Beth Orton: Sugaring Season

SUGARING SEASON (2012)

1) Magpie; 2) Dawn Chorus; 3) Candles; 4) Something More Beautiful; 5) Call Me The Breeze; 6) Poison Tree; 7) See Through Blue; 8) Last Leaves Of Autumn; 9) State Of Grace; 10) Mystery.

Beth Orton's first new album in seven years, and seven years without an album is no laughing matter: if anything, it makes you predisposed to the idea that maybe the artist really has some­thing to say, if it took him/her seven years to say it. On the other hand, everything that we already knew about Beth Orton sort of predisposed us to the idea that it would be rash to expect a good album from somebody who'd consciously ditched her chief know-how in favor of a third-rate singer-songwriter career. All in all, an intriguing situation — at least until you tear your gaze from the pretty / intelligent profile on the sleeve cover and start playing the actual music.

The best thing I can say about the music is that it is at least significantly more involving than Comfort Of Strangers. The folksy arrangements are not as lethargic or minimalistic this time around; there is a decent rhythm section that can keep it steady or get in a little swing mode if necessary, there are some dynamic string arrangements, and she seems to have spent more time working out the hooks. In other words, the songs at least try to flutter and thrash around rather than just sink to the bottom in one go. Unfortunately, about half of them now end up sounding like uninventive imitations of early Joni Mitchell — and once again, I have trouble understanding what exactly about them belongs to Beth Orton, the Artist of Her Own Persuasion.

A whole three singles (as opposed to a maximum of two) were culled from the album, so let us try and concentrate on these. ʽSomething More Beautifulʼ is one of the slowest and «downiest» numbers on the record — a transparent sign that «commercialism» is farther from the artist's mind than ever before. Unfortunately, it is simply bad. Oversung (drenched in breathy glottal stops — "in what you belee-hh-eeve" — so we do not make a dreadful mistake thinking that the song was not recorded soon after a hysterical crying fit), overpunctuated by Pathetic String Bursts at the start of each chorus, and yet lacking anything resembling a proper hook, it's 100% atmo­sphere, pumped up after a traditional, predictable recipé.

ʽMagpieʼ, which was used to open the album, is a straightforward attempt at writing in the old folk style, musically and lyrically, and since it does not pretend to the status of «grand tragedy», like ʽSomething More Beautifulʼ does, it is far easier to enjoy, with a nice «depressed-but-not-suicidal» flavor to the vocals. The major hookline ("what a lie, what a lie...") sounds like it's been lifted from The Cranberries (in fact, as the years go by, Beth sounds more and more like a techni­cally weaker counterpart of Dolores O'Riordan), but when we are talking folksy singer-song­writing, such observations can never be spoken in an accusative tone anyway.

The third, and best, single was ʽCall Me The Breezeʼ — not a J. J. Cale cover (as fun as it would be for Beth to cover J. J. Cale), but an original composition, something of a humble pantheistic anthem ("call me the earth, call me the stars...") set to a lively folk-pop rhythm and peppered with light, ghostly, but friendly vocals. Maybe if there were more songs like this on the album, its diagnostic facial features would have finally begun to emerge — it is like a soft «country ron­deau» with a cool combination of guitars, percussion, and electric organ and without any self-aggrandizing pathos to turn off the seasoned listener.

Alas, such is not the case: the overall proportions of bad to mediocre to nice on Sugaring Season are more or less the same as in the singles subarray, and there is no incentive for me to talk about the rest. Essentially, we are dealing here with just another out of the miriad «neo-folk» records, which would have probably sunk like a stone if not for the artist's enduring reputation that was earned with far more interesting work — think Eric Clapton, if you wish, the difference being that the latter could at least always offer redemption for his tepid studio output on the stage, while Beth has pretty much disowned her entire «folktronica» legacy and is now insisting on persisting as a second-rate neo-folkie. Of course, seasoned lovers of this style will always find ten thousand subtle reasons why Sugaring Season has its own charm, quite different from that of Joni, Sandy, or Emmylou — but I honestly see no sense in wrecking my brain over what any of those reasons could be. As far as I'm concerned, she is simply not cut out for this line of work.

Black Sabbath: Technical Ecstasy

BLACK SABBATH: TECHNICAL ECSTASY (1976)

1) Back Street Kids; 2) You Won't Change Me; 3) It's Alright; 4) Gypsy; 5) All Moving Parts (Stand Still); 6) Rock'n'Roll Doctor; 7) She's Gone; 8) Dirty Women.

If we put it very bluntly, the crucial difference between Sabotage and Technical Ecstasy is that the former was an «art rock» album, whereas the latter was a «hard rock» album. Not «heavy metal» in the typical Sabbath sense, but a much more blunt, straightforward, lumpy, «leaden» form of heavy music, ideologically closer to AC/DC, Kiss, and early Judas Priest than to Master Of Reality. I mean, look at the songs — there is at least two tracks here whose primary purpose is to sing hosanna to «rock and roll» (ʽRock'n'Roll Doctorʼ is a Kiss-worthy title if there ever was one, and the refrain of ʽBack Street Kidsʼ — "nobody I know is gonna take my rock'n'roll away from me" — begs for one and only one question: is somebody whom Ozzy doesn't know going to take his rock'n'roll away from him?).

Why in the world did the band decide to make that switch when nobody really asked them to is anybody's guess. «Drugs» as such does not cut it: the stylistic change was clearly rational and could not have been fuelled by substance intake (and, for that matter, Iommi's guitar playing skills and Ozzy's vocal technique on Technical Ecstasy are impeccable, so from a «technical ecstasy» point of view at least, drugs really made no difference). Shifting musical tastes seem more like it — I think that Tony paid close attention to popular taste, and consciously wanted to shift the sound in the direction of the new wave of heavy bands, without any artistic pretense or particularly «satanic» connotations. Black Sabbath were going to try on the guise of a heavy rock'n'roll band, and see how it worked.

Unfortunately, it did not work too well. The crucial problem of Technical Ecstasy is that Black Sabbath just do not cut it as a «rock'n'roll band». Ozzy is not a rock'n'roll singer, and Tony is not a rock'n'roll player, and this is immediately obvious on the very first track, which is not bad per se, but relies on generic boogie chords to make its point rather than one of Tony's classic riffs. Why bother coming up with a classic riff, anyway, if all you wanna do is boogie? "I'm a rock'n'roll soldier, gonna play it until I'm dead" — 'nuff said. It sounds especially convincing when delive­red in Ozzy's glassy, inflexible vocal tone (as much as I generally prefer Ozzy's singing to Paul Stanley's, ʽBack Street Kidsʼ should rather be sung by somebody like Paul).

This «keep it loud, simple, and basic» ideology is maintained throughout the album, despite its strange title and Hipgnosis cover showing two robots engaged in robosexual activities — you'd think it would all be more fit for a Kraftwerk record. The only «sci-fi» or «futuristic» element here is the occasional sound of synthesizers (provided by Gerald Woodruffe), but it's actually less prominent than it was on the previous two LPs, although keyboards as such are laid over most of the songs. All of this merely adds to the overall confusion, because it sort of looks as if they started out with one agenda, then messed up and ended up with another, by which time it was already too late to straighten things out.

The good news is that the band was not yet completely wasted, and even in a state of misguided confusion was able to come up with occasional winners. Although the only song to endure in their setlist was ʽDirty Womenʼ, a last moment attempt at a throwback to the Sabbath Bloody Sabbath epoch (with a rather disappointing mid-song riff that sounds like a variation on the ʽN.I.B.ʼ theme), where they really excel here is in... the sentimental department! Cue Bill Ward and his ʽIt's Alrightʼ, an unabashedly romantic pop rocker on which the drummer sings lead vo­cals himself — and unexpectedly demonstrates a sweet and pleasant tone. The tune has often been compared to the Beatles, although it has a very prominent Seventies style pop rock sound and should rather be compared to Badfinger or Eric Stewart's 10cc, but the main thing is that, as a piano pop rocker, it's a cool, convincingly optimistic tune, and it plays a respectable role in de­molishing the «Sabbath stereotype», even though it would be the last Sabbath song in a long, long while to demolish the stereotype.

