yep Roc)
I moaned alright. Groaned a bit too. See Melissa Swingle used to front the addictively eerie Trailer Bride, a band who mastered southern American goth noir to goose pimple proportions. It was a very quiet sound, with Swingle's haunting siren vocals and an occasional saw warble for extra chill effect. To suddenly leave the bride at the alter and slide into generic alt-country territory seemed like blasphemy. That was twenty listens ago. Now it all makes sense. The pace may be more uppity, rocking out at times in fact, but Swingle still has that ghostly tinge to her lilting voice and all she's doing is branching out. Her songs are just as dynamic and infectious, and now you can play it during the daytime to boot.
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BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
MAGIC (Columbia)
Hey guess what? This ain't the great comeback album everyone says it is. Sure there's a crack lead off track, but then da Boss loads up the stage with an over-expanded E-Street band, call it the double E-Street band, and proceeds to rehash his discography under the guise of fresh music. Folks who can't get enough of Clarence Clemons' familiar sax blare (inexplicably unchanged for three decades) will be in heaven. There are a couple of moments on the record, especially a hidden track eulogy, but that's about it. Springsteen has developed fully into Dylan: releasing records that are universally hailed as his best work since, er, his best work. People gobble 'em up and then a couple months later quietly file them away, never to be heard or heard of again. Mark my words.
PS: on a perplexing note, Springsteen is baffling the scientific community by not only aping Dylan's career musically, but he is now the same age as well. Huh.
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THE DONNAS
BITCHIN' (Purple Feather)
How can you resist a tight leather ass cover? You can't. The Donnas win. Cranking heavy punk grrrl pop since high school, the ladies have graduated to full on glam metal university with their bitchin' "Bitchin' " album. Party hearty tunes to shock the parents and make the boys blush have always been their forte, and there's no need to rock this rockin' boat. The Donnas rock out in full black leather and shiny metal studs glory with slick anthemic metal pop till you drop. Not as powerful as it could be, but then the ladies are just getting their feet wet in their Joan Jett phase.
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THE REAL TUESDAY WELD
THE LONDON BOOK OF THE DEAD (Six Degrees)
Wait, the real Tuesday Weld was an American actress - probably best remembered as Anthony Perkins' nymphet foil in "Pretty Poison". What that has to do with Stephen Coates' wonderful vaudeville meets slinky rhythms outfit is a mystery. No matter, enjoy the vintage vibe of the optigan (the precursor to the sampler) that sprinkles the effervescent lounge feel of the platter for what it is: a swanky mood piece like no other on today's shelves. Who needs drums? It's a great time trip to the days of scratchy shellac, vibraphone tinkles and muted bugle weeps, played with enough of a contemporary pop mindset and stark original flourishes to avoid the unfortunate retro tag. And this isn't even their best work. Seek it all, you don't wanna miss out.
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THE SADIES
NEW SEASONS (Outside / Yep Roc)
After a brief flirtation as the second coming of the Byrds, Canada's beloved string-bending quartet The Sadies return to more familiar ground. Twang brothers Travis and Dallas Good welcome the distinct harmonious vocal of Jayhawks Gary Louris - and it's a match made in grievous angel heaven: mixing heart of gold vocals with biting guitar chops. A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, and plenty of atmospheric spaghetti western dust ups, are the magic ingredients in a recipe that most can follow, but few can master. Within a short thirty-five minutes, the boys deliver a stunning set of unforgettable tales which for the first time in their illustrious career, works as a cohesive album instead of a bunch of haphazardly collected bunch of great tracks. A band this consistently fine we tend to take for granted. Don't miss out this time around.
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THE BOSSHOSS
INTERNASHVILLE URBAN HYMNS (Island)
Cowboy hats and bratwurst everyone! German cowpunks butchering rockinroll staples Hew Haw style - we must be in heaven! Who knew Outkast's hiphop smash "Hey Ya! was actually a Grand Ole Opry tale in disguise? Who knew crunchy Britpop staple "Unbelievable" works as a twangy cattle rustlin' rawhide whip? Who knew The White Stripes "Seven Nation Army" staple comes to life as a chewin' tobacco spittin', harmonica blowin' swingin' bar anthem? And who knew that Cameo's soul rap milestone "Word Up" was actually a killer honky tonker? Bosshoss that's who. Now you will too.
