Elvis Presley: Pot Luck

ELVIS PRESLEY: POT LUCK (1962)

1) Kiss Me Quick; 2) Just For Old Time Sake; 3) Gonna Get Back Home Somehow; 4) (Such An) Easy Question; 5) Steppinʼ Out Of Line; 6) Iʼm Yours; 7) Something Blue; 8) Suspicion; 9) I Feel That Iʼve Known You Forever; 10) Night Rider; 11) Fountain Of Love; 12) Thatʼs Someone You Never Forget.

General verdict: Some really bright pop moments, interspersed with schlock as usual but still enough to make this LP into a relative highlight of Elvisʼ Nashville era.

ʽPot luckʼ: «a situation in which one must take a chance that whatever is available will prove to be good or acceptable». Whoever thought of this title for Elvisʼ third proper LP in the 1960s must have been a pretty acidic fellow, because at this point in the Kingʼs career, your chances of falling upon a minor pop gem or a boring piece of derivative schlock were split around, Iʼd say, 30-70 or something like that. Fortunately, despite the half-ironic, half-cringeworthy title, Pot Luck With Elvis was actually an improvement over Something For Everybody, let alone the increasingly corny soundtracks — and not just because his team had the good sense to abandon the «ballads on one side, pop-rockers on the other» principle, but also because they seem to have briefly forgotten the much more troubling «good stuff for singles, bad stuff for LPs» principle.

More precisely, Pot Luck happens to be dominated by the Doc Pomus / Mort Shuman creative duo (4 songs out of 12, with another one co-written by Doc with Alan Jeffreys), and with these guys in charge, you can be sure that not everything will consist of inferior retreads of older classics. Admittedly, even some of these songs are not entirely original: for instance, the bridge section of ʽGotta Get Back Home Somehowʼ sounds way too close to the bridge section of ʽHis Latest Flameʼ — but the main body of the song is closer to a grand-style country-western reimagining of ʽI Feel Badʼ, with martial drums and saxophones really kicking it up. ʽNight Riderʼ, whose main melody is a sax-driven variation on ʽWhatʼd I Sayʼ, is also a minor highlight, letting Elvis combine old school hip-gyrating magic with an insinuating drawn-out invocation fit for some jazz-pop diva like Peggy Lee.

Best of the bunch are two songs that were inexcusably passed over as singles until two years later, when Terry Staffordʼs own version of ʽSuspicionʼ began climbing the charts and the Elvis team belatedly understood what a chance theyʼd nearly missed. ʽSuspicionʼ is a classic of the early R&B genre, melodically similar to the likes of ʽStand By Meʼ but really gambling it all away on the tempo-shifting hook in the chorus — that closing "suspicion... why torture me?" bit with the downward-sliding bass line that plumps you back into the verse melody is one of this albumʼs two tastiest hooks. The second one, of course, being the triumphant upward climb and smooth landing of the chorus to ʽKiss Me Quickʼ, which, based on structural similarities, can be defined as an attempt to remake ʽItʼs Now Or Neverʼ in a more playful, less sentimental manner — same rhythm, same arpeggiated guitar, but a completely different resulting feel, and totally free of accusations of Nashville boys stealing the Italian manʼs music this time. Delightful.

The presence of all these good-to-excellent numbers on the record is enough to redeem its many continuing and predictable flaws — such as the presence of ʽJust For Old Time Sakeʼ, a bland and boring shadow of ʽAre You Lonesome Tonightʼ; ʽIʼm Yoursʼ, whose sugarized country waltzing is such a far cry from the tasteful musical understatements of ʽBlue Moonʼ, long gone by; and ʽFountain Of Loveʼ, a corny, generic Mexican-style serenade which only lacks a sombrero and a bad Spanish accent to be complete.

However, the difference between corny and touching is often very, very subtle, and while most of the ballads on this record are easily dismissable, one should definitely not miss a hint at real human feeling in the albumʼs closing number, ʽThatʼs Someone You Never Forgetʼ — even the songwriting credits here should be enough to raise some eyebrows, being split between Elvis himself and his bodyguard, Red West (one of the three that would be fired in 1976 for trying to shield the man from drug abuse). Allegedly dedicated to the memory of Elvisʼ mother, it is a quiet, echoey acoustic ballad whose vocal inflections are totally different from Elvisʼ common style at the time — listen to that voice almost thinning out and breaking up in the middle of each line, creating the impression of tearless crying without any show-off-ey over-emoting; clearly, this is the mark of a very special occasion, and the song might have, perhaps, been even more effective without its backing vocals and angelic chimes.

Interestingly, the concurrent single at the time was ʽSheʼs Not Youʼ, another Doc Pomus song (allegedly co-written with Leiber and Stoller) which is not at all superior to either ʽKiss Me Quickʼ or ʽSuspicionʼ — in fact, itʼs a fairly simplistic piece of slowed-down country-boogie with nowhere near the hook potential of those other two songs. Somehow, quality control was slipping in this respect, too, though the song still dutifully climbed up to #5 on the charts. Still, better this way for all of us LP fans — it is absolutely no fun, I tell you, to waste time on albums that are intentionally comprised of nothing but filler. At least this time around, we do have ourselves a bit of actual pot luck. 

The Strokes: Room On Fire

THE STROKES: ROOM ON FIRE (2003)

1) What Ever Happened?; 2) Reptilia; 3) Automatic Stop; 4) 12:51; 5) You Talk Way Too Much; 6) Between Love & Hate; 7) Meet Me In The Bathroom; 8) Under Control; 9) The Way It Is; 10) The End Has No End; 11) I Canʼt Win.

General verdict: Same as before, but slightly less intense, slightly more philosophical, and much more indicative of this bandʼs limitations.

This is one more of those albums which, though not altogether boring or repulsive by any means, is tough as nails to write about if you want your writing to make any sense or have any usefulness at all. In a way, it is quite telling that the first lines to be sung by Julian on the first track on the album go "I wanna be forgotten and I donʼt wanna be remembered"... oops, "reminded" actually, but from the very first listen I got this ingrained as "remembered" and thatʼs the way it is going to stay for me, because this is what Room On Fire is: a decent record that sounds so goddamn much like a pale carbon copy of Is This It, it is almost like a textbook-oriented definition of «sophomore slump».

Scuttlebutt says the band conducted its original recording sessions with none other than Nigel Godrich, the wizard behind classic Radiohead magic — but, apparently, he was not able to hit it off with Casablancas, and in the end the band returned to their original producer. I do not know whether we should be happy or sad about this, because if Godrich was indeed trying to give the Strokes a «Radiohead touch», the results might have turned out seriously grotesque — then again, they might have ended up far more interesting than the expectedly bare-bones and, by now, fairly predictable dry-cleaners production style of Gordon Raphael; the most surprise you are going to get out of this is the occasional synthesizer-like effect on the lead guitar, e.g. ʽ12:51ʼ which is made to sound like a stereotypical Cars track, albeit even more sanitized.

