THE SELLOUT
MEMOIRS |
BALANCING ACTS The opening and closing songs on Macy Gray's first album for a new, less "big" record company set its thematic perimeters. "The Sellout" seems to conflate a fickle audience with a fickle lover, both of whom Macy is tired of fighting. But on "The Comeback" she lets on that she "hasn't changed a bit" and intends to stay the way she is despite the fact that everybody's "been such a big bitch to me." Between these two statements of purpose Macy unloads "nursery rhymes and lullabies"; in other words, the kind of straightforward commercial product that she always had in her but sublimated to the higher God of self-expression. The irony and beauty of the album is that it turns out straightforward commercial product is, for her at least, the highest form of self-expression. She not only dares to utilize Velvet Revolver on the irresistible Gary Glitter-like scorcher "Kissed It," she gives Bobby Brown equal billing on a romantic duet that doesn't wallpaper over the fallen star's pariah status ("I will kiss you even when you have the flu"). Though she still seems sensitive to her unconventional appearance, she's no longer trying to score easy points with her unconventional attitude, something her unconventional voice always made redundant. The voice now sings for itself, so when she expresses her goofy side, as on the good-rockin' "That Man," the sexy humor is unmediated by the kind of winking irony that marred her last album. There's also no need any more to cater to some theoretical hybrid listener. Macy's love of 70s rock and 70s soul is no longer diluted by hip-hop ideas forced on her by production know-it-alls; which isn't to say there still aren't a lot of fingers in Macy's pie. It's just that in selling out, she's learned how to run a tighter ship. New Brit retro-soul sensation Roxanne Tataei seems perfectly happy to trod the same pop path that Amy Winehouse and Duffy have taken to the bank, and if her voice isn't as distinctive as either of those two divas she sounds like more of a natural, probably owing to her musical education in the church. Because English soul tends to incorporate Caribbean styles as a matter of course, there's a solid swing to these tunes that complements Rox's flexible alto, which reminds some people of Lauryn Hill but with a heftier delivery and rougher texture. If the songs themselves seem merely functional, they're nevertheless played with accomplishment and usually stripped to the sort of essentials that show off a good soul singer--a strong but lithe bottom and liberal use of keyboards, in particular organ. Like Macy used to be, Rox is beholden to professionals who take that organic soul tag a little too much to heart, so there's a gratuitous and superficial reggae cut and a few acoustic guitar ballads that just lie there. Let's hope she takes her own sell-out option sooner rather than later. |
SOMETHING FOR EVERYBODY |
Like fellow first new wavers the B-52s, Devo's theatricality was never successful in masking its mass market desires, and as the veneer of nerdy earnestness was quickly appropriated by the mainstream the group had to stand on its merits as pop song makers, which were formidable. Two decades after their last original album, they are still determined to prove their bona fides as human music-making units with a knack for melody and respect for those who worship the downbeat, though Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald Casale still find it necessary to use dumb cliches as a means of ironic deflection. If the forced artificiality of "Human Rocket" and "Don't Shoot (I'm a Man)" doesn't convince you the songs themselves are worthy additions to the Devo canon, it has to do with the mediocrity of the writing and not simply because the joke isn't as good as it used to be. |
THE WAY OF THE WORLD |
The latest roots coot to receive the attention of producer Joe Henry seems to be less susceptible to Henry's misplaced enthusiasms. There are no gratuitous guest spots from reverent young'uns, and since Allison's most enduring legacy is his songwriting, nobody endeavors to force on him their own versions of his simple, wry blues-jazz stylings. At 82, Alison retains his ability to turn a clever phrase and interpret a fact of life into something funny and deep; and he isn't afraid of stealing a Willie Dixon tune and putting new lyrics to it, as he does on the brilliant opener "My Brain," which looks dementia squarely in the eye without blinking. And while the instrumental "Crush" shows that his piano chops are still in tact, and the four covers attest to his undiminished skills as an interpretive singer, it's that brain as filtered through his compositions that continues to amaze. |