The true forgotten gem of this record, though, is ʽYou Won't Change Meʼ, a song that has been cruelly overlooked by fans and unjustly underappreciated by the band members themselves — if anything, it should have become a personal favorite of Ozzy's, but apparently neither Sabbath as a band nor Ozzy as a solo artist have ever performed it live, nor has it been covered by anybody else, for reasons I cannot fathom, since this song holds my personal top spot for «greatest non-Sabbath-like Sabbath song». A dark, heavy ballad, opening with a suitably Gothic guitar intro and then riding on a gloomy, funebral organ pattern and Iommi's doom-laden power chords — and on top of it all, what might be Ozzy's single best vocal performance of his entire career, just because it sounds so totally like him, Ozzy: a song about a morally dysfunctional human being who might occasionally question his own existence and grope for a ray of light, only to conclude with grim determination that "nobody's gonna change my world, that's something too unreal, no­body will change the way I feel". I will even confess to having occasionally found myself empa­thizing, against my will, almost to the point of tears — then again, I guess Jesus weeps for Ozzy, too, on an everyday basis.

The song is also notable for introducing Iommi's new soloing style — each of Ozzy's stone-heavy concluding statements puts Tony in a state of overdrive, where flashy, frenzied, «shredding» licks flood the room in hysterical torrents that used to be characteristic of Jimmy Page rather than Tony Iommi. Of course, this playing style can easily degenerate into meaningless wanking, but on ʽYou Won't Change Meʼ, both solos are in perfect agreement with the singer's state of mind, not to mention the important demonstration that Iommi is, in fact, ready and able to enter the Van Halen / Iron Maiden era with the required chops for the business. Nevertheless, on the whole ʽYou Won't Change Meʼ is an Osbourne classic, not an Iommi one (and, in a funny way, all those lyrics — from "you give me life woman" to "although you won't change me anyway" — predict the complicated story of the Ozzy / Sharon relationship to a tee).

I wish I could garner the same level of exuberance for the other ballad of the album (ʽShe's Goneʼ); alas, this is where the melodrama in Ozzy takes over, and he oversings Butler's corny lyrics to a lite-baroque pop arrangement, fully in line with all the stereotypical «arena (pseudo)-art balladry» clichés of the decade. Maybe they were trying to become The Moody Blues on that particular track, but they forgot to write an interesting melody for it, beyond Tony's repetitive acoustic arpeggios. Actually, the Moody Blues connection could also be seen in that they have a psychedelic art rocker called ʽGypsyʼ on the album — far less impres­sive than the Moodies' ʽGypsyʼ, but one of the most experimental numbers on Technical Ecstasy anyway; I'm not sure I love it, but I can see where it could be lovable if you give its complex structure, various overdubs, and alleged seriousness some time to seep in.

As you can see by now, the album is an oddly mixed bag — on the whole, probably a failure if viewed from a «music as never-ending progress» angle, but not without its share of underrated classics and musical experiments. In recent years, its reputation seems to have slightly improved as more and more people have begun evaluating it on its own terms, rather than from the «how does it compare with the punk/New Wave spirit, or at least with the New Wave of British Heavy Metal?» point of view. In any case, it is not a record that is only too happy to pigeonhole itself, and I'd gladly take it, hits and misses included, over most of what would continue to be issued under the Black Sabbath moniker — even if it is much less true to the «essence» and «legacy» of the Black Sabbath moniker than, say, all of those Tony Martin albums. A «technical», if not parti­cularly «ecstatic», thumbs up here.

Bob Dylan: The Bootleg Series Vol. 10 (Another Self Portrait)

THE BOOTLEG SERIES VOL. 10: ANOTHER SELF PORTRAIT (1969-1970; 2012)

CD I: 1) Went To See The Gypsy; 2) Little Sadie; 3) Pretty Saro; 4) Alberta #3; 5) Spanish Is The Loving Tongue; 6) Annie's Going To Sing Her Song; 7) Time Passes Slowly #1; 8) Only A Hobo; 9) Minstrel Boy; 10) I Threw It All Away; 11) Railroad Bill; 12) Thirsty Boots; 13) This Evening So Soon; 14) These Hands; 15) In Search Of Little Sadie; 16) House Carpenter; 17) All The Tired Horses;

CD II: 1) If Not For You; 2) Wallflower; 3) Wigwam; 4) Days Of '49; 5) Working On A Guru; 6) Country Pie; 7) I'll Be Your Baby Tonight; 8) Highway 61 Revisited; 9) Copper Kettle; 10) Bring Me A Little Water; 11) Sign On The Window; 12) Tattle O'Day; 13) If Dogs Run Free; 14) New Morning; 15) Went To See The Gypsy; 16) Belle Isle; 17) Time Passes Slowly #2; 18) When I Paint My Masterpiece.

The farther you go, the harder it gets to push out new incarnations of «The Bootleg Series» that would not merely be of historical interest, but actually worthy of Bob's general reputation and enjoyable to the average ear without having to be preceded by a three-hour lecture on how Bob Dylan changed the world in so many ways. The Witmark Demos was already something like the equivalent of Vol. 25 of Leo Tolstoy's Collected Oeuvres, located so far down the bookshelf that only professional philologists ever get there. But with Vol. 10, the Bootleg Series Team and their grumpy old endorser from Hibbing, Minnesota, have found an unpredictable and exciting twist that clearly shows — «Dylan still got it» even when it comes to digging around in forty-year old trash that most people would have probably recycled a long time ago.

This, in fact, is nothing less than «Dylan's revenge»: a double CD of demos, outtakes, and alter­nate cuts from his least critically respected era — the year of Self Portrait (which everybody hated) and New Morning (which everybody could have hated were it not for it being the follow-up to Self Portrait). Was the team crazy or something? Not in the least. Even as the original ter­minator-style reviews of Self Portrait pretty much secured the album's encyclopaedic status of «Dylan's lowest creative point», over the years, more and more people came to realize that the record was really «not all that bad» — meaning, of course, that it was pretty good, as long as you did not hold it up to the standards of a Highway 61 Revisited. All one had to do was wait — and Dylan waited just long enough. The timing could hardly be better: with his string of derivative, non-revolutionary, but still modestly brilliant artistic successes in the 1990s and 2000s he got fans and critics alike to recognize and respect that «Dylan cannot always be great, but he can be consistently good». And here comes a memo of the distant past — just admit it, guys, I've always been at least consistently good, even when you said I stunk. Just let it go. Drop a load. You've always liked Self Portrait, I'm sure, you were just too embarrassed to admit it.

To drive the final nail in the coffin of Self Portrait's musical-Frankenstein legend, none other than Greil Marcus, the author of the original famous «what is this shit?» review, is called in to repent and atone for his sins by writing a new set of liner notes. Honestly, I have not even opened them — I am just amused by the power that Bob Dylan has over people. Of course, he may have also reiterated what other reviewers have said: many of them, so as to save face, published glowing reviews along the lines of «Dylan was on such a creative roll in 1970, really, it is a pity and a shame that his outtakes were actually so much better than the official record. Yeah, truly and verily, the only thing that is better than ʽCopper Kettleʼ and ʽBelle Isleʼ without the orches­tral overdubs is ʽDays Of '49ʼ without the rhythm section!»

This is all rubbish, of course. Self Portrait was cool (including Bob's romantic takes on ʽBlue Moonʼ and ʽLet It Be Meʼ, rather than excluding them), and Another Self Portrait simply adds to that coolness. If there is one thing that it adds to our understanding of Dylan circa 1970, it is that the man was not merely driven by the desire to release something «humble» and «epochally irrelevant» to get the Messiah-seekers off his front porch — he really was exploring various musical avenues and corners, even if that exploration so often focused on material written and recorded by other people. It was all just a part of the general plan to «get back to the roots» (which he shared with the Beatles, the Byrds, and quite a few other people around the same time) and it worked far more often than it did not.