Other than that, Room On Fire simply repeats the original formula of alternating between loud, but not aggressive mid-tempo to slow-tempo guitar-based pop-rockers, written from the same post-modern perspective of an NYC hipster with serious relationship problems. Since I cannot for the life of me identify with this perspective, and since the artistic personality of Julian Casa­blancas gets me indifferent at best and annoyed at worst, all I can do is try to concentrate on the music — like, are there any interesting guitar riffs? do the grooves make me want to headbang? does the twin guitar interplay brighten my mood? that sort of thing.

From that simple stance, ʽWhat Ever Happened?ʼ is quite a disheartening opener, because it puts the Strokes into flat-out shoegazing mode, just vamping out on one chord in total prostration mode, where even Julianʼs gurgling scream feels like a robotic, sleep-walking accompaniment. ʽReptiliaʼ is much better, picking up tempo, churning out a simple, but distinctive and memorable punk-pop riff and then reversing its tonality for the refrain. ʽAutomatic Stopʼ has a nice moment when the lead guitar comes in to weave a plaintive woman-tone melody in between the choppy syncopated reggae-pop chords of the rhythm, but you still have to chase the song for chemistry, rather than having it chase you in person. ʽ12:51ʼ is probably the best of the lot, because the melodic hook is doubled on vocals and that quirky synth-guitar at the same time. ʽYou Talk Way Too Muchʼ is boring; just how long is it possible to go on switching between those A and E chords, over and over and over again?..

Re-emerging back from the simple virtues and just as simple flaws of individual songs into the bigger picture, I would say that Room On Fireʼs principal crime is that it tries to be a little more moody and sentimental than its predecessor — now the songsʼ main reason for being so simple is not because these New York City lads just want to have some fun and get back to their roots, it is more like because they do not want to over-complexify things when telling you about their troubles. I do realize this is a gross generalization — Is This It was far from a completely blunt and mindless record, just as Room On Fire is not exactly a thirty-minute long metaphysical treatise. But the overall atmosphere, with its minimalist melodies, pensive lyrics, ever so slightly slowed-down tempos and mechanic singing, shows that The Strokes are already trying to jump over from their Please Please Me phase into at least their Rubber Soul one, and thatʼs way bigger a leap than such a band could ever handle. In their own words, "good try, we donʼt like it, good try, we wonʼt take that shit". 

David Byrne & St. Vincent: Love This Giant

DAVID BYRNE & ST. VINCENT: LOVE THIS GIANT (2012)

1) Who; 2) Weekend In The Dust; 3) Dinner For Two; 4) Ice Age; 5) I Am An Ape; 6) The Forest Awakes; 7) I Should Watch TV; 8) Lazarus; 9) Optimist; 10) Lightning; 11) The One Who Broke Your Heart; 12) Outside Of Space & Time.

General verdict: A curiously clumsy pop artefact whose pretense does not at all seem to match the emotional power and meaning of its melodies. In other words, "I respect this, but it sucks".

Since I have no immediate plans to cover the colorful career of Annie Clark, a.k.a. St. Vincent, and since this album is genuinely a balanced collaboration between her and David Byrne, we might just as well file this under Byrneʼs discography for the moment. As we know, David is a big fan of joint projects, and some of his past collaborative activities clearly show why — My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts, for one thing, is a classic that did require the joint talents of Byrne and Eno to deserve that status. But as the new millennium came into being, and with it, the added yearning to stay «relevant» in the world of artistic evolution, it is only natural that he would begin seeking out younger collaborators from the next generation.

On paper, St. Vincent might look like the perfect choice — she is young enough to be Davidʼs daughter, she is an unconventional pop artist with a predilection for all things weird and eccentric, and she has been compared to just about everybody in the art-pop world, from Bowie to Kate Bush and beyond. Taking the vintage boomer madness of David Byrne and synthesizing it with the fresh millennial creativity of St. Vincent seems like an instant-win formula, and such is the impression that you get from reading quite a few glowing reviews in the mainstream press — yet on the whole, the reaction was mixed, and the album never got truly enshrined as a classic for either Byrne or Annie Clark... and I think I can see why.

Love This Giant is definitely very «creative». The basic idea, suggested by St. Vincent, was to write a set of pop songs around brass-based arrangements, because... because why not. This does give an aura of relative sameness to the proceedings, but since the brass melodies themselves follow all sorts of different patterns, from classic R&B to Latin to marching bands to Radiohead-style freakouts (think ʽThe National Anthemʼ), this is not a big problem. The songs themselves are complex, twisted artefacts, with intricate and unpredictable combinations of brass, drums (largely programmed), synth bass, convoluted vocal overdubs from the two main singers, and surprisingly little guitar, in spite of Annieʼs well-advertised mastery of the instrument. It is hard to define their relative genres and even harder to ascribe specific meanings to their vividly impressionistic lyrics. But isnʼt that a sign of elusive genius?..

Actually, not quite. As the songs slowly sink in, listen after listen, I begin to understand that this is the kind of record that I, at best, will remember with polite respect, but not with the kind of emotional admiration that my conscience reserves for true genius. Like most other acclaimed art-pop wizards of the 2000s, such as Sufjan Stevens (whose touring band Annie was actually in before embarking on a proper solo career) and Joanna Newsom, St. Vincent is one of those Artists who spend way too much time wiring up the neon lights to the big A — instead of, at least sometimes, just cutting loose and telling things the way they are. Whenever she takes the wheel on this album, I definitely get that she is trying to do something, but I almost never get what it is exactly that she is trying to do; and when I do seem to get it, it turns out that I have to think about it rather than feel about it, which is simply not the way that genius art works. It does not help, either, that she has a fairly common singing voice and that, whenever she does get to play the guitar, she is quite mediocre at it (I know that Annieʼs guitar playing is sometimes toted as iconic for female players, but I am not sure how anybody seriously familiar with the story of guitar playing from Hendrix to Belew to Prince to, say, Marc Ribot could characterize her work as anything but amateurish in nature).

Still, passable singing and guitar playing do not matter much if the songwriting and general artistry are top level, and these songs are not top level. All are credited jointly to David and Annie, and there is a visible effort to somewhat synthesize the styles of the two, but, at the very least, they are still separated by who takes lead vocal on what, and it also seems as if St. Vincent is really, really, really trying to out-weird David at his own game, so the Byrne-led songs actually sound a bit more conventional, both melody-wise and lyrics-wise, than Annieʼs. What is worse, with all due respect to those who are sick and tired of the word «chemistry», there is about as much of it in between the two artists as the album cover, on which they look like two long-lost separated members of the Addams Family, suggests.

