Music
Section By Jeb D.
CLAPTON
Eric Clapton
The irony about Clapton having spent a couple of decades turning himself into a lite-rock smoothy is that the guy’s had enough dope, death, and pain in his life to meet anyone’s definition of a Real Bluesman. It’s a long way back from “Wonderful Tonight,” but after flogging cellphones on TV, this is a positive step. He’s not playing God this time, though: rather than an album of liquid Strat fire, Clapton is a sort of blues symposium (just check out that cover picture: nice specs, professor), less concerned with how Eric’s guitar can transform the blues than how he can fit varied types of songs into iterations of the form. In fact, there’s probably as much piano, organ and harmonica as guitar on here (along with some tasty brass charts), as Clapton draws as much influence from New Orleans and Memphis as he does Chicago. That’s not to say his playing isn’t impressive– particularly compared to Carlos Santana’s new all-over-the-damn-place album of riffology, Clapton seems able to strike the balance between fire and subtlety, and when he drops the volume, he no longer seems in danger of falling asleep. He sidesteps one of his two great weaknesses (not much of a songwriter) by recording mostly covers (many of which you wouldn’t associate with “blues,” including, I shit you not, both “Ol’ Rocking Chair Got Me” and “Autumn Leaves”) in canny arrangements, and supplements the other (not much of a singer) by bringing in pals like Steve Winwood to bolster the sound. Guest J. J. Cale sets the right tone: he knows how to play “relaxed” without sounding comatose. And I guarantee you that the delightful “My Very Good Friend The Milkman” is nothing you have ever heard, or expected to hear, from ol’ Slowhand. We should all be capable of that kind of re-invention when we’re pushing 70.
LE NOISE
Neil Young
There’s two great Neil Youngs: Neil with guitar, and Neil with guitar and Crazy Horse; other variations and combinations range from good to OK to spotty. For some reason (boredom, maybe– the guy’s released something like six dozen albums to this point), he’s decided that what he wants this time is an album of just him and his guitar, but one that sounds like him and Crazy Horse. Producer Daniel Lanois pulls out every trick in the book, with samples and loops and echo and what all to make it sound like… well, like Neil and his guitar and a bunch of studio effects. Most of the playing is actually fairly simple picking and strumming, but amped and ‘roided up to the point where it becomes its own wall of sound. It’s interesting– certainly doesn’t sound quite like anything you’ve heard before– but it’s not put in the service of one of Neil’s stronger sets of songs. “When I sing about love and war / I really don’t know what I’m sayin’ / I’ve been in love and I’ve seen a lot of war“. Hey, whaddya know– me too! And that’s kinda the problem, Neil: we’ve all been there. The reason I listen to your music is for a perspective on those things that I can’t get on my own. And starting with two songs about holding hands, then telling me that I live in an “Angry World” (no shit, Sherlock)… well, I feel as though a guy with Young’s life experience would have something more to tell me. And it wouldn’t hurt to actually try and write a tune or two: I have no idea if the narrator of “Young Hitchhiker” is supposed to be Neil himself, or some fictional dope-addled rocker, but since it’s the only song that seems to have much of a point of view, it almost overcomes its dirge-like A/B/A/B melody. “Peaceful Valley Boulevard” is stronger, closer to Young’s better story-songs, but as with most of the album, the actual music doesn’t add much: if Neil simply told you the story, you’d get as much out of it. Le Noise is certainly not dismissable–particularly for those who find the raw sound of Young’s voice more appealing than I do–but it does feel as gimmicky, in its way, as such 80’s genre experiments as Everybody’s Rocking and Trans.
GOOD THINGS
Aloe Blacc
OK, if my name was Egbert, I’d probably change it, too (but to the name of a skin lotion?). How can you not love a rapper who turns old-school soul man, writes protest songs, and covers The Velvet Underground? Blacc takes his cue from Superfly and What’s Going On, with a voice that can range from Bill Withers rumble to Smokey-like falsetto. The arrangements are lighter and lither than Saddiq, more confident and varied than Paperboy… and unlike those dudes, Blacc has more on his mind than nookie. “I Need A Dollar” (the theme to HBO’s How To Make It In America) is this generation’s “Brother Can You Spare A Dime;” “Miss Fortune” is a bitter tale about wealth and class in America, and “Life So Hard” and “Politician” lay it right on the line. Interpersonal relationships fare somewhat better (“Loving You Is Killing Me” gets offset by “You Make Me Smile”) and anyone coping with an aging parent will feel the gut-punch in “Mama Hold My Hand” when the lyric comes full circle from “Mama hold my hand /I don’t think I can cross this road by myself” to “Mama hold my hand / I don’t think you can cross this road by yourself.” The music is dazzlingly varied (the inspiration and borrowed licks range from Gil Scott-Heron to Oasis), with tight string and horn arrangements, ample helpings of wah-wah and Jimmy Smith-style organ; the Eddie Hazel-esque guitar frenzy that the album fades out on will just leave you hungry for more. Good Things has all the musical delights of Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, the social consciousness of John Legend and The Roots, but with the added virtue of being wholly contemporary in its outlook. Already one of my very favorite albums of what has been an amazingly rich year in music.