Of those songs that have previously been available only in real bootleg form, most would have fit in well on Self Portrait, although I do not feel like spending much spacetime discussing them — mostly a mix of blues, folk, and country oldies and a few originals, ranging from the stylishly romantic (ʽPretty Saroʼ) to the epic western (ʽRailroad Billʼ) to the working man's song (ʽThese Handsʼ) to even a satirical send-up of Jimmy Reed's classic style (ʽWorking On A Guruʼ); only the cover of Eric Andersen's ʽThirsty Bootsʼ, a stately song of consolation and repose, makes a humble swipe at «classic» status, but somehow remains in­complete. Still, it is kinda fun to imagine all of them, along with a few early versions that would later be reworked for New Morning, making it on to the regular Self Portrait and turning it into a triple album. What would Greil Marcus have said in 1970?

The most interesting stuff, actually, is not the «naked» versions of songs that did make it to Self Portrait (I personally do not mind the strings and backing harmonies on ʽCopper Kettleʼ at all), but those early versions of New Morning songs that are often completely dissimilar to their official equivalents. ʽIf Dogs Run Freeʼ, in particular, is an actual song here rather than just a recital, with a gospel chorus to boot; ʽNew Morningʼ itself is aggrandized with a horn section, giving it a flashy «Stax» feel; ʽTime Passes Slowlyʼ opens up in full-blast rocking mode, and ʽIf Not For Youʼ features a retro-romantic, if not too well polished, violin part from some wannabe Jascha Heifetz — I can see why Dylan ended up hating the idea, but it was funny while it lasted. Collectively, these songs are very different in aim and scope from the final «homebrewn», relati­vely minimalist product, and, as good as New Morning ended up anyway, it would have been interesting to see it as this far more ambitiously conceived project; the album would have no obvious equivalent in the rest of Bob's catalog.

Two of the songs also feature additional numbers from Bob's 1969 Isle of Wight gig with The Band, but if you're lucky, you might end up with the 3-CD deluxe edition whose bonus disc con­tains the show captured in full. Since it was Bob's first official gig after a three-year break (and would also be the last, an appearance at Harrison's Bangla Desh concert excepted, for another four or five), everything is as crude as it seemed on the official Self Portrait, but not without its own period charms — this is where Bob would sing (for about half of the show) in his «angelic» voice, putting a special spin on oldies like ʽIt Ain't Me Babeʼ and ʽTo Ramonaʼ, butchering ʽI Pity The Poor Immigrantʼ in the process, and, together with The Band, turning his old rockers into rambling, half-drunk traveling minstrel show ballads. Not a great show, but a fun experiment — and another live Dylan album that sounds nothing like any other live Dylan albums. Plus, that Robbie Robertson guitar solo on ʽQuinn The Eskimoʼ, cleaned up and remastered, has never sounded more fiery and inspirational.

Happy to say that I have no qualms whatsoever about giving this one a thumbs up — I, for one, have liked (and sometimes even loved) Self Portrait since the day I first heard it, and it is only natural to extend that liking to Another Self Portrait, since it sort of lets you in much deeper on Dylan's general state of mind at the time.

Bill Withers: Menagerie

BILL WITHERS: MENAGERIE (1977)

1) Lovely Day; 2) I Want To Spend The Night; 3) Lovely Night For Dancing; 4) Then You Smile At Me; 5) She Wants To (Get On Down); 6) It Ain't Because Of Me Baby; 7) Tender Things; 8) Wintertime; 9) Let Me Be The One You Need; 10) Rosie.

Strangely, even though this album is even more upbeat, sunny, and dance-oriented than Naked & Warm, it seems to produce an overall stronger impression. Maybe it is because of consistency and coherence — this time around, Bill is not even beginning to pretend that he still has any of that old «dark streak» left in him, not to mention that there is no ʽCity Of The Angelsʼ anywhere in sight, or any other attempts to carve an «art» sound out of the basics of the California dance scene. This time around, it's all about romance, chivalry, happiness, and smooth body music in the disco paradigm — soothing entertainment to relieve you of your troubles, not to remind you of your troubles. Meet Bill Withers, next in line for the title of The Ladies' Man.

The best news for miles around is that the album begins with ʽLovely Dayʼ — incidentally, one of the best «happy-sunny» R&B grooves of the decade, pulled up by the hair into the stratosphere by Bill's ability to hold one note (the right note, of course!) for what seems like an eternity, while his backup singers have enough time to pull in and out several times. It is really a simple trick, and it eclipses the rest of the song (which is actually quite commendable for its well-thought out funky bassline at least), but without the trick, we would not find ourselves coming back to it for any special reason. Whatever be, the song manages to ooze happiness without exaggerating it — the arrangement is fairly minimalistic, and Bill sings everything, including the extended notes, in an easy, relaxed, self-controlled manner, implying that you don't really need to jump out of your pants in order to convey that happy feel. But you do need technique and discipline.

The rest of the album never quite lives up to the subtle punch of the opener, but the opener sets up the mood, locks it shut, and somehow ensures that the record stays listenable and non-irritating right to the very end. Oddly, it is the funkiest / disco-est numbers that stay around for the longest time, probably because of all the repetition in the grooves — I wouldn't ever want to speak of ʽShe Wants To (Get On Down)ʼ as a dance-pop masterpiece, but the call-and-response vocal hook is infectious against my will, as is the "get up and dance with me" exhortation on ʽLovely Night For Dancingʼ (yes, there is a lot of invitations to dance throughout the album — and who'd be surprised, with Saturday Night Fever coming 'round the bend at any time?).

On the other hand, there is no need to pretend, either, that, apart from ʽLovely Dayʼ, Menagerie has any reason to be singled out of a swarm of similar R&B products on the mid-1970s market. The dance numbers are still undermined by Bill's «softness» and «gentlemanliness» (next to the «ruffian sound» of Chic, for instance), and the ballads... well, even the previously unissued demo version of ʽRosieʼ, now appended to the CD version of the album, with just Bill and his piano, fails to move me beyond the expectably-predictable «niceness», so when it comes to full arrange­ments, things get worse — Bill used minimal arrangements on most of his masterpieces, and most of the string and harmony parts on songs like ʽLet Me Be The One You Needʼ suffer from corny melodic moves, too much syrup, and too much formula.

In the end, while this is not a «thumbs down» record per se (the presence of ʽLovely Dayʼ and the absence of a ʽCity Of The Angelsʼ equivalent guarantees some neutrality), neither is it a mira­culous «return to form» as one could conclude from reading the occasional happy-faced review. Then again, not being particularly familiar with the story of Bill's personal life (I only know that 1976 was the year of his second and happiest marriage), I am quite willing to suggest that the man was simply playing the honesty card — a well-balanced, content, peaceful personal life, with all the demons exorcised and crucified, might be translatable to a musical re­cord like Menagerie with the utmost sincerity. Good for him — Marvin Gaye might have had a far more exciting musical career from beginning to end, but nobody in one's right mind should wish anybody else the life of a Marvin Gaye rather than that of a Bill Withers, right?

Albert King: In Session (with Stevie Ray Vaughan)

ALBERT KING: IN SESSION WITH STEVIE RAY VAUGHAN (1983; 1999)

1) Call It Stormy Monday; 2) Old Times; 3) Pride And Joy; 4) Ask Me No Questions; 5) Pep Talk; 6) Blues At Sunrise; 7) Turn It Over; 8) Overall Junction; 9) Match Box Blues; 10) Who Is Stevie; 11) Don't Lie To Me.

A recording that pits one of the greatest blues stars of the «old school» against one of the bright­est blues legends of the «new school» should be predictably boring and boringly predictable, and In Session does not dissapoint — it is so by-the-bookishly great that I could not tolerate its pre­sence in the foreground for even five seconds before my attention would slip away to something different. Which, of course, does not in the least prohibit this recording, and also the accompany­ing video program, from enduring and enjoying a legendary status.

Although both the album and the video obviously belong in the discographies of both artists, the field here largely belongs to King — he is, after all, the older one, and does his best to appear in the role of the wise master teacher (on ʽPep Talkʼ, he is hilariously pushing Stevie towards per­fectionism: "the better you get, the harder you work, you can't say, ʽI've got it madeʼ... you're already pretty good, but you're gonna get better" — "that's the whole point", the Texas kid replies humbly and politely, instead of "fuck you dad" which he was probably thinking at the moment). It is said that, when he was approached about recording a session with Vaughan, he initially declined, not knowing who Vaughan was — then realized it was the «little Stevie» he'd allowed to sit in with himself during some of his earlier Texas shows, and once it became clear that the session could be conducted in this «father-son» manner, things started getting easier.