The record does set out with a bit of a promise: ʽWhoʼ is a good example of a Byrne dirge, with a touching vocal melody that goes from confused verse to plaintive chorus — except that Annieʼs melismatic bridge of "who is an honest man?" does not fit in well, sounding more like a random interpolation from some other song (say, about a cheating lover or something) than part of an ongoing dialog between the two protagonists. Actually, there is very little dialog between Byrne and St. Vincent anywhere on the album: every once in a while, they sing a few lines in unison, usually with one singer clearly overshadowing the other, and thatʼs it. The record feels more like a Meistersingersʼ competition than a truly joint project.

On the St. Vincent side, a typical song will be something like ʽIce Ageʼ, with its metronomic mid-tempo rhythm, quietly and inobtrusively bubbling brass riffage, and unconventionally accentuated words ("oh dia-MOND... all unbutTONED..."). Stare at the lyrics long enough and you will get the idea that the song is about an emotionally obstructed partner, but the idea is not at all supported by the music, which, at best, sounds like inoffensive jazz-pop on tranquilizers. Did I say there is no chemistry between St. Vincent and Byrne? Well, much of the time there is even no chemistry between St. Vincent and the music that backs her up: the potentially gorgeous Cocteau Twins-ish falsetto refrain of "we wonʼt know how much we lost until the winter thaws" loses its impact in the company of that ugly synth bass line and those meandering, decidedly un-romantic brass patterns. Unconventional experimental patterns like these are scattered all through the album, but rarely, if ever, end up making much emotional sense.

On the Byrne side, a typical song will be something like ʽI Should Watch TVʼ, another of Davidʼs ironic portrayals of the confused urban dweller; but it has been a long time since David last managed to convincingly act out a paranoid existence, and neither the vocal melody nor the usual atmospheric brass arrangement help the song to become memorable. Sometimes he falls back on classic vocal tricks — ʽDinner For Twoʼ distantly echoes ʽDonʼt Worry About The Governmentʼ, for instance — but doing so does not bring back the energy of classic Talking Heads, not when the music is dominated by this math-rockish approach to brass playing.

Overall, I would not want to make any hasty generalizations, and Iʼd even be totally open to taking some of the nasty things said above back if they ever gave me a second chance — all I can say for sure is that Love This Giant was built upon one daring, experimental idea («let us make an album that has saxophones and trombones as the main instruments and does not sound like Blood, Sweat & Tears!»), and that the idea did not work. It is perfectly possible to teach yourself to love this giant, uh, I mean, album — just latch on to its complexity, its multiple layers, its symbolism, its clear desire to produce something fresh and intelligent — but, honestly, I just do not have that much love in me to forcefully waste it on this kind of record.

Robert Fripp: The Gates Of Paradise

ROBERT FRIPP: THE GATES OF PARADISE (1998)

1) The Outer Darkness I – X; 2) The Gates Of Paradise I – II; 3) The Outer Darkness XI; 4) The Gates Of Paradise III – IV.

General verdict: A farily convincing, but not terribly entertaining, personal look at what the two different sides of the afterlife could be like for all of us. Might work better with mushrooms.

As of now, this is officially the very last solo Robert Fripp album recorded in the studio, and it is very easy to miss it completely in the ocean of late period King Crimson albums, archival King Crimson releases, and ProjeKcts. However, it is a fairly unique project for Fripp — a lengthy, conceptual, and quite ambitious ambient recording whose artistic subject is not that far removed from the interests of King Crimson, yet whose actual execution is quite different from both any type of KC album or even any of Frippʼs previous side projects. The closest analogy would most likely be some of his past Frippertronics exercises from No Pussyfooting and onwards, but The Gates Of Paradise have very little, if any, of those trademark drawn-out howling guitar lines that usually characterize Frippʼs work.

The actual concept, a musical interpretation of the base differences between Heaven and Hell, or, if you wish, Robertʼs musical tribute to the Divine Comedy, is not altogether new. That Fripp is quite capable of creating Bosch-level sonic nightmares (such as he did with Larksʼ Tongues) and Rafael-level sonic idylls (ʽSheltering Skyʼ, etc.), is well known. But here, this is the core focus of the album, and he achieves his goals with fairly unconventional means. I am not sure whether all the sounds we hear are processed guitars or if there is actual synthesizer work involved, but regardless of technicalities, the overall sonic approach here is that of a church organ, with a bit of pianoforte mixed in on the last track. It really feels like we have been temporarily locked in Robertʼs private little church building and he is giving us a tour of the religious possibilities of his brand new organ (if that sounded a bit dirty, Iʼm not holding myself responsible).

Like any ambient album with emphasis on overall atmosphere rather than overall dynamics, The Gates Of Paradise will probably not command your attention through all of its 59 minutes, but, as in many similar cases, the length here is mainly just an auxiliary mechanism to get across the point. Four tracks are interspersed — two dealing with "outer darkness" and the other two with the "gates of Paradise" themselves, with the music naturally being more ominous and aggressive and thunderstormy on the latter and more serene and solemnly resplendent on the latter. The ʽOuter Darknessʼ bits would have ideally fit onto a Kubrick soundtrack, be it Space Odyssey or The Shining: alternating between quietly ominous background hum and all-out sustained ruckus, they may be quite psychologically unstable if listened to in the proper headphones. ʽThe Gates Of Paradiseʼ, on the contrary, is J. S. Bach meets New Age (first track) and John Cage meets New Age (second track), with pseudo-prepared-piano a-plenty introducing a slight touch of actual melody, then melting away to make way for even more peaceful organ textures.

Overall, it is not so much a great album as simply a surprising gesture from Fripp. Severely limited in ideas, The Gates Of Paradise will never stand a chance against classic Tangerine Dream or Klaus Schulze when it comes to electronic or electronically enhanced soundscapes of Heaven and Hell — but in a way, it works as a special sort of meta-artistic self-commentary on Frippʼs own classic legacy. Like, you were wondering if you were really right when your brain came up with all those religious / mythological images triggered by ʽThe Talking Drumʼ or ʽStarlessʼ? Well, this album proves that you certainly were. You were interested in whether the music of King Crimson could ever be directly interpreted in terms of good old Christianity? This album shows that such an interpretation is not impossible.

As to whether Iʼd ever want to listen to the album again... well, maybe on some particularly long and uneventful nighttime air flight, where the listening experience could result in an epiphany or two. As it is, I think that maybe the results would have turned out more interesting if Fripp had brought Eno along one more time — on his own, he is just not as efficient in weaving a fully convincing and addictive atmosphere. But at the very least, a Soundscape is a Soundscape, and the record delivers more or less what it advertises. Nobody ever said, after all, that the afterlife would be particularly full of dynamic events.

