Anthrax: We've Come For You All

ANTHRAX: WE'VE COME FOR YOU ALL (2003)

1) Contact; 2) What Doesn't Die; 3) Superhero; 4) Refuse To Be Denied; 5) Safe Home; 6) Any Place But Here; 7) Nobody Knows Anything; 8) Strap It On; 9) Black Dahlia; 10) Cadillac Rock Box; 11) Taking The Music Back; 12) Crash; 13) Think About An End; 14) W.C.F.Y.A.; 15*) Safe Home (acoustic); 16*) We're A Happy Family.

The album title is, more likely than not, a gruesomely black-humored nod to the «anthrax scare» of the psychologically unstable post-9/11 period, and, be that in bad taste or not, it is easy to un­derstand the desire to capitalize on the stroke of luck that befell the band when every person in America inadvertendly added one more Greek word to his/her lexicon.

Of course, Anthrax the band came for «all» no more than any of those letters with white powder: on the contrary, the band's ninth album is their most rigidly thrash-dedicated in years, as they ei­ther purge out outside influences or assimilate them and their carriers. Can you tell, without loo­king, that none other than Roger Daltrey himself guest stars as second vocalist on 'Taking The Music Back'? The song is certainly a little poppier than on the average, but Daltrey's contribution to it, for the most part, sounds like John Bush's echo — and it is only the 'Won't Get Fooled Again'-style scream at 2:29 into the song that gives him away, and only if you are listening to the song with the utmost attention because you happen to be writing a thesis on the album.

Nevertheless, the conservatism works well; Volume 8 had some catchy material, for sure, but here, with the addition of new lead guitarist Rob Caggiano, they also tighten up the accompany­ing sound. The guitars never manage to reach the fearsome heights of White Noise, but neither do they all blend together in a boring sludge mess. No single riff is worth a special description, no single chorus is worth particular admiration, no single piece of lyrics deserves its own praise, but the overall impression is positive all the way through. Yes, a few of these choruses may veer too close to «nu-metal» ('Superhero'), but that is no immediate reason to anathemize them — Anthrax have too deep and honorable a pedigree to debase themselves to the shallow extremes of this un­happy sub-genre.

With nothing but metal purism in mind, there are no ballads here, but the lead single, 'Safe Home', was actually the closest they got to unabashed sentimentalism on the album, and, although some metalheads were disappointed, I think it is no crime to buy into this — Bush is quite capable of carrying on a straightforward Love Anthem, plus Caggione comes up with a tremendous, flaming solo that is definitely the album's highlight. (Some editions of the album also add an early acous­tic demo of the song as a bonus track where it is a ballad, and a good one).

What with heavy metal's unfortunate tendency to degenerate into sludgy boredom or shameful self-parody, these days, if a non-groundbreaking metal album manages to avoid both, it's already a terrific achievement — one that We've Come For You All definitely achieves. (John) Bush-tolerant Anthrax fans will love it; (George W.) Bush-tolerant Republican fans will hate it; non-metalheads like me might listen to it with moderate interest. These three points merit some sort of conditional thumbs up, I suppose.

Aerosmith: Pump

AEROSMITH: PUMP (1989)

1) Young Lust; 2) F.I.N.E.; 3) Going Down / Love In An Elevator; 4) Monkey On My Back; 5) Water Song / Janie's Got A Gun; 6) Dulcimer Stomp / The Other Side; 7) My Girl; 8) Don't Get Mad, Get Even; 9) Hoodoo / Voodoo Me­dicine Man; 10) What It Takes.

As promised, the vacation goes on. The only difference between Pump and its progenitor is that the last traces of creativity and freshness have been expertly removed from the final product, en­suring even greater commercial success. The record sets new standards of slickness which, true to their competitive nature, the band would then raise with every new studio album.