Anyway, what we have here is a selection of blues classics, mostly from the standard repertoire of Albert's, with one Stevie number (ʽPride And Joyʼ) graciously accepted for balance (the video and audio releases have significantly differing tracklists, by the way, so any fan should consider owning both), and interrupted by bits of studio banter, mostly from King reminiscing about the old times (such as playing ʽBlues At Sunriseʼ at the Fillmore with Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin at the same time). Stevie, on the verge of his big breakthrough, is in good form, and Albert was never in bad form as long as the material was adequate. The obvious question is — how are they up for teamwork, and does that teamwork offer any extra revelations?

One thing I must confess is that, throughout the endless blues jamming, I was not always able to tell who of the two was taking the lead (referring to the audio soundtrack only, of course). As dif­ferent as King's and Vaughan's blues playing styles generally are, when seated together and fo­cused on the same thing, the two players seem to have drifted almost uncomfortably close to each other, with Stevie in particular wanting to impress Albert by feeding him back trademark Albert licks (or, when asked for it, as on ʽBlues At Sunriseʼ, some trademark Hendrix licks: "this is where you gotta play Jimi's part", King says, and the disciple obeys). Albert himself also rises to the occasion and plays the whole show as fluent, loud, screechy, and well-rounded as possible: no flubs or retro-style minimalist passages that would date him as somebody out of the 1950s.

The result is a curious «merger» that, paradoxically, seems to lower the sheer entertainment value of the experience — with two blues greats trading solos played in similar styles, what's the major use of having them engage in these lengthy jams at all? In the end, it all looks more like a text­book of possible blues licks, created by the two with the aim of educating their audiences about the blues rather than having themselves some fun. As a textbook, it is beyond reproach: you could hardly wish for a more awesome combination of stellar players if you are in the mood for some star-powered blues-rock. But I do not think that either Stevie or Albert are at their most «natural» here — to achieve that proverbial «chemistry», they play it too safe around each other.

Most of the reviews I've encountered for In Session were glowing, but I really wonder how many of them weren't already following a pre-set bias (if you get Vaughan and King together on one record, and if they find a way to gel together, then this has to be good because there is no way it could ever be bad). Well, actually, there are relatively few of these «super-sessions» that would eclipse the individual highlights of the superstars, and this is no exception — to truly appreciate these people, you need to look at them separately, not together. Did they make history on that night? Would be hard to deny that. Isn't it great to have a whole hour of high-quality footage of Albert King's playing (so rare to come across in general)? Sure is. Did I have a right to expect more than what I got? Yes, I did. No, I did not. Why should this super-session be different from any other super-session?..

Bikini Kill: Pussy Whipped

BIKINI KILL: PUSSY WHIPPED (1993)

1) Blood One; 2) Alien She; 3) Magnet; 4) Speed Heart; 5) Lil Red; 6) Tell Me So; 7) Sugar; 8) Star Bellied Boy; 9) Hamster Baby; 10) Rebel Girl; 11) Star Fish; 12) For Tammy Rae.

Since this is the band's first, loudest, and most straightforward full-fledged LP, it has become the classic point of first reference for Bikini Kill — but it is not easy to say something about it that has not already been said in the context of discussing the first EPs. In fact, Pussy Whipped plays off the idea that nobody has probably heard those EPs, because they go to the trouble of re-recor­ding ʽRebel Girlʼ — in an inferior version, I might add, with noticeably lower fidelity and with a sur­prisingly tamer guitar tone from Billy.

Of course, the band in general is anything but tame: Hannah's screeching has only got wilder, to the extent that it is nigh impossible to decipher the sound waves battering against the poor micro­phone. Maybe it's all for the better — it is hard not to cringe at all the «radical feminist» dribble that is delivered non-stop without the slightest hint of humor or irony ("your alphabet is spilled with my blood", "all you do is destroy", etc.). Then again, I would be lying if I said that every song on here qualifies as a straightforwardly dumb anthem; and I would also be lying if I said that songs like ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ or ʽSugarʼ, decrying brutal sexist attitudes of guys who treat girls like fuckmeat, had nothing to do with reality — for justice' sake, it would constitute a good balance to have ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ sitting next to, say, the Rolling Stones' ʽStupid Girlʼ as a call-and-answer thing on ridiculing stereotypes.

Anyway, the real bad news is that the music is still being treated like a bitch. All the riffs have been pilfered, as usual, from the band's favorite recordings by the Troggs, the Ramones, and the Sex Pistols, so that the record rides exclusively on attitude — and the attitude never varies from song to song, depending only on whether Hannah plays it completely straight or gets a little theat­rical (on ʽSugarʼ, she spends some time mocking and parodying the «pornstar approach» towards guys, before cutting the crap and asking it straight — "why can't I ever get my sugar?"; right next to it, ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ culminates in a frantic "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't cum!" that really shows all that dumbass guy how much of a pathetic «hero» he really is).

To those listeners who think that only the spirit matters, these forty minutes may seem like a single, super-concentrated energy punch, a nuclear warhead of an album that takes the feminist revolution in art to a whole new level. Myself, I don't see the principal progress over Patti Smith, who was a better poet, had a more professional musical backing, occasionally authored catchy songs, and was at least as ballsy as Hannah. But yeah, Bikini Kill make more noise, and all their riffs are thick, crunchy, and distorted to the max.

Oh, I forgot: the last song here breaks the trend — it is nothing less than a ballad, dedicated to Tammy Rae Carland, a lesbian artist friend of theirs who also designed the album cover. Its com­positional genius could probably be matched by a five-year old Paul McCartney, its catchiness factor drops well below zero, but the artistic statement of finishing this hyper-aggressive package with a sweet-but-not-too-sentimental confession of love (for that one person who might probably be able to finally make Kathleen cum!) cannot be beat.

As a final disclaimer, I have to say, of course, that I only feel somewhat qualified to dismiss Pussy Whipped as a «musical» non-entity — as to what concerns its power and authenticity as a social performance act, well, I guess that guys have about as much business discussing this stuff as propagating their views on abortion. In a way, it might be so that Hannah and her friends are simply doing here the kind of thing that should have been done a long time ago — that, as a girl band, they are simply «ideologically catching up» with the hardcore punk aesthetics. It is true that, even if musically Bikini Kill are not doing anything in 1993 that could not have already been done in 1983, or even in 1977-79, for that matter, there was no band quite like Bikini Kill (music, lyrics, image combined) circa 1977-79 or 1983, and that should get you a-thinkin'. Maybe if all these songs had been written in 1977, I would not be tempted to snicker at them so much.

Nevertheless, I am here primarily to opinionate on the music, not on the ideology, and from that point of view, if you come here searching for music, I have no right to recommend Pussy Whip­ped, an album whose chief target audience, so I'd think, would consist of sexually oppressed mid-to-low-class young females in need of a psychological crash course on how to defend yourself (nothing to laugh about, actually — far be it from me to deny the grave seriousness of this issue!). So remember this, ladies: next time you find yourself sexually harassed by your male chauvinist pig employer / colleague / high school «admirer», just put up ʽBlood Oneʼ or ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ as your ringtone, and watch his allegedly mighty tool wither on the spot.

Bettie Serveert: Attagirl

BETTIE SERVEERT: ATTAGIRL (2004)

1) Dreamaniacs; 2) Attagirl; 3) Don't Touch That Dial!; 4) Greyhound Song; 5) You've Changed; 6) Versace; 7) 1 Off Deal; 8) Hands Off; 9) Staying Kind; 10) Lover I Don't Have To Love.

An irresponsible reviewer like myself should have found a very easy way to shrug off an album like this — simply by saying that no album that features a Bright Eyes cover deserves a review, period, let alone a positive review. But for the sake of self-improvement, let us assume that I am not myself today, so, in a far more responsible manner, I have to point out that ʽLover I Don't Have To Loveʼ was one of the few listenable numbers on Lifted, and that any Conor Oberst song would automatically sound better anyway if done by Carol van Dijk. Because Carol can at least play it intricately, mystery-woman-style, whereas Conor Oberst is simply a guy that deserves being put out of his misery on the spot, whenever he opens his mouth. (Okay, make it «the artistic reflection of Conor Oberst», to avoid unrequired ambiguities).