Roger Waters: In The Flesh

ROGER WATERS: IN THE FLESH (2000)

CD I: 1) In The Flesh; 2) The Happiest Days Of Our Lives; 3) Another Brick In The Wall, Pt. 2; 4) Mother; 5) Get Your Filthy Hands Off My Desert; 6) Southampton Dock; 7) Pigs On The Wing, Pt. 1; 8) Dogs; 9) Welcome To The Machine; 10) Wish You Were Here; 11) Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Pts. 1-8; 12) Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun.

CD II: 1) Speak To Me / Breathe; 2) Time; 3) Money; 4) 5:06 AM; 5) Perfect Sense, Pts. 1 And 2; 6) The Bravery Of Being Out Of Range; 7) Itʼs A Miracle; 8) Amused To Death; 9) Brain Damage; 10) Eclipse; 11) Comfortably Numb; 12) Each Small Candle.

General verdict: A passable live effort from Roger, but seriously flawed because of professional jealousy, a clumsy setlist, and questionable choices of backing musicians. 

Iʼd like to begin this with the amusing observation that my digital copy of In The Flesh has almost the exact same running length as my copy of P.U.L.S.E. — two hours and twenty-seven minutes, differing by just a handful of seconds. Of course, this is basically just the running length of two fully stuffed CDs, and is essentially just a coincidence, but still, it is hard to get rid of the feeling that Roger was feeling jealous of his bandmatesʼ promotional successes — and that the explicit depiction of an eclipse and a pig on the front cover of his new live album was supposed to remind the public of which one, after all, was Pink.

Alas, I got bad news for you, Roger: in a live setting, you and your band are no match for David Gilmour. The only time when you can outshine him is when you are performing material from Animals, an album that is so much you that the Waters-less Pink Floyd could never bring them­selves to tackle even one track from it. Everywhere else, when it comes to replicating Daveʼs playing and even Daveʼs singing, your backing band is... well, just a backing band.

I mean, somebody like Snowy White is obviously a very skilled and not untalented guitarist (otherwise they wouldnʼt have vetted him for the Wall concerts back in 1980), but it only takes the first ten seconds of the guitar intro to ʽShine Onʼ to tell the difference between the average guitar professional and the one-of-a-kind guitar God. Snowy has a generic, screechy tone instead of Daveʼs silky-caressing one, his timing of the opening notes is just abysmal (is he really in such a hurry to get things done?), and he has no idea of how to do a Gilmour bend, which is totally indispensable in this context. I almost literally cringe when I hear that sound; and I actually liked Snowy Whiteʼs guitar work in late-era Thin Lizzy. The other guitarist is Doyle Bramhall II, who does a guitar battle with Snowy over ʽComfortably Numbʼ, and the two turn it into some sort of friendly Guitar Hero sparring that is fun for a while, but ultimately has nothing to do with the expected emotional message of the song.

Of course, Roger himself probably couldnʼt care less about all them guitar solos. His point was completely different — he had to demonstrate the continuity and coherence between classic Floyd material, from Dark Side to The Wall, and his solo career: there are a few bits here from both Final Cut and Pros And Cons (conspicuously no Radio K.A.O.S., though), and a large chunk of material from Amused To Death, interwoven between Floyd hits so that, once again, the world might truly understand who is the legitimate heir to Floydʼs legacy, and who is an errant and misguided impostor. As far as Iʼm concerned, this does not work, either: every time that a new endlessly stretched out number from Amused To Death comes on, I find myself looking at the time, yearning for Snowy White to come along and do another one of those bad imitations, er, I mean, impressions, uhm, I wanted to say interpretations of Gilmour solos.

I cannot openly give the album a bad rating, because much of this stuff is still listenable, and it would take some really untalented hacks to completely spoil a Floyd-like experience. In fact, I am almost sure that part of the reason why this doesnʼt work is that Bramhall and White actually want to introduce a bit of their own styles into the proceedings, rather than just loyally copy the originals — itʼs just that the material does not lend itself to any such introductions, since it is dangerous by definition to toy with perfection. For what itʼs worth, there is one piece here that really feels out of place, yet it might be the best performance of them all: for some reason, just once Roger feels the urge to dig into the deep psychedelic past and bring back to life ʽSet The Controls For The Heart Of The Sunʼ (actually, I think I know the reason — didnʼt the P.U.L.S.E. tour feature ʽAstronomy Domineʼ? man, that Roger, so predictable in his jealousy!), and the performance is practically irreproachable in its hallucinatory splendor. Why? Because it is more of a polyphonic piece, with next to no emphasis on individual players and their weaknesses.

In the end, though, comparing P.U.L.S.E. with In The Flesh merely helps to reassert the old stereotypes — Gilmour is more about the music and Waters so much more about the message. But even the message is garbled, because it has to clash against the necessity of performing all the obligatory Floyd hits: ʽShine On You Crazy Diamondʼ is definitely not part of the message, but there it is, too, and in a pretty bad way. The one new song specially written for the tour, ʽEach Small Candleʼ, is part of the message — and it is a bad song, a slow bluesy dirge whose pompous coda almost threatens to turn Roger Waters into the very same Andrew Lloyd Webber whom he despises so much. All in all, I cannot shake off the feeling that the quality of the performance is far lower than Roger is capable of — then again, I couldnʼt shake off that same feeling for both Delicate Sound Of Thunder and P.U.L.S.E., and, ironically, my observations are that both Roger and Dave would actually improve as solo live performers as they grew ever older... but let us not run too far ahead. 

Elvis Presley: Blue Hawaii

ELVIS PRESLEY: BLUE HAWAII (1961)

1) Blue Hawaii; 2) Almost Always True; 3) Aloha Oe; 4) No More; 5) Canʼt Help Falling In Love; 6) Rock-A-Hula Baby; 7) Moonlight Swim; 8) Ku-U-I-Po; 9) Ito Eats; 10) Slicinʼ Sand; 11) Hawaiian Sunset; 12) Beach Boy Blues; 13) Island Of Love; 14) Hawaiian Wedding Song.

General verdict: Arguably the point of no return — if you have released something as corny as this album and this movie, you might as well just go on releasing more of the same.

The easiest way to pulverize an album like Blue Hawaii in the modern age is to state, with a fair amount of justice, that it represents a particularly cringeworthy case of «cultural appropriation», namely, white manʼs clichéd exotization of Hawaii as a paradise on Earth; in fact, the movie, which depicted a syrupy melodrama that just happened to use Hawaii for decorations, was just that kind of thing and had fairly few redeeming qualities. The music is a slightly different matter: only a few songs directly deal with Hawaiian realities (most notably ʽAloha Oeʼ, Hawaiiʼs cultural symbol, and ʽHawaiian Wedding Songʼ), while others just use ukuleles, celestes, and occasional lyrical twists to set up a «Hawaiian vibe» for the record.