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JEFF BUCKLEY
SO REAL: SONGS FROM JEFF BUCKLEY (Sony)
Move over Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Buckley is taking aim at the posthumous release record. Dunno how long Sony can milk one record - yes Buckley only released one proper record before passing - but here's release number er, eight. Wow. Anyone crawling out from under a rock and not yet hip to Buckley may wanna pick this up as a nice start and end collection. And you nutty completists need this, since it has that elusive Smiths cover. Ka-ching$ Stay tuned for the box set.
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MICK HARVEY
TWO OF DIAMONDS (Mute)
The esoteric Bad Seed who's name will always be linked to Nick Cave, Mick Harvey has been quietly releasing wonderful records on his own. Here's his latest: a wonderful collection ranging from atmospheric lounge numbers to giddy subtle pop masterpieces that would satiate Go-Betweens fans. It is one worth coveting. Harvey carefully crafts his songs like short films - offering enticing tales enveloped with velvety rich, slinky cinematic soundscapes. After purging his Serge Gainsbourg infatuation on several fetching records, Harvey has developed his own unique writing style which serves him quite well. Very nice.
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LAURA PEEK
FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHS (Just Friends)
Give this thing a chance damn it! Yes it's slow to start, but given proper simmering time, this little platter will steal your heart, guaranteed. Laura Peek (that's her on the front cover peeking out from her glasses, and from behind her camera) apparently doesn't realize that piano playing isn't all that hip these days, cuz she plays the damn thing all throughout the record. Oh you can listen to the whole thing, waiting for some wild guitar riffs, but they won't come. Just the piano, and some rhythm provided by some rather strange, facial-haired dudes who have a matching outfit fetish. Creepy huh? And yet, I continue to find favour with this record. Miss Peek knows a thing or two about catchy ivory runs, and dag blasted if this album doesn't bury deep into the brain. It's a timeless kind of pop, that for a better word, is quite pretty. Maybe there'll be a piano revival. Just maybe.
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PAUL MCCARTNEY
MEMORY ALMOST FULL (MPL)
Q: when did Paul McCartney write Silly Love Songs?
A: always.
Yes, old joke, let's move on.
Anyone silly enough to be getting their java fix at Starbucks on Tuesday (June 5th) will have been serenaded by the new album - some kind of conspiracy the ex-Beatle has going on for world domination. That's no joke (well, the world domination part, maybe) as every stellarmoney coffee joint on the planet looped the slab for 24 hours. What a killer marketing coup. And thusly... Never thought this would happen, but here I sit writing about a new Paul McCartney album. Not because of that audacious sellout move, but mainly because it warrants a mention. Believe me, I'm as surprised as anyone. Dunno what manner of music Viagra Sir Paul has popped, but the resulting studio slab is not only one of his best (that's not saying much really), but it captures that snooty bite in his yeah yeah yeah yalp he hasn't blurted since belting out "Jet". It's as if after all these years someone kicked his ass and Paul, realizing he's wasted thirty years recording inane overproduced drivel, reached back for his "I'll show 'em" record. It's a varied mess of Beatlemania playfulness, sappy pop ballads, doo-woppy harmonies and a couple of hook line and sinkers (that's sinkers, not stinkers). In short, it's the third McCartney solo album we've all been waiting on. Go figure.
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CALL ME POUPEE
WESTERN SHANGHAI (Semprini)
The trashy Euro styling all over this disco spaghetti western slab brings latter day Serge Gainsbourg to mind, though Montrealers Call Me Poupee are more about fun than lascivious tendencies. This he/she musical sideshow has a wonderful carnival bent, as they crank out hip shaking go-go numbers only the white plastic boot wearers could truly appreciate. Yes there is plenty of cheese on this platter; a nice vintage with just the right balance of flavour and stink. Some songs are in French, others sung with a charming accent. It all works to blended perfection on fetching tunes like "Les Rockstars", "Appel Interbain" and of course "K - Y". SuperPop.