In any case, regardless of how artistically embarrassing it is for a band much older, better, and at least more experienced than Bright Eyes to cover Bright Eyes, that is only one last track on an album that is quite uneven, but occasionally still charming and/or catchy. Shorter and less ambi­tious than Log 22, it is another mix of «classic indie-rock» Bettie Serveert with their Private Suit incarnation, so it's got a little for everyone, but not a lot for anyone, unless you adore their guitar posturing stuff and their moody escapades equally.

I will probably settle for the moody escapades: ʽDreamaniacsʼ is a successful art-pop creation where bouncy rhythmics, meteor showers of electronic bleeps, and ambient strings mesh well with Carol's lyrical message — "though my feet are on the ground, my head is on a cloud", as she pleads with her imaginary lover to take it easy on her ("don't give up on me, dreamaniacs don't aim to please"). The title track is even better, with its smoky lounge atmosphere and a streak of weepiness culminating in the bitter-ironic hook of "attagirl!" We never get the details, but Carol's "it's you and me and the Devil makes three" is an uneasy line all the same, and the arrangement of the song makes it work, although arguably it works even better when totally stripped, on an acou­stic demo version that is appended as a bonus to some of the CD editions.

The third highlight of the album is ʽVersaceʼ, where the band falls for the latest indie trends and explores the risky world of electronic dance-pop, but with surprisingly effective results — the bass groove and various keyboard overdubs set a ghostly melancholic mood, while Carol adopts her most seductive tone (the one which allows breaking into falsetto when necessary). However, the irony and need for self-deflation are not forgotten, either: on their own, the lyrics would be just a trite collection of «broken heart» clichés, but the repetitive mantra "Versace... Versace... Versace" consolidating the hookline, the song becomes more of a self-conscious parody on the «ennui syndrome of the rich and prosperous». Pretty cool, considering that it was their first experiment with this kind of style.

With the addition of a couple more inventive mixes (e.g. «swampy» slide guitars with «Eastern» strings on ʽGrehound Song), Attagirl is, at the very least, entertainingly diverse, even if it has its share of forgettable throwaways as well (ʽHands Offʼ — fast, look-at-me-I'm-so-full-of-energy pop-rocker whose main purpose seems to be to remind us that they are still a «rock» band and can kick ass any time they want to; but I don't think it's really true). Since nobody really gave a damn about a bunch of aging rockers from Holland by 2004, the album got almost no press, and what little it got was fairly cruel — but I suppose such was the inevitable cost of being originally over­rated and overpraised: few things in this world can be as pitiable as a formerly overappreciated indie-rock band still trying to raise sand in a dog-eat-dog environment. But honestly, even with­out any pity or condescension, Attagirl deserves a modest thumbs up on the whole, and we will try to overlook the Bright Eyes incident because, well, everybody is entitled to a tasteless blunder every now and then. Just don't do it again.

Beth Orton: Comfort Of Strangers

BETH ORTON: COMFORT OF STRANGERS (2005)

1) Worms; 2) Countenance; 3) Heartland Truckstop; 4) Rectify; 5) Comfort Of Strangers; 6) Shadow Of A Doubt; 7) Conceived; 8) Absinthe; 9) A Place Inside; 10) Safe In Your Arms; 11) Shopping Trolley; 12) Feral Children; 13) Heart Of Soul; 14) Pieces Of Sky.

Good God, is this ever boring. On her fourth (actually, fifth, if you count SuperPinkyMandy, and you should) album, Orton goes for an even more stripped-down approach — most of the songs are in trio format, with Jim O'Rourke handling bass duties and Tim Barnes on percussion, while Beth is doing her latest best to impress us as a singer, songwriter, guitar player, artistic soul, and gracious human being. Unfortunately, of all these categories, I can only recommend «gra­cious human being» to your attention. If you are in need of a randomly chosen gracious human being this evening, Beth Orton is as good as any, and maybe even better than most.

The one major saving grace of these fourteen songs is that they are all short — only one crosses the four-minute mark, and some barely go over two. This means that at least your ears will not have enough time to shrivel, wither, and fall off in protest as the lady moves from one traditional folk chord sequence to another. She does try to write her own vocal melodies for the songs, but she still has not mastered the art of the hook — at best, her «hooks» are softly shouted slogans (ʽHeart Of Soulʼ), and at worst, she just adds a little touch of singing to her poetry.

Lyrically, as you could guess, there is a lot of suffering going on, completely inadequate to the lite-melancholic, lulling music that surrounds the vocal delivery — and the vocal delivery itself is as tepid as usual. The words are hit-and-miss — some of the imagery is thought-provoking, although it is hard to lyrically justify an album whose opening lines go "Worms don't dance / They haven't got the balls" — but in the end, they are about as uninteresting as the music. Whole songwriting factories have put out billions of songs on the side effects of the love business, and there is no way Comfort Of Strangers could stand competition with the best of 'em.

I count exactly one track here where an interesting musical move was suggested — ʽRectifyʼ has a sort of non-trivial transition from the fast gallop of the verses to the slow shuffle of the "if you take a drop of water from a bucket..." chorus. Both parts in themselves are pretty standard fare country-pop, but the way they alternate with each other is novel and even fun, especially com­pared to the utter facelessness of the rest.

It is quite possible — indeed, almost a certainty — that some of these songs could have been saved by means of more imaginative arrangements (bring back Orbit!). Not even Beth Orton's biggest fans could probably claim that she is an outstanding guitar or piano player, or endowed with some sort of idiosyncratic playing technique that puts her in her own niche. The «folk­tronica» thing was the only thing that gave her music an edge; take away the «-tronica» and you are left with nothing. There is no sense in wasting time analyzing these songs one by one. They are not «awful bad» per se, but I'd rather they be awful bad, because this demonstration of by-the-book «tasteful sensitive grace» is as head-splittingly dull as watching a Nora Ephron movie, sorry. Thumbs down.

Black Sabbath: Sabotage

BLACK SABBATH: SABOTAGE (1975)

1) Hole In The Sky; 2) Don't Start (Too Late); 3) Symptom Of The Universe; 4) Megalomania; 5) Thrill Of It All; 6) Supertzar; 7) Am I Going Insane (Radio); 8) The Writ.

It is hardly an accident that the only song to have endured in Sabbath's «typical» live set from this album was ʽSymptom Of The Universeʼ. Others were tried out circa 1975-76, then quickly dis­carded and forgotten; and, according to most sources, the band members have relatively few kind words to say about the album themselves — they prefer to remember that time as a period of personal chaos, druggy stupor, and just not a lot of fun altogether. (Now Headless Cross — there was a time of much rejoicing and happiness... 'nuff said).

Indeed, Sabotage is anything but the «quintessential Black Sabbath» album. Fans of ʽParanoidʼ, ʽIron Manʼ, and even ʽSabbath Bloody Sabbathʼ, if they come here looking for more of the same, will inevitably run away in disappointment — as perplexed at the band's musical direction as we all would be in the band's taste in clothes (the front sleeve photo has made history as one of the tackiest style demonstrations of «the Me Decade»). Acoustic guitars are one thing, of course, and we'd had them for quite some time already, but harpsichords? synthesizers? choir harmonies? tape experiments? multi-part ten-minute epics? what is this, Selling Satan By The Pound?

Actually, no. Detractors of the album (fortunately, there are not too many of them) usually com­plain that at this point, the band got too heavily involved in «progressive» experimentation, lost its head in a mix of artistic influences and illegal substances, and delivered something that may have agreed with the spirit of the times, but was utterly «not Sabbath», an attempt to tread on other people's turf with predictable stupidity instead of required subtlety. My opinion is the direct opposite: I think that Sabotage is the most sincere and deeply personal album ever recorded by the band, and that this is the reason why it can still be so harrowing after all these years.

As great as those early classic albums were, it is hard to deny that the band was putting on an act, and that even with all his looniness, Ozzy did not think of himself as Lucifer or The Iron Man in his everyday life. Personal matters did not really begin figuring in the band's output until Vol. 4, and even then their preoccupation with their own minds was still only occasional. But they still continued growing as their own psychoanalysts, step by step, and by the time we come to Sabo­tage, it was really happening.