But even if you know absolutely nothing about Hawaiian history or traditions, Blue Hawaii is a terrible experience. G.I. Blues may have been meandering and inconsistent, Something For Everybody may have been completely second-hand-derivative, and His Hand In Mine may have been too sentimental for a true gospel classic, but none of these three albums were as consistent in presenting Elvis Presley as a lightweight, irrelevant joke act as Blue Hawaii. From the first to the very last song, with but one obvious exception, the album reads like somebodyʼs cruel parody on the King in all his emplois — raunchy rocker, sentimental troubadour, seductive popster. With few interesting original melodies to speak of, the emphasis is on «Hawaiian-style arrangements» of the trusty old tunes — by which, of course, we mean lots and lots and lots of cooing pedal steel, friendly campfire acoustic guitar, and orchid-sweet vocals.

I can hardly find anything at all to say about these songs: there are no specific atrocities to latch onto (well, maybe Elvisʼ awful «native accent» on ʽIto Eatsʼ), they just donʼt work. ʽRock-A-Hula Babyʼ and ʽSlicinʼ Sandʼ are the most energetic of the lot, but both are essentially detoothed rockʼnʼroll pieces with nary an aggressive note in sight. ʽBeach Boy Bluesʼ is blues in form, cabaret in spirit — a song with not an ounce of genuine sentiment, just mindless and heartless entertainment for a Vegasy crowd. The ballads are mostly typical Hollywood tripe, and ʽAloha Oeʼ sounds more like a Christmas carol than a patriotic anthem (I think Iʼd rather take the Lilo & Stich version over this one, thank you very much), but I am not even sure that Elvis was much aware of the figure of Queen Liliʼuokalani when he recorded it anyway.

In the middle of all this comes ʽCanʼt Help Falling In Loveʼ, the albumʼs only acknowledged classic and a song that is hard to forget even if you are not altogether wooed by its chivalrous sentimentalism. It was, after all, a corporate rewrite of ʽPlaisir DʼAmourʼ, meaning several melodic heads above everything else on here, and Elvis seems to have poured more of his heart into it than into all the other songs on here combined. The very fact that this (relative) gem finds itself in such corrosively plebeian company is hilariously weird, though, a living testimony to just how confused and confusing quality and content control was in those young and innocent days of the pop music business. Unfortunately, it is the only thing that separates Blue Hawaii from the soon-to-come endless stream of interchangeably disposable soundtracks — and it is not enough to deny Blue Hawaii, both the album and the movie, the status of that particular historical landmark beyond which Elvis could no longer be taken seriously. 

The Strokes: Is This It

THE STROKES: IS THIS IT (2001)

1) Is This It; 2) The Modern Age; 3) Soma; 4) Barely Legal; 5) Someday; 6) Alone, Together; 7) Last Nite; 8) Hard To Explain; 9) When It Started*; 10) New York City Cops; 11) Trying Your Luck; 12) Take It Or Leave It.

General verdict: Well, a pretty fun album to sing along to when youʼre feeling a tad rowdy... wait a minute, what do you REALLY mean by «the stuff of which legends are made»?

When it comes to basic rockʼnʼroll narrative, I do not like to make things too complicated, or go for trendy revisionist perspectives — at the basic core of things, rockʼnʼroll was invented in the mid-Fifties by a buch of black and white guys from Little Richard to Elvis, and since then, it has been seriously shaken and stirred three times: the British Invasion in the early Sixties saved it from going under, the punk/New Wave explosion in the mid-Seventies brought it back in touch with the modern world, and the grunge/alt-rock movement in the early Nineties cleansed it from the hedonistic and futuristic excesses of the Eighties. There is certainly more to this established narrative than meets the eye (for instance, it often comes hand in hand with a professed hatred for progressive rock, which is ridiculous, or a professed hatred for hair metal, which is adequate but still requires exceptions) — but it does represent several distinct stages in the evolution of rock music, which, according to this scenario, needs a sort of shake-up, «cleansing» every 10-15 years or so to get back on its feet and continue kicking everybodyʼs asses.

Is This It, the debut album by the Strokes, is very often held up as the main symbol for the next stage of this «cleansing» — the record that, according to a commonly shared critical perspective, almost singlehandedly (well, not really) re-established rock music as a powerful force in the 21st century, and opened the floodgates of acceptance for a huge flock of «neo-garage», «post-punk revival» and general indie-rock bands, ready to retake the spotlight from whatever other genres it had been occupied by after the grunge revolution had sagged and fizzled out — pop, electronica, boy bands, hip hop, trip hop, whatever. In this twist of the narrative, the Strokes were essentially the new Sex Pistols, their brethren such as the Hives and the Vines were the new Ramones, Clash, and Jam, the upcoming post-punk revivalists like Interpol were the new Joy Division, and the analogies go on ad infinitum.

And on a purely formal level, it is hard to deny this perspective. All these bands found critical and commercial fame, and I do remember the huge hype over Is This It very clearly, since this was the first major «rock revival» to occur when I was already writing musical reviews. I even went out and bought the album, slightly blushing at the cover — such was the hype that I must have probably chosen it over completing my collection of Eightiesʼ Bowie albums or something. But I also distinctly remember my disappointment over the initial listen. It was like, «thatʼs supposed to be the latest rockʼnʼroll revival? it sounds like a bunch of polite college boys doing a sanitized take on the genre! Iggy Pop in his prime would have swallowed these guys alive!» And the songs werenʼt all that interesting melodically, either. Still, at the time I was not a major fan of classic punk rock, either, and did a bad job properly distinguishing Nirvana from the hair metal bands it was supposed to replace, so who was I to judge?

Now, fast forward to 2020. Rock music is in an obvious state of decline (as, to be fair, are most other musical genres), and it has now been almost twenty years since the last «cleansing», so it is fair to ask the question — did the Strokes-initiated «cleansing» even happen in the first place, or was it just a figment of critical imagination triggering a bit of a popular delusion? And if it did happen after all, did it already contain the seeds of the imminent downfall by being significantly different in nature from all the previous «cleansings»?

Before tackling these philosophical issues, though, let us first try to give a simpler answer to a simpler question — is Is This It a good album? Now that I am able to give it another chance without the constant «saviours of rock!» buzz in my ear, I would definitely say yes. Julian Casablancas, the bandʼs lead vocalist and principal songwriter, has a good ear for melody, a good taste in lyrics, and the same kind of nonchalant, humbly arrogant charisma that had been the key resource of all bad boys of rockʼnʼroll from Mick to Iggy. I am not a big fan of the production style chosen by Gordon Raphael, where Julianʼs vocals sound as if they were processed through the same effects as Nick Valensiʼs and Albert Hammondʼs guitars — thereʼs a subtly «electric» feel to them, subtracting from the potential rawness of the sound that should be an obligatory part of any true garage-like experience; however, this by no means deprives the songs of their hooks, and you could certainly argue that making your lead vocals sound like a third lead guitar is at least a bit of a novel approach to running things.