Everything is loud, roaring, catchy, and guaranteed to keep the customer satisfied. Intelligent de­fenders of the album frequently point out that it does stand out from the average hair metal record of the day, because, like it or not, Perry and Whitford are still masters of their instruments, and both gentlemen honestly try to come up with twisted, sleazy, funky riffs and honest bluesy solos. Remove the pop choruses, break through the glossy sheen of the production, they say, and you will still see the same old gritty Aerosmith rockin' out like there was no tomorrow, no matter how many Desmond Childs there are in the studio ensuring that there be plenty of tomorrows, and that each such tomorrow bring in a sizable check in the mail.

As a matter of fact, I absolutely agree. Play Pump back to back with all them Bon Jovi and Def Leppard albums, and you will immediately notice what difference there is between a hair-metal album from a new-generation hair-metal band and a hair-metal album from an old-style Seventies blues-rock band. Faced between these two monsters, I will undoubtedly sacrifice my ears to the Scylla of Pump than the Charybdis of New Jersey or Hysteria (which should, generally, be un­derstood as simply preferring the old school to the new school rather than a direct slap-in-the-face for these particular albums — hey, Def Leppard is a guilty pleasure if there ever was one).

But we are talking Aerosmith in the context of Aerosmith, and in the context of Aerosmith, 'The Other Side' and 'Monkey On My Back' is as dull as they come. Most of this blends together into one never-ending mess of monotonous riffage (again — it may not formally be monotonous, but Fairbairn's production smoothes out all the edges; even when Perry is playing something inte­re­s­ting, he makes sure to overdub another guitar on top of it which is not playing anything inte­re­sting), screaming for the sake of screaming, and big dumb drum patterns that sound louder than everything else put together. In fact, in between the drums and Tyler's throat-tearing, everything else just sort of gets lost.

The big hits were 'Love In An Elevator' and 'Janie's Got A Gun'. The former is credited to Tyler and Perry alone, as they are trying to outdo Mötley Crüe without outside help, and come up with a catchy, fun, but gruesomely inadequate sex anthem, sending elevated society into a state of shock with its accounts of making out you-know-where. Overdone, overplayed, and rather pitiful, it's hardly the worst thing they ever did, but one cannot even call it «self-parody» — in the past, they sang about sex, not about silly sexual fetishes flashing in dirty old minds. How come they never realized — or, if they did realize, how come they were never disturbed by the fact — that this ongoing sexual bravado simply made them all into show-biz clowns?

'Janie's Got A Gun' belatedly returns us to the field of «social relevance». The girl gets raped by her own father and then pulls a gun on him. This can be cutting edge. But as it sits there in the middle of all these dumb sexual anthems, it ceases to be cutting edge and becomes a musical tab­loid — somewhat like the Stones' 'Too Much Blood' or any other song whose author will probab­ly defend it as «an attempt to draw public attention to important social issues», when in reality it is simply one more application of the «give the people what they want» principle. Rape, pedo­philia, and murder — all in one bag! Cool. Let's make it a hit single. At least it's a half-decent pop song (notice, too, how it borrows the alarm siren thing from 'Kings And Queens').

I have, and can have, no personal favorites on Pump. 'Voodoo Medicine Man' could theoretically have gotten my hopes up — why couldn't they justify the title by turning the song into another Southernish romp like 'Hangman Jury'? — but it's just another slab of similar hair-metal. 'Young Lust' raves along at a fast pace, but what's the point if the stylistics is just the same? 'What It Ta­kes' is not the awfulest ballad to disgrace the name of Aerosmith, but it is still a power ballad that takes the aesthetics of 'Home Tonight' and turns it into a big lump of melodic and lyrical clichés.

To reiterate the obvious, Pump is a step down even from the standards of Permanent Vacation. Never mind the experimentation of 'St. John', there are even no traces of light funny funk à la 'Rag Doll', for which 'Janie's Got A Gun' is no acceptable substitute. "Going down, Mr. Tyler?" You bet your ass he is, and taking the whole band with him. Thumbs down.