There is one central theme here, running through most of the songs: INSANITY. Ozzy, as he will be glad to tell you himself, is mentally unstable from birth, and while the same cannot be said of his pals, by the mid-1970s they were certainly living mad lives (and who wasn't?). Intentional or not, madness, fantasies, and delusions are at the heart of Sabotage as they were an integral part of the band's life at the time — and the fact that these themes coincided with a «trendy» desire to experiment in the studio is used by the band to tremendous advantage. Naturally, they lack the «education» that it would require to produce a Dark Side Of The Moon, but they more than make up for it with sheer natural talent, creative instinct, and, yes, a good dose of rock'n'roll passion (that one time where they really have Floyd in a corner).

Funny enough, the album begins on a completely unpretentious note: ʽHole In The Skyʼ is just a heavy rocker in the old tradition — lumpy, bluesy, driven by a good, but unexceptional couple of riffs, and only the lyrics, written by Geezer as an ever more sophisticated clump of metaphors and allusions, betray the band's current obsession with their inner psyche. That, and Ozzy's delivery, of course — he sings with such passion as if he actually gets what those lines mean: "The syno­nyms of all the things that I've said / Are just the riddles that are built in my head". Heck, maybe he does get it, he just probably couldn't explain it in words, not even if you threatened to enroll him in a Cambridge educational program.

It all begins at the end of the fourth minute, when ʽHole In The Skyʼ is unexpectedly cut off in mid-riff (artsy!) and the short acoustic interlude ʽDon't Startʼ announces the start of the «serious» part of our program, as we slip into «experimental» mode and never let go. ʽSymptom Of The Universeʼ begins fast and heavy, then, midway through, dives into moody acoustic lite-jazz as Tony becomes José Feliciano for a change. Conversely, ʽMegalomaniaʼ ends fast and heavy, but begins as a dark psychedelic trip with ghostly musical overtones and time-warped vocals at the start of each verse. ʽThrill Of It Allʼ is a fifty-fifty mix of «Satanic Sabbath» with the all-toge­ther-now colorfully psychedelic atmosphere of Yellow Submarine. ʽSupertzarʼ (the title alone is worth a grand) puts Iommi's metal guitar on top of Gregorian harmonies from the London Phil­harmonic Choir... or was that vice versa? ʽAm I Going Insaneʼ takes Mozart's / The Nice's ʽRondeauʼ as the foundation and turns it into a synth-pop song with a catchy chorus, but no guitar. Finally, ʽThe Writʼ, an anti-lawyer song of particular value to Ozzy because he wrote the lyrics himself, goes from dark arena-rock to confessional harpsichord-driven baroque pop — and, in the good old tradition of Abbey Road, the album ends on a self-deflating note with the band banging away on a piano and singing a joke tune (ʽBlow On A Jugʼ).

If you are yet to savor those crazy delights and that paragraph seemed tempting to you, rest assured that the music actually does match all that weirdness, and, moreover, none of that weird­ness seems particularly forced or senseless. Even a track like ʽSupertzarʼ, probably the easiest target on here to shoot down for «stupidity», works very well in the overall context —  I suppose the band invented the title not merely as a pun, but because the choir reminded them of «Russian church singing», and where there's Russian church singing, there's also a sort of «foolishness-for-Christ» association going on, and one thing ties to another and suddenly Iommi's frantic guitar riffs, locked with those religious choral harmonies, start making some sort of bizarre sense — perfectly put right in front of ʽAm I Going Insaneʼ.

However, my own personal favorite here, and a vote for most criminally underrated Sabbath song of all time (at least in that the band has never tried resuscitating it live after the 1975-76 season), is ʽMegalomaniaʼ. The song is yet another example of an odd lyrical/musical mismatch — its two parts respectively deal with the self-realized deadly plight of a satanic megalomaniac (Hitler?) and the successful search for redemption ("Now I've found my happiness / From the depths of sorrow"), but if anything, the second part of the song is even gloomier and scarier than the first one: at least, Tony's major riff that is driving it forward contains no hint at «redemption» or «happiness». One totally ad hoc association that crossed my mind, for some reason, was Jesus Christ Superstar — there are some moments here when ʽMegalomaniaʼ conveys the same «un­redeemable darkness» feel as ʽThe Death Of Judasʼ, with those atmospheric, ghostly, fleeting heavy chords laid over the main melody. Thematically, though, the song probably has more in common with Tommy... one thing is for certain: this is as close as Black Sabbath ever came to writing their own «rock opera», and something tells me that in 1975, they might have succeeded with it. On the other hand, maybe it is just as well that the album was made without such a strictly set purpose, and just came out naturally the way it did.

Fate would have it, though, that the chief memory of Sabotage in the collective mass conscience would have to be the main riff to ʽSymptom Of The Universeʼ — the «first ever thrash metal riff», as it is now retrospectively featured in encyclopaedias, even though the term certainly did not exist in 1975 (Tony himself has humorously mixed it up in his memoirs, writing that it has been called «the first progressive metal riff»), and, furthermore, Pete Townshend was already playing something very close to that same pattern as early as 1969-70 on some of the versions of ʽYoung Man Bluesʼ. What matters, though, is that it is just a frickin' great riff — simple, monstruous, powerful, and, while we are on the subject, more memorable and more cool than 99% of the «real» thrash metal riffs I have heard. And what is even cooler is how Ozzy manages to saddle it with his own speedy vocal part — witchy lead singer ripping through space on a heavy metal riff broom — and how they come up with the idea of crash-landing the song in an otherworldly jazzy paradise at the end, instead of just fading the riff away as many others would have done.

And yet I insist that the legend of ʽSymptom Of The Universeʼ should not have overshadowed the overall punch of Sabotage as a thematic and unpredictable album. As a whole, it certainly is «progressive metal», and a million billion times more impressive than, say, the entire output of a band like Queensryche, simply because it happened to be made by a score of talented people who refused to bind themselves by silly genrist rules. Alas, pretty soon already Black Sabbath would turn into a prime example of a band ruining itself by sticking to genrist rules — like most other people, they paid attention to record sales, and with sales of Sabotage failing to match their pre­vious successes, it was believed that «this is not what the fans want of us» (which was at least partially true). But this is also what makes Sabotage so pricelessly unique in the band's catalog, and, in fact, in Seventies' music in general — thumbs up on all counts.

Bob Dylan: The Bootleg Series Vol. 9 (The Witmark Demos)

BOB DYLAN: THE BOOTLEG SERIES VOL. 9: THE WITMARK DEMOS (1962-1964; 2010)

CD I: 1) Man On The Street (fragment); 2) Hard Times In New York Town; 3) Poor Boy Blues; 4) Ballad For A Friend; 5) Rambling, Gambling Willie; 6) Talking Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues; 7) Standing On The Highway; 8) Man On The Street; 9) Blowin' In The Wind; 10) Long Ago, Far Away; 11) A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall; 12) Tomorrow Is A Long Time; 13) The Death Of Emmett Till; 14) Let Me Die In My Footsteps; 15) Ballad Of Hollis Brown; 16) Quit Your Low Down Ways; 17) Baby, I'm In The Mood For You; 18) Bound To Lose, Bound To Win; 19) All Over You; 20) I'd Hate To Be You On That Dreadful Day; 21) Long Time Gone; 22) Talkin' John Birch Paranoid Blues; 23) Masters Of War; 24) Oxford Town; 25) Farewell;

CD II: 1) Don't Think Twice, It's All Right; 2) Walkin' Down The Line; 3) I Shall Be Free; 4) Bob Dylan's Blues; 5) Bob Dylan's Dream; 6) Boots Of Spanish Leather; 7) Girl From The North Country; 8) Seven Curses; 9) Hero Blues; 10) Whatcha Gonna Do?; 11) Gypsy Lou; 12) Ain't Gonna Grieve; 13) John Brown; 14) Only A Hobo; 15) When The Ship Comes In; 16) The Times They Are A-Changin'; 17) Paths Of Victory; 18) Guess I'm Doing Fine; 19) Baby Let Me Follow You Down; 20) Mama, You Been On My Mind; 21) Mr. Tambourine Man; 22) I'll Keep It With Mine.