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THE CLASH
THE SINGLES (Epic)
Is it great to hear the classics from England's punk icons again? Yup. Do we really need another compilation (to go along with Clash On Broadway, The Essential Clash, The Collection, The Story of The Clash, The Singles (the first one), and The Ultimate Collection) which only offers a single CD comp companion for those who can't fork out the Clash Cash for the recently released mammoth singles box set? Nope. Punk sellout warning applies.
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MAVIS STAPLES
WE'LL NEVER TURN BACK (Anti)
Ry Cooder is the King Midas of music: everything he touches turns to gold, and this may be his greatest treasure yet. Setting legendary gospel singer Mavis Staples loose on Civil Rights Movement standards is a no brainer, but capturing a haunting urgency to the session and creating a warm studio chemistry is where Cooder's brilliance comes in. Slinky blues guitar runs and delicate arrangements create a stunning backdrop, amplifying Staples' rich voice to powerful heights. Chilling choir accoutrements from Ladysmith Black Mambazo and several brilliant original tunes seal the deal. Album of the year - right here.
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THE SHOVELS
THE DEVIL'S MUSIC (Music For Cats)
Back when record burnings were all the rage, the church insisted that the Devil's music was rock and roll, when as it turns out, it is country. That's according to The Shovels, but they may be right. With classic he/she harmonizing and a bevy of stringed instruments creating weepy hillbilly sounds, this little hoedown entourage has that prickly edge that kicked many outlaws outta Nashville and straight into our hearts. This is Hank Williams and Johnny Cash territory, with plenty of revivalist twang mixed in with just the right amount of punk cow rebellion to appease Knitters fans as well. Not too shabby.
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WHITE STRIPES
ICKY THUMP (Third Man / WB)
Was anyone else dismayed at Jack White's Prince trip on that last record? No? Just me? Okay then. Anyhoo, usually when a band finally makes it and the record company throws money bags their way, offering up total studio freedom, the results are bombastic excesses. Which could be good, but not for a stripped down blues duo like Jack and Meg. So it is with great pleasure that I reintroduce you to the real White Stripes, this generation's Led Zep with a self-depreciating sense of humour. This is where the rock is hard, fancy overdubs are frowned upon, and raw power reigns supreme. It takes a while to get rolling, but "Icky Thump" is another deliciously dirty blues orgy worth devouring. The latter half of the record, starting with the incendiary "Little Cream Soda" is where the spark catches fire and quickly flares out of control. White tortures his poor little red guitar, and it squeaks and squawks under the strain like a chicken scampering away from the farmer and his axe. It is a thing of blood-curdling beauty, and doesn't let up till album's end. Then the infernal repeat button starts the whole life-draining experience all over again. If they hadn't already made their opus ("Elephant") then this would be it.
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MARIA MULDAUR
NAUGHTY , BAWDY & BLUE (Stony Plain)
All this talk about "deep sea divers", "coffee grinders" and a "handy man" seems quite innocuous to me. Not sure where all the naughty and bawdy bits are on this record. Oh well, it's still a nice swaying blues album, paying tribute to the early ladies of the genre - Memphis Minnie, Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey and the like. A great back porch listen if ever there was one. Maria Muldaur sure has come a long way from sleeping with her camel - now that was a racy tune.
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ARTHUR & YU
IN CAMERA (Hardly Art)
Slap this low-fi on the hi-fi for some super swanky summer breeze music. Arthur & Yu (schoolyard nicknames for Grant Olsen & Sonya Westcott) may be youngsters on the scene, but they have that vintage Lee Hazelwood / Nancy Sinatra magic dynamic going on, with a free flowing psyche vibe of sixties popmeisters Love to boot. This home recording captures the charming sixties studio vibe (analogue and quiet) perfectly. It doesn't hurt that the tunes have the adhesive strong of crazy glue. You won't be able to put this platter down, no matter how hard you shake it.