Al Stewart: 24 Carrots

AL STEWART: 24 CARROTS (1980)

1) Running Man; 2) Midnight Rocks; 3) Constantinople; 4) Merlin's Time; 5) Mondo Sinistro; 6) Murmansk Run/Ellis Island; 7) Rocks In The Ocean; 8) Paint By Numbers; 9) Optical Illusion.

How hard is it to produce an Alan Parsons album if you are only Al Stewart, and the real Alan Parsons is no longer there to assist you in sacrificing to that dangerous deity known as The Lord MOR? Answer: very, very hard. And in the Eighties — pretty much impossible even if you are Alan Parsons himself, rather than Al Stewart.

24 Carrots is not nearly as depressing as some of Al's later variations on the life support system, but, in terms of living/breathing instruments, it is almost non-existent. Not only Parsons, but Tim Renwick as well has vanished — in fact, pretty much the entire backing band is newly assembled, headed by professional, but way too technically-minded fusion guitarist Peter White, who also assists Al with much of the songwriting. The electronic currents have not yet gained the upper hand, but all of the riffs and even most of the solos have a decidedly programmatic aura around them; new producer Chris Desmond turns out to be twice the mathematician Alan Parsons used to be, but without the latter's understanding of the concept of beauty — as Pythagorean as it was with Parsons, at least he trusted the Muse to guide him. The guidance patterns of Chris Desmond are unknown to me, and I'd rather not guess.

Much of the material is catchy, as usual, but this is the first Stewart record which actively brings on the question — why do we have to listen to it? Who needs an impoverished, third-rate copy of Year Of The Cat? The only new ingredient is a brand of faster-paced, slightly crunchier, harder-rocking near-dance numbers that are, at best, undistinguishable from generic mid-to-late Seven­ties radio fodder ('Paint By Numbers', although I admit the guilt of really digging the ecstatic guitar solos — so predictable, but so brilliantly constructed!), and, at worst, designed as corny jokes but not immediately guessable as such ('Mondo Sinistro' — unless you have a very, very wide-reaching sense of hu­mor that allows you to openly enjoy Benny Hill with the same passion as Monty Python, you will probably deem this the worst Stewart song written up to that point).

Apart from this questionable innovation, what is there to tell? A few of the songs are relatively un­marred by the antiseptic production and bring on vague recollections of Stewart's pre-Parsons years: e. g. the mandolin-heavy waltz of 'Rocks In The Ocean' and the medievalistic 'Merlin's Time' (al­though the latter is awfully derivative of 'Jerusalem', I must say). The lead single 'Mid­night Rocks' comes with the obligatory sax solo, but is no 'Year Of The Cat' for sure. 'Constan­tinople' is the obligatory history listen to remind you of the fateful events of the year 1453 thro­ugh politically incorrect lines like "I see the hosts of Mohammed coming" and a permanently wailing, never erring guitar riff that periodically disintegrates into a flurry of permanently wailing, never erring guitar solo notes.

If you are younger than Christ and your blood is still boiling, do not come near the record — its vibes will most likely be atrocious, as befits the vibes on any essentially stillborn album. If, on the other hand, you have somewhat calmed down, you might understand my thumbs up: 'Mondo Sinistro' is the only true crime against good taste on here, and there is plenty of melodicity, in­telligence, and — not the least important — humility to keep a middle-aged person satisfied.

Aretha Franklin: Amazing Grace

ARETHA FRANKLIN: AMAZING GRACE (1972)

CD I: 1) Organ Introduction; 2) Opening Remarks; 3) On Our Way; 4) Aretha's Introduction; 5) Wholy Holy; 6) You'll Never Walk Alone; 7) What A Friend We Have In Jesus; 8) Precious Memories; 9) How I Got Over; 10) Pre­cious Lord, Take My Hand / You've Got A Friend; 11) Climbing Higher Mountains; 12) Amazing Grace; 13) My Sweet Lord (instrumental); 14) Give Yourself To Jesus; CD II: 1) Organ Introduction; 2) On Our Way; 3) Aretha's Introduction; 4) What A Friend We Have In Jesus; 5) Wholy Holy; 6) Climbing Higher Mountains; 7) God Will Take Care Of You; 8) Old Landmark; 9) Mary, Don't You Weep; 10) Never Grow Old; 11) Remarks by Reverend C. L. Franklin; 12) Precious Memories; 13) My Sweet Lord (instrumental).