THANK ME LATER |
Scratch a gangsta, the saying goes, and you'll find a traumatized ten-year-old. Drake, a mixed-blood rapper from Canada, opens his hotly anticipated debut with the observation that when his parents divorced he was five and "barely reacted." Now that he's rich and famous, he's got the motivation to study the pain he never had to the time to feel. Thank Me Later is self-analysis taken to odd extremes, and if Drake doesn't find something that points to disillusionment he doesn't deem it worth examining. On the plus side, that means no misogyny or gay-baiting, but on the minus it means less fun; which isn't to say the record lacks for excitement. "Shut It Down," his slow jam with The-Dream, steams up the Auto Tune default and the Swizz Beatz production "Fancy" throws down a verbal challenge that Drake proves worthy of. He seems to require outside stimulation. |
DESTROYER |
Since 2007 and their self-released breakout album, Wild Mountain Nation, this Portland band has experimented with pretty much every style of music that characterized FM radio from 1969 to 1972, and the opening songs on their latest album drive headlong into closely arranged prog-rock with all the confidence and determination of Jeff Lynne on a production bender. The band's core fans may prefer the acoustic simplicity of "Dragon's Song" and "The Tree," even if the long-windedness obfuscates the songs' direct pop appeal. Lead singer Eric Earley parses Petty via Dylan, so the band's folk-countryish tendencies tend to make the biggest impression, even when they're shooting for symphonic guitar rock on "Love and Hate." When they're not, Blitzen Trapper can sound like prime Wilco, which is a nice thing to sound like, but not as nice as it was in 2007 now that Wilco is sounding like themselves again. |
FURTHER |
After a period when the Chems were not only the biggest electro-dance act on the planet but true innovators they've settled into a pattern of releasing hit anthems that seemed perfectly suited for sports programs and then surrounded with albums' worth of rote bangers. Nice work if you can keep up with it, but what's suffered is the Chems' legendary live shows, which have turned into predictable workouts. Whether out of exhaustion or inspiration, their latest resets the controls. Peaking early with the epic "Escape Velocity," Further makes the most of the Chems' talent for unexpected detours on their way to the perfect break beat, but rather than base it on song-like loops they keep things pure, adding layers of synths to increase the tension and keeping the drums to a minimum. The result is an album-long suite of space music that brings the duo full circle. |
NIGHT WORK |
Following Scissor Sisters' sophomore slump, the lowdown was that they'd blown their pop wad on their debut and everything after it would be bullshit stabs at relevance. The much-publicized dumping and then rerecording of their third album on the advice of uber-inspiration Elton John lends credence to that outlook, and if Night Work isn't as guiltily pleasurable as the debut, it aims to please. Disco trumps 70s piano rock and synths lord it over guitars, thus reinforcing the suspicion that what bedrocks the Sisters' inspiration is 80s new wave dance music. Jake Shears' varied vocal timbres--burly S&M growl on "Harder You Get," frantic Fred Schneider bleat on "Running Out," precious DeBarge falsetto on "Something Like This"--gives the group a solid grounding in the styles they tackle, and the studied salaciousness that made Ta Dah overbearing is replaced with a darker take on sex. Night Work is for adults. |
STRANGE WEATHER, ISN'T IT? |
Given the desperation of their live shows, !!! has earned a rep as the most reliable of party bands: They'll make you dance or kill themselves trying. And while their shows are built on the material that comprises their albums, the records can be spotty affairs: Funk in the service of something more edifying. Disregarding the superficially clever song titles ("Steady as the Sidewalk Cracks," "Even Judas Gave Jesus a Kiss"), the songs on their latest album seem less intent on busting you over the head with the group's social-mindedness. Perhaps as a result the funk is freer than it's ever been, and more varied in tempo and groove-pattern, ranging from the slithery "AM/FM" to the head-splitting Chili Pepper rock of "Wannagain Wannagain." Nic Offer proves that he can relax while all around him seethes, thus providing the one element previously missing from !!!'s dance vibe: Contrast. |