So I suppose it was only a matter of time, after all, before the complete set of the Witmark demos (only a brief «teaser» glimpse of which was offered on the original Bootleg Series) made it onto the public market. But almost inevitably, here is where we pass completely into the realm of special interest; the potential audience of this package is probably even smaller than the one for No Direction Home, which at least had the advantage of covering both the acoustic and the early electric periods and thus, featured considerably more diversity.

These recordings are not rejected outtakes and were originally meant to be heard by other people, but not by any people — they were recorded by Bob for two publishing companies (Leeds, and later the more prestigious Witmark that bought out Bob's contract) that would offer Bob's raw demos for other artists to cover. So, on one hand, there is some incentive here to get the basic point of the song through to the listener — on the other hand, there is no pretending that these aren't essentially «scratch» versions, ranging from half-finished drafts to completed recordings that still lack the care and meticulousness of finished studio productions.

More than half of the songs that the Bobster recorded in those «childhood days» we already know well enough from the official studio albums, and the cream of the crop for the unknown ones was already made available on The Bootleg Series Vol. 1. ʽDon't Think Twice, It's Alrightʼ is the only version here that can fully compete with the official original — most of the others will have you cringe a bit in terms of occasional flubbed lines, bum notes, or wrong intonations. For some reason, his latest sessions for Witmark were mostly piano-based, yet I doubt that anybody will get more kicks out of piano-driven versions of ʽMama You Been On My Mindʼ or ʽMr. Tambourine Manʼ, since Bob's piano skills were quite rudimentary.

As for previously unavailable or rare / bootlegged material, don't hold your breath: most of it consists of short, highly derivative snippets that may only disappoint when set next to classic material. Their main flaw is almost always the same — Bob is trying to sound like somebody else rather than himself. ʽStanding On The Highwayʼ, for instance, is an attempt at re-writing Robert Johnson's ʽCrossroadsʼ that fails because Bob is not Robert Johnson. A whole bunch sounds like Bob attempting to be Woody Guthrie (ʽGypsy Louʼ, ʽGuess I'm Doing Fineʼ, etc.). And it also features what might arguably be the man's worst ever attempt at a protest song: ʽThe Death Of Emmett Tillʼ. Which is really just ʽThe House Of The Rising Sunʼ with a new set of extremely crude lyrics that couldn't even be called «manipulative» because they're so ham-fisted. It did not take him too long to come up with better, sharper angles for Hollis Brown and Hattie Carroll, but poor Emmett Till, as tragic and disgusting as his story is, never really got his due here.

That said, there is hardly any sense in severely criticizing this album. For historiographers and «deep fans», this collection, grafted together in chronological order, is priceless anyway, because the lack of selectiveness shows, first and foremost, the learning process — the album lets us in, stage by stage, on the complicated job of becoming a successful singer-songwriter. In the process, we gradually see Dylan «coming into his own» — moving away from imitations and tributes and closer to finding his own voice. The big breakthrough, of course, comes with ʽBlowin' In The Windʼ and ʽHard Rainʼ — the great leap in quality that, amazingly enough, was yet nowhere near in sight when John Hammond signed Bob to Columbia — but it's not as if everything after that is a winner: inspiration still comes and goes, and it is only by the time of the second CD that Bob begins putting down masterpieces on a steady basis.

If seen from that point of view, The Witmark Demos is quite a unique archival release, because not even Anthology 1 included such a big share of early rejected or donated material, and it is quite bold of Bob to give the world easy access to his early jottings on such a large scale — al­though, at this point, it probably wouldn't have hurt his reputation if the next Bootleg Series were an entire album of Presley covers with his high school band. But the uniqueness comes with a price: I could only recommend this collection to people seriously obsessed with the question of «what is Bob Dylan's genius and where did it come from?». Additionally, young aspiring song­writers in need of some sort of «textbook» might certainly have an interest here. Not that Dylan himself had any «textbook» when learning to become a songwriter, but... well, let's just admit that «the waters around us have grown», and way too many aspiring songwriters seem to think that all it takes in this business is to write your own ʽDeath Of Emmett Tillʼ, without even bothering to upgrade it to the level of ʽBallad Of Hollis Brownʼ. So it doesn't hurt, every now and then, to refresh one's memory of what it is that separates «craft» from «awesomeness».

Bill Withers: Naked & Warm

BILL WITHERS: NAKED & WARM (1976)

1) Close To Me; 2) Naked & Warm; 3) Where You Are; 4) Dreams; 5) If I Didn't Mean You Well; 6) I'll Be With You; 7) City Of The Angels; 8) My Imagination.

It is always at least a little sad to see a favourite artist turn from the utmost sincerity to arrogant dishonesty. Nevertheless, we must brace ourselves and face the facts. There is definitely a serious probability as to Bill Withers being «warm» on that album sleeve, given its immediate context — sunny skies, a summer attire, and suitable ultraviolet-ray-blocking headwear. But unless my eyes trick me into some sort of optical illusion, I would state it as a given fact that the description «naked» does not apply at all. One never knows, of course, whether this could be an act of last-moment censorship imposed upon the artist by the record label, but even so, the album cover is tacky enough without the title — with the title, it's tacky and self-contradictory. And it is with this troubled feeling of deception already creeping in that we proceed on to the music.

And — sure enough — the music more or less matches the album cover in terms of tackiness and self-contradictions. Most of the songs still show the same disappointing direction, towards soft, thoroughly inoffensive balladry and soft funk grooves that take the bill out of the withers without providing anything in return. Keyboards have completely taken over as the musical foundation, with that typical mid-1970s sound that dissolves the musical bone under the pretty skin. And it no longer matters whether any of this is or is not properly «disco» — I've heard dozens of «legit» disco tunes that had far more grit and snappiness to them than something as instantly forgettable as ʽWhere You Areʼ, even if the latter has a fairly tricky time signature.

The only tunes that register even a tiny bit are the title track — only because it turns into a repe­titive, but enigmatic, jam in the end, where Bill keeps asking us whether we want to go to Heaven in such a worried tone that one might start believing that really ain't such a good idea; and ʽDreamsʼ, where the electric piano, bass guitar, and synthesizer engage in a pleasant enough tria­log while our host for the evening is trying to convince us that "dreams are as good as the real thing sometimes". At least the tonality of the song gives us a whiff of the old paranoid Bill Withers, not this new romantic face, indistinguishable in a crowd of similar faces.

Worst of the lot, unfortunately, and the one song that I would really consider a «failure», as op­posed to the «nothingness» of the rest, is the sprawling 10-minute epic ʽCity Of The Angelsʼ, Bill's sudden attempt at going «artsy» on us. Starting off with a 4-minute proto-disco groove, he then shatters it in a sea of analog and digital keyboard sprinkle, and the next six minutes are all spent wading through this quasi-ambient sonic mush. It is almost as if he were really writing a song about an «angel city» (the tune as such is about Los Angeles, as we could all guess), and thought that the perfect soundtrack to a gathering of angels would be this atmospheric «piano soup» — but, to tell the truth, if this kind of atmosphere is typical of angels, then I'd just as rather not go to Heaven, thank you very much. Nothing against ambient muzak per se, but these arran­gements sound like one lengthy boring prelude to an equally boring generic fusion jam.

On the whole, this might just be the single lowest point in Bill's career, and I have no idea what he was thinking to himself at the time, unless he was on drugs or something (then again, Califor­nia occasionally has this really unhealthy anti-artistic effect on Easterners) — one of those cases where a thumbs down is quite well correlated with the fact that the album was not released on CD until 2010. For very major fans only.

Albert King: Live '69

ALBERT KING: LIVE '69 (1969; 2003)

1) Introduction; 2) Why Are You So Mean To Me; 3) As The Years Go Passing By; 4) Please Come Back To Me; 5) Crosscut Saw; 6) Personal Manager.

For those who just can't get enough of «prime-time era» King, this relatively recent archival release from Tomato's vaults will temporarily quench their thirst. Unlike the Fillmore sets, this show was recorded on May 29, 1969 at a small club in Wisconsin, offering a chance to assess Albert in a somewhat more intimate and informal setting rather than Bill Graham's «kingly» envi­ronment. The sound and mix quality is not perfect, but decent enough not to pay it a lot of atten­tion — at least, the guitar was properly miked, and whenever the big guy gets to solo (which, predictably, occupies about 80% of the running time), his wailing rises high and above everything else, including the horns section (which he'd only added recently — not that it matters a lot, since the horns are actually quite poorly miked, and never add much to the overall sound).