Amazing Grace is, as you might know, the best-selling gospel album of all time. There is little else that needs to be said about it, because, once you take it from here, it all depends on how you feel about gospel. Predictably, most responses fall into one of three categories:

«The Lord giveth and the lord taketh away, and with this album, the Lord giveth thus a-plenty, I wouldn't mind spend the rest of my sinner's life having him take away. As a matter of fact, I am divorcing my heathen wife (var.: husband) right now because she (he) dared suggest that the Rev. James Cleveland is in need of a good dentist.»

«Gospel music? Baloney. My interests are rooted in the propagation of scientific atheism (var.: I'm a docu­men­tally proven Viking descendant in the n-th generation), so excuse me if I don't have time to discuss that howling crap, I have a lecture on the evil ways of the Old Testament to de­liver in thirty minutes (var.: a couple of Christian churches to burn before the day is out)».

«Well, uh, I'm not that much of a believer, er, uhm, as a matter of fact, I only go to church to ad­mire the stained glass (var.: the bodily proportions of young Catholic girls), but, er, Aretha Frank­lin, she, like, has a mighty fine voice, and plus, she is sort of passionate about this, don't you see? And, like, we have to respect sincerity and passion in art, plus, it's, like, tradition, so in the inte­rests of tolerance and world peace, I, uh, give this a B+. Hey, that's what Robert Christgau gave it, and he says there's passion there, too!».

A few facts. This live album was recorded on two successive nights (January 13-14, 1972) as a church session, with the Rev. James Cleveland («King of Gospel») presiding, the Rev. C. L. Fra­nklin stepping up to the mike once or twice to drive home the point about how Aretha never ever really left the Church, and the resulting double album going radioactive platinum. Today, with the new CD release containing the near-complete material from both nights, it is a quadruple album, with more gospel on it than even the most fervent Christian (or Voodoo) practitioner could chew off in one bite. But a good bargain for one's money.

If still another opinion is really called for, I'd say there is actually not that much difference be­tween Amazing Grace and those early sessions when she had the added benefit of super-young age to add to the jaw-dropping effect. Except, of course, that the sound quality is much better, and that the proceedings are expectedly grander now that this is no longer «the little Aretha», but «the Living Queen of Soul». As for the Grace — well, if there were dedicated followers of Aretha from childhood that night at the church, I don't think they would have dared say that the Grace was particularly high upon her during those particular hours. This is just your usual, regular, awe­some Ms. Aretha Franklin — but specifically pandering to Mr. and Mrs. Churchgoer. Me, I'm more of a Mr. Stayhomer, and thus, not really qualified to position my thumbs in this matter.

B. B. King: Lucille

B. B. KING: LUCILLE (1968)

1) Lucille; 2) You Move Me So; 3) Country Girl; 4) No Money, No Luck; 5) I Need Your Love; 6) Rainin' All The Time; 7) I'm With You; 8) Stop Putting The Hurt On Me; 9) Watch Yourself.

Somehow, in between all the mediocre releases and excessive concentration on the live spirit and the fact that, in one short year, the man would make the final mighty crossover with 'The Thrill Is Gone', we all missed the simple truth: Lucille, from (late?) 1968, is the first consistently great studio album to bear B. B. King's name on it. And his guitar's, too, for that matter.

It may not become your favourite, or mine, or the average blues lover's, but it is the first album on which the King is truly, straightforwardly, unequivocally doing the King's thing: not just playing the blues, but also loving it, near-physically, without having to experience coitus interruptus eve­ry two minutes. It's all blues, no venturing into strange territories, and the tunes take as much time as they need to build up, develop, and crash down.