GUITARS FROM AGADEZ, VOL. 3
Group Inerane
I don’t know if this technically belongs here, since it’s not on CD (just vinyl, so far), but it’s one of the most exciting listening experiences of the week. Like the veteran Mailian band Tinariwen, the members of Group Inerane are Taureg refugees, caught up in the vicious fighting between rebel groups and the government of Niger (they’ve already lost one group member to the war). The sound is poised somewhere between Lightnin’ Hopkins and The Velvet Underground, with swirling psychedelic multi-guitar drone, time signatures broken into fragments, deceptively firm percussion, and the eerie vocal sounds of an exploited people’s anger. Most of the songs have titles that I can’t translate (I didn’t get a lyric sheet), apart from one called “Golf;” I have no idea whether they mean the game or the car, but it sounds as though they’re taking a dim view of either. While no one would exactly call much of the music from today’s African desert region “overproduced,” this album in particular is a virtual “field recording” that impresses with its one-take rawness; it’s loose, supple, defiant and alive… and by achieving this kind of musical and emotional impact with no effects and no overdubs, they make Daniel Lanois, with all his knob-twiddling, sound like a fussy old fart.
Other Noteworthy 9/28 Releases
Gin Blossoms, No Chocolate Cake. Not quite the power-pop home run that 2006’s Major Lodge Victory was, but at the very least a standup double. While there’s plenty of bright, melodic rocking, they’re finally integrating the tinge of adolescent melancholy that the late Doug Hopkins bequeathed to them, with the onset of maturity. The yearning is there on “Something Real” and “I Don’t Want To Lose You Now,” the energy intact on “Don’t Change For Me” and “Miss Disarray.” Plus, “Dead Or Alive On The 405” is a So Cal journey that betrays a sense of humor to undercut the melodrama. So, even after all these years, progress.
Tired Pony, The Place We Ran From. Lo-fi supergroup featuring Gary Lightbody, Peter Buck, Richard Colburn, She & Him and some other folks. Having listened to the import version last spring, I had to dig this out and play it again, because the one thing I remembered about it was that I couldn’t remember a damn thing about it. OK, now I do remember– imagine Snow Patrol’s idea of a country album. Hey, wake up, I’m not done yet! No, I guess maybe I am.
Ronnie Wood, I Feel Like Playing. Woody puts down the paintbrush long enough to trade licks with Slash and Billy Gibbons, get some bottom from Bernard Fowler and Flea, and take growling lessons from Kris Kristofferson. A little less ragged and shambling than some of his sporadic efforts of the past, but he’s still as loose-limbed and rowdy as in his Faces heyday.
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, History of Modern. I think my favorite thing about this album is the band’s stubborn insistence that it’s actually a good thing that they haven’t taken a step forward in the past twenty years, and still sound exactly like the teen-romance jukebox they were a quarter-century ago. Trust me, they’re not kidding about that, either, so take that as either an endorsement or a warning. The Flock of Seagulls reunion can’t be far behind, can it?
Jimmy Eat World, Invented. Because they’re younger than the Goo Goo Dolls, they sound a tad less developmentally arrested when they keep up the feckless adolscent persona. But only a tad.
Phil Collins, Going Back. Phil molests Motown. It’s just as hideous as you’d imagine, but he’s jazzed because he can afford to pay some of the original Funk Brothers to play on this. Hearing this goober wrap his weedy pipes around “Uptight” or “Heat Wave” is painful enough, but his take on “Papa Was A Rolling Stone” is… I really don’t have the words. And there’s twenty-five tracks of this shit on the download version. Come back, Rod Stewart (to say nothing of Seal), all is forgiven.