The setlist is short and far from perfect: at the center of the album sits ʽPlease Come Back To Meʼ, a completely generic piece of 12-bar blues stretched out to a 17-minute running time. Albert puts in as much fire as he can, but even he cannot help repeating all of his trademark licks and bends for at least several times over those seventeen minutes, and if you already know them by heart from the Fillmore days, you won't be particularly happy having to go through them all over again. On the other hand, this is at least partially compensated by the only (I think) officially released live version of ʽAs The Years Go Passing Byʼ from the Sixties — sung and played beautifully, with a couple soul-probing solos where «every note counts», and with the guitar so high in the mix and the club acoustics so pressing in on you that the experience can be quite mind-blowing.

For serious fans, I think, the inclusion of that song alone is well worth the price; most of the others would probably be happier if some of the jamming were cut to make way for a ʽBorn Under A Bad Signʼ or, at least, for more contemporary material (from Years Gone By, for instance) — represented here only by a brief instrumental snippet of ʽYou Don't Love Meʼ in the introduction. On the other hand, Live '69 is as good a first introduction into the live blues power of Albert King as anything else. Also, the basic guitar tone is thicker and lower here than the thin, shrill tone we hear on the Fillmore records — probably a different set of amps, since the man seems to be playing the same Flying-V model as usual. So if you like your King «plumper» rather than «leaner», this record might even have a small edge on the classic Fillmore stuff, from that aspect at least.

Bikini Kill: The CD Version Of The First Two Records

BIKINI KILL: THE CD VERSION OF THE FIRST TWO RECORDS (1992; 1994)

1) Double Dare Ya; 2) Liar; 3) Carnival; 4) Suck My Left One; 5) Feels Blind; 6) Thurston Hearts The Who; 7) White Boy; 8) This Is Not A Test; 9) Don't Need You; 10) Jigsaw Youth; 11) Resist Psychic Death; 12) Rebel Girl; 13) Outta Me.

«Bikini Kill are activists, not musicians», as a passionate, but somewhat ambiguously disposed female person tells us, among other impressions of the band, in the spoken overdub on ʽThurston Hearts The Whoʼ, and, frankly speaking, I was not even sure whether it was worth tackling this band in the first place — because, well, it is pretty hard to deny that Kathleen Hanna and her band of Amazon warriors use music primarily, if not exclusively, as a «sociopolitical tool», trying as hard as possible not to stoop to thinking about it as a value in itself. But then, what the heck? They only have had a few albums out, and some of the songs are fun, and when you deal with punk music, it takes a real brain surgeon to understand where «music» ends and «activism» be­gins. And besides, in my collection they are probably the closest thing to Pussy Riot, a «band» that has even less musical substance (at least Bikini Kill have a vague understanding of how to play their instruments) but for which I have actually gotten review requests — so, since I am never ever going to review Pussy Riot, why not say a few words on Bikini Kill instead?

So, in a nutshell: Bikini Kill are the spearheaders of the «Riot Grrrl» movement (that's three r's, right? don't forget to check your spelling every time), an aggressive (thankfully, non-lethal so far) punk-feminist current in music and performance art which many people have heard of, but few can identify by any names of its representatives — in fact, some of the less politically minded, but more commercially popular or critically applauded bands (such as Hole or Babes In Toyland) have also been dubbed «Riot Grrrl» by the unsuspecting, deeply confused masses. Well, finally, here are Bikini Kill, and they are the real thing.

Describing the band's sound is not particularly difficult, since they never worked hard at putting any unique stamp on it. A standard 4-piece band with a rhythm section, one guitar player, and one vocalist. The guitar player (Billy Karren) is surprisingly male (it is not known if the other girls ever referred to him as «our bitch») and may have been hired as a political gesture (to show that «radical feminism» does not imply cessation of interaction with the other sex), or, more likely, because, deep down in their hearts, they all secretly admit that girls are pussies and that no girl can ever play a real mean PUNK RAWK guitar. (There was no Avril Lavigne back in those days, you un­derstand). Anyway, it's not as if Billy himself were all that great — he has mastered the Ramones and the Dead Kennedys bag of guitar tricks all right, but there is really nothing here, musically, that you wouldn't find on a bunch of classic punk and hardcore punk records from the previous decade and a half.

The vocalist is a whole other thing, but enjoying her vocals is certainly an acquired taste if there ever was one — Kathleen Hanna has one of those battle cries you'd expect to hear from a parti­cularly nasty old harpy: sharp, high-pitched, nasal, nails-on-chalkboard type that rips the living flesh right out of your ears. Her real voice, as you hear it in interviews, is kind of grating, too, but she intentionally makes it sound even nastier on record, so that it resonates with extreme «bratty» nastiness. Not a bawl or a banshee wail or a masculine epic-warrior thing, just this really ugly «nyah-nyah-nyah» soundwave to which you have to get yourself attuned real quick, or you will be climbing up the wall in no time. But Hanna's voice is the essence of Bikini Kill — in a way, that voice is the message, not to mention that you will most likely not be able to get the verbal message anyway, not without a lyrics sheet.

The album in question, true to the name, puts together some of the first samples of Bikini Kill's recorded output — the EP Bikini Kill and the first side of a split LP that they shared with Huggy Bear (a «para-riot-grrrl» band from the UK), both originally released in 1992. The sound, as is easy to guess, is delightfully / disgustingly lo-fi, with one exception: ʽRebel Girlʼ, the loudest, «cleanest», and arguably best-known Bikini Kill song of all time, not just because it is so easily identifiable as an anthem, but also because it is their catchiest and poppiest, where their female-Neanderthal approach takes a little grooming and the whole thing sounds like a tribute to The Troggs. As crude as the lyrics are ("they say she's a dyke, but I know she is my best friend" —what's that «but» supposed to mean???), the tune is a fun one, and at least the guitars are raw enough to count it as «the real thing». It may be silly-punk, but it ain't faux-punk.

As for everything else, well, if you are big on recycled, but honest, punk aesthetics, you might like most of this — Billy has a good grip on that old legacy, pilfering from punk greats for all they're worth on tracks like ʽLiarʼ and ʽResist Psychic Deathʼ, but much of the time he's just pro­viding an information-free wall of chainsaw buzz (ʽSuck My Left Oneʼ, ʽDon't Need Youʼ), which leaves us with little to do other than concentrate on Hanna and her little fits of girl-power rage. Sometimes she really goes over the top ("eat meat, hate blacks, beat your fuckin' wife — it's all connected" — not a highly scientific viewpoint, if you ask me), but at least the sincerity of her actions cannot be denied, even if the crudeness and banality of her denouncements can be a turn­off (ʽWhite Boyʼ — a point-blank range hit at sexism that, for some reason, also implicates the race issue, but how is raping a «slut rocker bitch walking down the street» an offense particularly typical of a «white boy»? Isn't that confusing the issues a little? Then again, there has rarely been a band on Earth more confused than Bikini Kill. Maybe they are musicians after all).

A few of the tracks are just sonic hooliganry with a sneer, such as ʽThurston Hearts The Whoʼ, where the already mentioned spoken overdub is superimposed over a noisy, mock-avantgarde track — the primary message here being: "if you think Sonic Youth is cool and you think that they think that you're not that cool, does that mean everything to you?" Ridiculing Sonic Youth is a respectable position, the problem being that it's not as if they were offering a hell of a lot in exchange. But at least it is good to know that aggressive feminism is not the only thing that Hanna and her sisters are interested in.

If only at least a couple more songs here were like ʽRebel Girlʼ, I might even have gone ahead with a thumbs up. As it is, the compilation is an important cultural artefact, and an acknowledged influence on «rebel girls» around the world, but too much of it is boring, and too much of it is grating on the nerves, to call it a consistently «fun» listening experience. If you find yourself in need of a spiritual awakening, be their guest. If, however, you are not one of those «white boys» casually referring to «slut rocker bitches» in your everyday life, you might want to listen to something more musically oriented instead.