Which, in the case of the title track, is ten minutes — King's first, and fully successful, attempt at bringing down barriers. Of course, his lengthy public declaration of love for his guitar is pom­pous, pretentious, and overblown, but with two decades of hit-making, blues-wailing, and belly-growing behind his back, he has every right to this atmosphere. The little monolog he delivers over the course of the song — as clumsy and clichéd as parts of it are, it's all sincere, and when, after yet another «response» from the guitar, he says "I doubt if you can feel it like I do", there is no reason to think he is just being haughty.

"Lucille don't wanna play nothing but the blues", he says, "if I could sing pop tunes like Frank Si­natra or Sammy Davis Jr., I don't think I still could do it". Sounds pretty blunt, when you start thinking of all those times when the man was forced to sing all those pop tunes — in a way, this is King's declaration of independence. "But I can get a little Frank, a little Sammy, a little Ray Charles in there, in fact, all the people with soul in this", he then adds, so as not to offend the mighty colleagues in show-business — plus, he's kind of right about it, too.

On the other side of the record, King bookmarks the proceedings with six minutes of 'Watch Yourself' (it is mighty faster, though, so the overall number of bars must be pretty much the same as on 'Lucille') — again, the first time we see him truly stretch out in the studio, never letting the ac­companying sax overshadow the playing, going bar over bar inventing new guitar figures on the spot; nothing particularly dazzling in the technical sense, but gives you a great rundown on the man's improvising style.

In between these two peaks of freedom, there's seven lesser, shorter songs that need no individual commenting (and not all of them are equally satisfactory — for instance, Peter Green clearly took 'I Need Your Love So Bad' closer to heart than B. B., who gives it a far more perfunctory rendi­tion), but all of them benefit greatly from this spiritual uplifting that seems to have taken place sometime in mid-1968.

In short, even if, technically, Lucille is just another slab of generic big-band blues, it is still one of the best generic big-band blues albums of 1968, and, no matter how many changes King would later go through, it is here that he is in peak form; 'Lucille' and 'Watch Yourself', at the very least, are required listening for every blue note lover. Thumbs up.

Andrew Bird: Soldier On

ANDREW BIRD: SOLDIER ON (2007)

1) The Trees Were Mistaken; 2) Sic Of Elephants; 3) The Water Jet Cilice; 4) Plasticities; 5) Heretics; 6) Sectionate City; 7) How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down On The Farm; 8) Oh Sister.

A mid-size, near-LP-length EP that Bird put out because... because all respectable artists are sup­posed to release an EP every once in a while? Let us think logically. This EP features: (a) one remix of a previously released tune ('Plasticities'); (b) a demo version of a previously released tune ('Heretics'); (c) a Bob Dylan cover (guess which); (d) a short psycho-Eastern instrumental ('Sectionate City'); (e) a lightly fleshed-out vocal version of an earlier instrumental ('The Water Jet Cilice'); (f) a song that had already been released as a bonus track on the iTunes edition of Arm­chair Apocrypha ('Sic Of Elephants'); (g) a regularly melancholic reading of the old after­war tune 'How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down' from 1918; (h) exactly one fully-fledged, seriously developed new song (the first one).

Ergo, this probably means that he had this song about mistaken trees either as a leftover from the Apocrypha sessions or recorded afresh, and then hastily assembled some local trash around it to justify immediate release. It is to Andrew's honor, of course, that he can hastily assemble thirty minutes worth of outtakes and throwaways that still provide a nice listen.

'The Trees Are Mistaken' are a magnificent creation, to be sure. The drum loops are somewhat generic, but the violin loops are anything but, and, taken together with the whistling, create a uniquely Birdian au­ra of gentlemanly paranoia. Possible interpretations rank in the millions, espe­cially when concentrating on the lyrics, but the basic impression from the song's primary gim­mick — those nagging, droning violins slowly sawing through your brain — will be the same for most people, I think, provided they can stand a little brain-sawing.