Most importantly, though, the music is fun. The bandʼs guitar players are no virtuosos, and their use of chords and modes is quite traditional, but they are honestly searching for cool ideas, rather than just believing in the raw power of total minimalism. Check out something like ʽSomaʼ — one guitar in each speaker, a simple Malcolm Young-ish riff in one, a slightly more complex ringing pop melody in the other, both gradually gaining in intensity from verse to chorus along with Julianʼs vocals which also cover the ground from grinning-lazy to wolfish-angry. None of these ingredients is emotionally awesome by itself, but the overall dynamics is captivating. Or take ʽBarely Legalʼ — starts off as a fun, upbeat, totally derivative pop-rocker, only a tad slower and softer than the average Ramones number; then, right after the first verse, an entirely new riff is introduced that absolutely didnʼt need to be there, but there it is, subtly changing the songʼs retro mood from Sixties to Seventies. Itʼs all in these little touches that consistently prevent the music from becoming repetitive and boring.

The bandʼs chief influences are usually in the open: there can be no denying that ʽThe Modern Ageʼ is more like ʽWhat Would A Velvet Underground Song Sound Like In The Modern Ageʼ — mostly like a Velvet Underground song in the old age, given the 100% Lou Reed-like snarl of Julianʼs vocals and the relentless one-chord punch of the main riff. Sometimes they are more subtle — a song like ʽNew York City Copsʼ is nowadays mostly remembered for the provocative chorus of "New York City cops, they ainʼt too smart" and the fact that the song had to be replaced by a different one on the album in the wake of 9/11, but how about that "Ninaʼs in the bedroom, she said time to go now..." bit which is delivered precisely like the "Judyʼs in the bedroom, inventing situations" bit in Talking Headsʼ ʽFound A Jobʼ, just at a faster tempo? Nevertheless, no single song here is a direct rip-off, with the interlocking guitar and vocal melodies providing enough variations and typically metamorphing at least once or twice within the confines of every song — no mean feat, considering the strict adherence to the three minute length format.

Ultimately, it all works as a fun, pleasant listen. Energy, creativity, intelligence, charisma, pure gutsy entertainment, itʼs all there, and, for what itʼs worth, Iʼd take the simple pleasures of Is This It over the pretentious psychologisms of, say, Interpol anyday, just because the sheer musical care going into these songs rubs off on me to a far greater extent than the monotonous coldness of «post-punk revival». And also for what itʼs worth, Julian Casablancas is no better or worse a rock lyricist than any of the less-fun-more-existentialism-oriented indie-rock heroes of the 2000s — after all, the base ideology of Is This It is not so much raw, in-yer-face dumb cock rock as it is a slightly glammified, decadent-hipster look at New York Cityʼs social life, from which you, too, can draw as many existentialist conclusions as you wish to. It is no coincidence that the sexy cover of the album brings to mind the likes of Roxy Music — titillation with a touch of cheap glammy chic.

But as for the large-scale, long-term implications of Is This It... well, this is where the story gets complicated. All the previous «rock revivals» were characterized by two important features — they brought forth a completely new type of sound (same chords, maybe, but very different sonic effects) and a new type of socially relevant statement (yes, even the Ramones, who made a very serious socially relevant statement by refusing to make any socially relevant statements). Julian Casablancas and his merry band of white-collar New York schoolboys do satisfy both of these criteria, but in a very different manner from things past. Note that the sound of Is This It is not in the least punkishly aggressive — compared to all their idols, it is quite peaceful and poppy, just look at how the title track opens the record on a note of slow, limp, mopey cuteness rather than a blast of raw energy. In a way, itʼs like what the music of the Velvet Underground and the Stooges and the Clash would sound if you took away most of that distortion, snarl, overall fussiness, but preserved the base chord structures — a sanitized approach.

In other words, roughly speaking, the main idea of past rock revivals was — «letʼs take the music of our closest ancestors and make it even more aggressive, snappy, dangerous, disturbing!» The main idea of the Strokes revival is — «letʼs take the most aggressive, snappy, and disturbing music of our closest ancestors and make it less aggressive, snappy, and disturbing»... and also more palatable for the tastes of the relatively complacent, well-to-do, socially conscious and gentlemanly modern hipster (I think the term was not yet in vogue around the time that Is This It was released, but we were getting there). In doing so, Casablancas and Co. may have created their own thing, indeed, but by becoming one of the leading acts in the rock revival business they were unintentionally taking the wind out of rockʼs sails. The main reason why I dislike the term «garage» (or, more accurately, «neo-garage revival») applied to this record is that garage rock was 99% attitude, and attitude — at least, the kind of attitude that is bound to piss off people — is precisely the one thing that I find lacking on Is This It. A good rock record is supposed to make you want to punch a hole in the wall, sooner or later; Is This It makes me want to... want to... heck, it really doesnʼt make me want to do anything, and thatʼs its biggest problem.

It is still one of those perfect records to illustrate almost everything that was right and wrong with rockʼnʼroll in the 2000s — definitely historically important in how it shows that original ideas were used up, but subtle combinations of and variations on unoriginal ideas were still possible; that the lines between rock and pop were once again to be blurred, if not completely erased, opening possibilities for new vibes but also potentially castrating rock of its power; that the future of rockʼnʼroll was placed in the hands of polite and generally pampered kids with good pedigrees, which raised its level of intelligence but lowered its level of gut power. I might even go as far as to state that Is This It is the record that saved rock music and killed it at the exact same time, but perhaps this would be way too much of an honour for this little, generally unassuming collection of pop-rock tunes whose authors probably had no idea just how deeply — for a while, at least — it would become enshrined in popular consciousness. What is really quite telling is that, unlike the Velvet Underground, unlike the Stooges, unlike the Clash, unlike Nirvana, unlike just about anybody who mattered in those revolutions of the past, the Strokes were catastrophically unable to repeat, let alone outdo the impact of their debut album in their subsequent career — which, I guess, is sort of a trademark for most of the rock bands relevant for the 2000s and beyond. 

Tom Tom Club: Downtown Rockers

TOM TOM CLUB: DOWNTOWN ROCKERS (2012)

1) Downtown Rockers; 2) Wonʼt Give You Up; 3) You Make Me Rock And Roll; 4) Kissinʼ Antonio; 5) Sweets To The Sweet; 6) Love Tape*.