SEROTONIN |
For their third full-length Mystery Jets hire heavyweight producer Chris Thomas and then dutifully recreate every heavyweight English band Thomas has worked for, from Roxy Music to Pink Floyd to the Pretenders, in an impressive display of stylistic chameleonship. Serotonin should appeal as much to fans of Arcade Fire as to fans of The Strokes, though the band is more eccentric than earnest. For every sugar-coated pop tart like "The Girl is Gone" or "Flash a Hungry Smile" there's a mini-epic grab bag of psychedelic snippets like "Alice Springs" or a tongue-in-cheek puzzler like the title song ("I'm coming up so hard"). Sometimes the surfeit of ideas cancel one another out, as on the generically peppy "Show Me the Light," but the band's best quality is the way they go with their impulses rather than their intellect. If only the impulses didn't all happen at once. |
SEX DREAMS AND DENIM JEANS |
Lacking "flow" and any topics that might interest anyone outside her set, Uffie is easy to dismiss as a joke on the ever-collapsing dance-rap scene, and since she's an American who made her point in Paris, the life of the joke should last as long as the US remains the center of the pop universe. Just because Uffie uses her suckiness as an aesthetic raison d'etre doesn't mean she can't be enjoyed on those terms. "Still they talk about me," she elates, "Damn!" The production by minimalists like Feadz and Mr. Oizo put paid to the snickering regard European beatmakers have for their millionaire American counterparts, many of whom are probably studying the latest Ed Banger releases for something to steal. And when Uffie gets in on the dig, as on the hilarious Blondie-meets-Daft Punk blowoff "MCs Can Kiss," the effect is liberating: Down with Yankee hip-hop hegemony! |
INTERPRETATIONS: THE BRITISH ROCK SONGBOOK |
The British Invasion was as influenced by contemporary American soul as it was by pre-sixties R&B and rock'n roll, but it's a mistake to assume that this collection of covers is a way for one of those soul pioneers to pay back the favor. Most of these songs are from the 70s, and LaVette's versions are true interpretations. Only the Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin" sounds anything like its original. LaVette and her impressive studio band locates the gospel or blues heart of each composition, pulls it out, and pumps it full of new blood. The Beatles' "The Word" becomes a funkified witness to the Lord; Clapton's "Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad" a walking blues that saunters right out the door; Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" a slow-burning soul grinder. The Who's "Love Reign O'er Me"? You have to hear it to believe it. |
RECOVERY |
No other major pop artist has ever chronicled his personal problems on record with such detail as Marshall Mathers. Recovery started out as a continuation of his last album, Relapse, with all the attendant vitriol. Apparently, he had second thoughts, and on "Talkin' 2 Myself" even repudiates that previous record, as if he were one of the music critics he disses on the next song, "On Fire." In the past, schizophrenia became Eminem, but since he rejects the Slim Shady persona it's more confusing than enlightening. Why the obsession with Michael J. Fox metaphors? With beats as serviceable as the ones he's commissioned here, he could have reached for outer space, but the inner space he explores doesn't give up much that's coherent or interesting. Eminem was once the funniest rapper on the planet and I toast his sobriety, but it's robbed him of his sense of humor. |
THE RHUMB LINE |
The debut of this American indie quintet is attended by more drama than it can handle, what with one of the founding members having died unexpectedly even before they went into the studio. The group's famous exuberance in concert is thus tempered on record by the knowledge that the songs were written by somebody who's gone forever. The signature cello and violin only add to the poignancy, regardless of how animatedly the musicians saw away at their instruments. And Wes Miles keeps a brave front with vocals that exude tenderness even in heat generated by tempos starting at a gallop. Not to be flip, but does "Too Too Too Fast" describe their situation better than "Dying is Fine"? Because at bottom, all this liveliness comes across as just so much running in place, the sound of an ensemble whose ideas outstrip its ability to realize them. |
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