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JOE STRUMMER
THE FUTURE IS UNWRITTEN (Legacy)
Apparently the BBC let Joe Strummer on the air for a couple of years. Who knew? Turns out Joe was a pirating radio junkie before leading the overthrow of popular music on stage, so a return to the airwaves was a no-brainer. This soundtrack of the Julian Temple film gives a good overview of a typical show: a far reaching mix ranging from the likes of Elvis Presley to Nina Simone to the MC5 - interspersed with some Clash and Clash related rarities (particularly fetching is a venomous Strummer spitting intro for "White Riot"), and a bit of Joe at the mike. Not a bad way to spend an hour.
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X27
ANTILOVE (Narnack)
Anyone else get all tingly when a punk band is fronted by a bass-playing female vocalist? No, just me? Ok then. Still there's really quite enough of a lure here to pull anyone into X27's frey. A slinky teaser track opens the slab before the band crank the amps to eleven and deliver a good ear wax cleaning. The she-to-he vocal mirrors the pace as Rikkeh Suhtn takes on the piledrivers whilst Carmen X drives the cruisers. I prefer the latter, though some may opt for the former - either way everybody goes home happy. Bruised but happy. A typical Steve Albini production.
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RASPUTINA
OH PERILOUS WORLD (Filthy Bonnet Co.)
Didn't we lay the concept album in the ground several decades back? Apparently not. Here comes Rasputina - formerly chicks with cellos, now merely chick with cello and guy with everything else - conjuring up a very heady production that attempts to spin recent apocalypse-related events back in Victorian times. Global warming and 9-11 done up with Corsets and pirates: an ambitious stretch for sure, and one that doesn't always pan out, but when that magical combination of Melora Creager's striking voice and sinuous cello hit the mark, there are few pleasures finer.
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VARIOUS
HAIRSPRAY (Decca)
The feel good summer soundtrack to the carefree musical sweeping the nation - what could be better? Well maybe more Christopher Walken, but that's about it. Nikki Blonsky (what a great stage name) and John Travolta (in Divine's original role) are getting all the bouquets, but there's plenty of talent on full frontal display here. James Marsden is perfectly slick as Corny Collins - the singing Dick Clark host of the afternoon teen dance show the movie revolves around. Not only does he cut a fine rug, but Marsden is the vocal glue that keeps the bouffants in place. Based on the musical which in turn was based on the John Waters film, Hairspray captures a changing America (Baltimore in the early sixties) with every kitschy cliche in tact. And the bouncy music's not half bad either.
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ALAN VEGA
STATION (Mute / Blast First)
The emotionless blip of monotonous electronics paired with a stark vocal has been Alan Vega's bread and butter since he first decided to confront an audience as one half of Suicide. Sure there's been some rockabilly style diversions, but Vega has always returned to the minimalist sounds that polarised audiences from day one. Some thought Suicide was the ultimate punk act, some needed to be subdued by a bike chain wielding Vega (true story). Anyhoo, here's Alan back at it again, this time a little rougher, a little meaner, and perhaps, a tad more industrial. Which is good news. Nothing like a little vitriol to fire up that old flame. Burn Alan burn.
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JUSTIN HINES
SIDES (Universal)
Justin Hines sounds just like Joan Armatrading - which is kinda comforting and unsettling at the same time. This is the kind of sweet gentle guitar strumming pop I should detest, but frankly, the thing's already into a third rotation and there is no chance of frisbee heaving said platter like most drivel that pass through here. Sensitive singer-songwriters had their day back in the seventies (James Taylor, John Denver, Jackson Browne ... anyone with a J name) but there appears to be a baffling resurgence going on here. Justin links the generation gap with a straight up remake of "I've Got a Name" (a Jim Croce hit) - not to mention the J name thing. Speaking of which: why hasn't Justin changed his last name to Time? That would be good. Move over Jack Johnson.
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