General verdict: One last and (appropriately) brief nostalgic wave to a long-gone clubbing culture.

Well, it happens to us all sooner or later, but even Tom Tom Club eventually grows old, and at this point, it makes no sense to complain that Tom Tom Club, of all people, should have quite specifically burned out than faded away — these days, we have numerous examples of the most childish acts, the most juvenile rockʼnʼrollers freezing or even forcefully rewinding their minds to adolescent states at the ripe ages of 60-70, and it is not always a bad thing even for those who listen to the music, let alone those who create it.

In the case of Tina and Chris, «aging» refers to the following three details about this record: (a) it is actually a mini-album, formally an EP, with just five properly new songs, meaning they had not the energy or the desire to put out a full-blown artistic statement; (b) it sounds, for the first time ever, almost or completely devoid of specifically modern production techniques and arrangement strategies; (c) some of the songs have a distinctly nostalgic flair — particularly the title track, which, once again, uses their trademark gimmick of invoking the spirits of their idols ("JAMES BROWN!"), but this time, all of the «idols» are proto-punk, punk, and New Wave acts from their youth, from the Velvet Underground and Patti Smith right down to Talking Heads themselves at the very end.

Nevertheless, the five songs in question are actually decent, fun songs. Nothing startlingly original, just good-natured funky grooves with a pinch of darkness. The title track is the only one that adheres to a more strictly rocking format, true to its title, with a straightforward beat and a simple, thick, distorted riff that makes it easily the heaviest track Tom Tom Club have ever recorded — which is still not too heavy at all — and while the obligatory band name countdown on the verses is obligatorily annoying, the kiddie chorus of "na na na na, downtown rockers, I remember you" is both catchy and somewhat sympathetic.

The other four tunes are all completely in line with Tom Tom Clubʼs traditional artistry — sweet and naïve love / lust declarations under the intoxicating influence of a clubbing environment — and although they hardly deserve any detailed analysis, it is hard not to toe-tap along their rhythmic curves or feel just a bit of sexy giddiness at Tinaʼs catchy choruses. It also helps that the tunes are quite musically distinct: ʽWonʼt Give You Upʼ has more of a reggae feel, ʽYou Make Me Rock And Rollʼ swings to a ska-like pattern, ʽKissinʼ Antonioʼ is ʽEvil Waysʼ-style Santana, and only ʽSweets To The Sweetʼ is pure pop. The arrangements are also all over the place, with synths, organs, electric pianos, saxes, wah-wah guitars, and just about everything to bring back that Seventiesʼ atmosphere.

It might actually be a good thing, though, that there is nothing else: another five songs like these and even despite all the musical diversity the proceedings would begin to feel repetitive and boring. An attempt was made to pass the whole thing for a full-length album by putting out several full-length CD editions that doubled the running length by including instrumental remixes (or simply instrumental versions) of all or most of the tracks — because, of course, no Tom Tom Club fan would ever achieve happiness without being given a chance to sing karaoke to his or her favorite bandʼs latest creations — but this is really an action that would deserve the epithet of «pathetic», were anybody in the world to actually give a damn.

The only extra new track, found on the Japanese edition, is a cover of ʽLove Tapeʼ, by the Spanish alt-pop band The Pinker Tones: strange enough, the original here sounded more like the Tom Tom Club of Downtown Rockers, being a pop-rocker very much in the style of classic-rock era R&B — whereas the Tom Tom Club rearrangement awards it a straightahead techno beat, as if in a last ditch attempt to show that the band is not that much out of step with the times... but, for some reason, to show it only to their Japanese fans? Whatever.

In any case, if you care about Tom Tom Club at all, there is no reason to ignore this record just because it is so short or because it feels so absurd to think of Tom Tom Club as a concept capable of making it past the 60-year age barrier. It is short, and the thought is absurd, but neither of the two should bar you from twenty more minutes of sexy fun that are not altogether devoid of creativity, humor, and old-school class. The future may not hold anything else in store for the project — but Downtown Rockers is as good a laconic swan song for it as could ever be warranted by its flimsy, superficial, and ironically humble nature in the first place. 

King Crimson: Space Groove

PROJEKCT TWO: SPACE GROOVE (1998)

Vol. I: 1) Space Groove II; 2) Space Groove III; 3) Space Groove I.

Vol. II: 1) Happy Hour On Planet Zarg; 2) Is There Life On Zarg?; 3) Low Life In Sector Q-3; 4) Sector Shift; 5) Laura In Space; 6) Sector Drift; 7) Sector Patrol; 8) In Space There Is No North, In Space There Is No South, In Space There Is No East, In Space There Is No West; 9) Vector Patrol; 10) Deserts Of Arcadia (North); 11) Deserts Of Arcadia (South); 12) Snake Drummers Of Sector Q-3; 13) Escape From Sagittarius A; 14) Return To Station B.

General verdict: This is Fripp, Belew, and Gunn doing a little cosmic tourism — weird, chilly, and decidedly inoffensive.

Whoah, this doesnʼt sound like ProjeKct One at all — in fact, come to think of it, it doesnʼt sound much like Ninetiesʼ, or Eightiesʼ, or Seventiesʼ King Crimson; and not just because this time around, Bruford preferred to sit it out, with Belew taking care of the electronic drumming instead of guitar playing. Surprisingly, this is a studio rather than live effort, much of it still improvised, according to ProjeKct guidelines, but with quite a few tracks that were clearly pre-composed, sometimes even featuring memorable main themes. Most importantly, however, the fairly unpretentiously named (for KC standards) Space Groove is exactly what it advertises itself as: a collection of groovy, funky-fusionistic pieces with psychedelic / cosmic overtones.

To be honest, in the overall context of King Crimson activity this particular ProjeKct seems like a joke — who could have ever aspired to see a Fripp-sanctioned record begin with a track called ʽHappy Hour On Planet Zargʼ? (The only thing lacking would be to see a picture of Robert in an Enterprise uniform). But those who have also followed Robertʼs solo career know fairly well that Fripp is no stranger to musical jokes (the entire Exposure album might look like one extended, and very funny, joke), and the idea of a Fripp / Gunn / Belew trio doing something completely different for a change is seductive by definition — hell, we probably wouldnʼt mind them picking up a set of bagpipes or covering an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical in its entirety.

The drumming, by the way, does make for a lot of difference: since Belewʼs playing (and / or programming) style is naturally more simple than Brufordʼs (think all those times when Paul substituted for Ringo on the drums), the music sort of comes across as more accessible — and, in order to achieve perfect sync, Gunn and Fripp also tend to go for slightly more simplified and straightforward playing patterns. The landscape is quite sparse and feels as uncluttered as the arrangements on Discipline, but already with ʽHappy Hour On Planet Zargʼ you will see that the emphasis is on chillinʼ rather than drivinʼ — this here is a fairly relaxed approach, with a chumpy drums/bass groove holding things down and quirky guitar mini-melodies whirring past the groove, like tiny astral bodies whooshing past your supersonic rocket ship.