The Doobie Brothers, World Gone Crazy. “Aw, dammit, man, The Doobie Brothers broke up.” Or did they…? If you prefer the pre-Michael McDonald era, this Doob’s for you. He does turn up on “Don’t Say Goodbye.” But, really, it’s time that he did.
Seal, 6: Commitment. Not available for preview, but likely dripping with soul and sincerity; originality? A little less certain. But we’ll see…
Bad Religion, The Dissent of Man. Thirty-one years. That’s about the equal of the combined careers of The Ramones, The Heartbreakers, and The Clash. These boys… er, men… have still got it, though, always presuming that “it” is what you’re looking for.
Ben Folds and Nick Hornby, Lonely Avenue. An album that dares you to review it: “Some guy on the ‘Net thinks I suck / And he should know / He’s got his own blog.” Well, Folds doesn’t exactly suck (not exactly), but he’s always been more than a bit precious and smug, so it’s nice that his musical “sophistication” (well, I’m sure that’s what he thinks it is) is this time put in the service of a writer who’s a genuinely interesting storyteller. Though I suspect that Hornby’s thoughts about Levi Johnston and Doc Pomus would have worked just fine in book form, and spared us all this.
Halford, Made of Metal. Not available for preview, but the juxtaposition of the words “Halford” and “Metal” probably tell you all you need to know.
Mark Ronson & the Business Intl, Record Collection. Whether you think Ronson gets too much credit for Amy Winehouse’s 15 minutes, or not enough, he certainly finds interesting ways to keep busy while she fades from memory. Everybody from the Dap-Kings to the Kaiser Chiefs to Duran Duran drops by to party; that’s Boy George with the lampshade on his head. Dance grooves for the super-organized.
Deerhunter, Halcyon Digest. Texture? Oh, man, can these guys do texture: the album starts with a percussion loop that sounds like the chain-gang rock hockey at the beginning of O Brother Where Art Thou. Topics range from helicopters to Syd Barrett, with occasional glances out the window at a real life that they’re relieved to be insulated from; at least guys on the chain gang get out once in a while.
Marc Ribot, Silent Movies. Sideman to the stars, Ribot solo tends toward the intimate, not to say skeletal, and Silent Movies is no exception. He gets almost as much tonal variety out of his axe and effects pedals as Lanois does out of Neil Young this week, with what feels like half the effort; helps that he doesn’t sing. Compositionally, there’s virtually nothing happening here, but there’s something to be said for savoring the simple, elegant playing of a guitar master. Still, he’s more fun with Waits or Costello.
Oregon, In Stride. The fusion veterans keep on keeping on, mixing nostalgia (“Summer’s End”) and a touch of wit (“The Cat Piano”) while adding some Oriental flourishes (“Song For A Friend,” “Petroglyph”). They still round off their corners a bit too neatly, but they do it expertly, so there’s that.
Ryuichi Sakamoto, Playing The Piano. Evidently intended as a low-price introduction as Sakamoto begins a rare U. S. tour. Disk 1 is solo piano versions of some of his best known film cues (“The Last Emperor,” “Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence,” etc.). There’s haunting music here, but if you know the fuller film versions, you may be disappointed to find that there’s less here than met the ear when you saw the movies. Disk 2 was unavailable for preview, but is described as “exploring the netherworld between music and noise.” Uh huh… Call it a bonus, like the furniture polish they throw in when you buy a Shamwow.
David Bowie, Station To Station. When I heard that my favorite Bowie album was being Special Edition-ized, I was hoping for a whole CD of juicy studio outtakes; sadly, there’s only two (alternate versions of “Word On A Wing” and the title song) , and you only get those in the $150 box that includes CD, vinyl and DVD versions of the album, along with the first legit CD release of the oft-bootlegged ’76 Nassau concert, and some books and pictures and posters and such. Nice, but not sure about 150 bucks’ worth of nice. Of course, you can get just the CD remaster with the Nassau show, for a mere $35. That Dave– generous as the day is long.
Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Live! In Chicago. 2010 continues to be a busy year in the white-boy blues department. Shepherd’s backing band is above-average (including legendary Howlin’ Wolf sideman Hubert Sumlin), and his willingness to take on signature songs like “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” and “How Many More Years” bespeaks his warranted confidence in his axe. Stuff like singing and songwriting are strictly on Kenny’s back burner, but if they’re on yours, too, this may have enough note-bending to suit.
Floored By Four, Floored By Four. Skirling, swirling punk-jazz. Not worlds removed from Mono, but with, like, actual melodies.