Later on, the music gets even more relaxed, with slowed tempos, limp, marimba-like percussion and dense synth textures replacing or overshadowing guitars (ʽLaura In Spaceʼ, etc.), though every once in a while the disciplined bass groove comes back, and there is enough diversity in the tempos, signatures, and moods to suggest that the three lads are really churning out a concept album about a journey through space — although, as a soundtrack, this would have probably worked better in an old adventure game franchise such as Space Quest rather than in any version of Star Trek: too goofy and quirky to attach itself to anything other than pure comedy.

Technically, I suppose the album might be labeled «fusion», and the closest equivalent of this sound that comes to mind is classic Brand X, before they became way too adult contemporary for their own good. But to be 100% legitimate fusion, Space Groove should have been jazzier, whereas Belew is not a jazz musician at all, especially when it comes to laying down a percussive groove, so in the end, this is more «blues fusion» than «jazz fusion», if that makes any sense to you. Regardless, itʼs largely cool, relaxing, friendly blues fusion, rarely memorable (apart from a small bunch of themes) but never really pretending that it should be, either. Just a special way to chill out from a band that typically makes its living by making you stand on edge, but this time decides to spare your senses and, instead of the usual elevator to Hell, get you a nice space cruise ticket for a change.

Oh, and, actually, the album comes in two parts — with most of the stuff now coming at us digitally, I almost ended up missing the Volume 1 part, which consists of one short and two very long jams and is actually a little different: ʽSpace Groove 1ʼ, in particular, has plenty of nasty, distorted, Larksʼ Tongues-style solos from Fripp that create a completely different atmosphere. But something tells me that Volume 2, with its shorter tracks that actually bear specific names, is the real deal here — think of Volume 1 as the part where you undergo space flight training, and of Volume 2 as the actual journey. 

Richard Wright: Broken China

RICHARD WRIGHT: BROKEN CHINA (1996)

1) Breaking Water; 2) Night Of A Thousand Furry Toys; 3) Hidden Fear; 4) Runaway; 5) Unfair Ground; 6) Satellite; 7) Woman Of Custom; 8) Interlude; 9) Black Cloud; 10) Far From The Harbour Wall; 11) Drowning; 12) Reaching For The Rail; 13) Blue Room In Venice; 14) Sweet July; 15) Along The Shoreline; 16) Breakthrough.

General verdict: A conceptual art-rock record about the trials of depression in name, an intentionally uninspired adult contemporary album in nature.

I have always admired Rick Wright as a personality — the «quiet» member of the band, almost a symbol of amicable humility, a consummate musician with none of Gilmourʼs flash or Watersʼ political ego, and a classy gentleman who looked more like a university professor onstage than a member of a rock band. Unfortunately, all these things always worked best within the context of Pink Floyd than on their own. Wet Dream had already shown that a Rick Wright solo album was not such an exciting idea; and to expect something more from a follow-up project in the «Dave Floyd» era would be a rash thing indeed.

Allegedly, Broken China is a concept album whose main theme is «inspired» by Rickʼs then-current wife Mildredʼs then-current battle with depression (he had only married her one year earlier, but I suppose he knew what he was doing). I think it is relatively safe to say that the record would sound something like this regardless of the circumstances in which it had been produced — it is definitely a little more somber in tone than Wet Dream, but not by much, and, like almost any Floyd-related piece, its melodies and arrangements combine notes of pessimism and gloom with elements of hope for the future and consolation in beauty. Everything here is quite true to Wrightʼs vision and personality. It is just that the music itself is deadly dull.

The album is awfully long, clocking in at just under an hour, and once it is gone, remembering any specific moments from it is hard. In general, itʼs the same old atmosphere: somber, bass-heavy melodies, ranging from rhythmic and danceable (ʽNight Of A Thousand Furry Toysʼ) to minimalistic synth-assisted heavenly prayers (ʽBlue Room In Veniceʼ). About half of the record is instrumental, with Rick himself singing on most other tracks and inviting Sinéad OʼConnor to take lead vocals on two of the key tracks, including the album closer ʽBreakthroughʼ; however, the vocals throughout are used in the same way as any other instrument — very even, very monotonous, consistently bent on generating steady atmosphere rather than emotional jolts.

There is an attempt at modernisation, too, with some of the tracks featuring trendy trip-hop rhythm tracks (ʽRunawayʼ) and a few even bordering on house (ʽSatelliteʼ) — but in the end, all of the album should really be described as «adult contemporary» due to the absolute lack of energy and ecstasy; an intentional lack, but one that is not compensated by any extraordinary chord sequences, sonic combos, or even lyrical revelations (the lyrics, by the way, are mostly taken care of by Anthony Moore, Floydʼs resident lyricist in the post-Waters era). Guitars are handled by Tim Renwick, Steve Bolton (largely known for his work with late period Atomic Rooster), and Stingʼs sideman Dominic Miller, so nothing to write home about. Bass duties are given over to Pino Palladino, who is obviously good (anybody who has been chosen to replace John Entwistle for the Who has to be) but isnʼt really given a lot of chances to shine, other than hold down a nice, steady groove on the recordʼs more danceable tunes. Gilmour is noticeably lacking, though he did play on the original recording of ʽBreakthroughʼ — after which Rick decided that was not what he wanted, and re-recorded the song, which is really all you need to know about the level and the functions of Broken Chinaʼs musicianship.

I have no idea what to write about individual songs, seeing as how there are absolutely no stand-out themes or ideas on any of them — and, in fact, even most of the positive accounts of the album I have seen rarely concentrate on the musical aspect, instead going off on all sorts of tangents about how the experiences processed on this album really relate to their own problems etc. etc. Well, as somebody who also has to face depression on a regular basis, I must say that I feel very little in common with these softly sanitized moods; I am not sure how exactly this musical equivalent of watching paint dry is supposed to count as therapy, but probably for some people it does. Nor do I find the lyrics particularly hard-hitting: hearing Sinéad OʼConnor deliver the lines "But sooner than wake up / To find it all unchanged / Iʼll sleep through the day ʼtil the daylight ends" in her familiar icy tone just brings on a feeling of predictability.

Of course, there will always be people swearing by this record as some sort of forgotten, defiantly un-commercial masterpiece of subtle, but immense psychological depth; to me, though, it is just another sign of how desperately Rick needed the assistance of his bandmates to bring genuine life and beauty to his cold and hollow Apollonian structures. The motives behind this record are more than noble; the end results, alas, amount to little other than morose sonic wallpaper.