'Sic Of Elephants', on the other hand, lacks a distinct hook, unless the worldplay between 'ele­phants' and 'sycophants' can be considered as such. Along with 'Cilice', its strength is in mood and atmosphere, so that it is all the more pleasing that the alternate versions for earlier songs are cho­sen from two of the catchiest tunes on Apocrypha — 'Heretics', in particular, works almost as well in its stripped-down form as it does with the strings-induced bombast.

Still, obviously, this is one more for the fans; the average Joe on the street will not gain an extra pass to Heaven by listening to Andrew Bird covering one of the more morally ambiguous songs of Bob Dylan's career ('Oh Sister' is a Biblical stylization about incest, if you have not noticed; granted, what with Andrew's sweet, sweet arrangement and singing, it would be hard for his sister to refuse his yearnings, I think).

Ani DiFranco: Up Up Up Up Up Up

ANI DIFRANCO: UP UP UP UP UP UP (1999)

1) 'Tis Of Thee; 2) Virtue; 3) Come Away From It; 4) Jukebox; 5) Angel Food; 6) Angry Any More; 7) Everest; 8) Up Up Up Up Up Up; 9) Know Now Then; 10) Trickle Down; 11) Hat Shaped Hat.

"I'm not angry any more", she says, "we learn like the trees how to bend". The song, 'Angry Any More', is a fairly important piece — if it is not tricking us, then it allows us to take a peek at whe­re all of the aggression and suffering come from. (Freud, of course, would have a field day). But even more significantly, it has to be taken as a sort of manifesto, that the uncontrolled angst and rage have been gotten over and from now on we are going to see intelligence tempering hot emo­tions instead of being yoked by them. At least, that's what we are promised; it would be unreaso­nable to expect someone like Ani to keep those promises, though.

Musically, this is not much different from Little Plastic Castle: partly soft acoustic stuff, partly quiet jazz stuff that veers between lounge and avantgarde without bothering to spell out the dif­ference in a distinct way. The soft acoustic stuff is predictably elegant, sometimes begging to be nominated for the category of "cathartic", like 'Everest', a delicate midnight waltz with DiFranco's guitar and new band member Jason Mercer's bass swaying round each other like old-fashioned dance partners — but the overall sound is a bit too stifled and, at the same time, too roughly un­derproduced to really qualify as a masterpiece.

And pretty much the same words apply to everything else. My fond feeling for the album is not because of jaw-dropping melodies or terrific playing, but because it drives us into unexpectedly sadder territory — many of the songs sound like laments that, indeed, contain no anger, but only pure sorrow and a touch of bitterness. Eight minutes of 'Come Away From It' may seem way too much on paper, but they have a point: it is eight minutes of begging that, in effect, symbolize eight hundred, eight thousand, eight million minutes of begging, as much as it takes to get the point of your begging across. What is she begging for, though? "What makes you so lavish that you can afford to spend every sober moment feeling angry and bored?... Are you trying to tell me this world just isn't beautiful enough?.." One could say that the song's antagonist is Ani herself — the Ani of Not So Soft and Not A Pretty Girl — rather than some unnamed lover that we hones­tly don't give two shits about.

With each new album, the percentage of enigmatic songs is steadily increasing — I don't know if this can be interpreted as squeezing out the Buffalonian and soaking in the New Yorker, but it de­finitely makes it harder and harder to dismiss the tunes as simplistic and generic. The soft dark growl of 'Angel Food', for instance, with its funky waves and out-of-nowhere aboriginal hunt calls and its pre-post-beatnik lyrics, is a purely impressionistic matter. So is 'Know Now Then', whose lyrics vaguely refer to some other sort of girl-girl relationship but whose «astral jazz» tex­tures almost might suggest the relationship is taking place on Mars. And Mars is actually referred to during the thirteen minutes of 'Hat-Shaped Hat', a whacky funky jam decidedly about nothing — actually, the weakest spot on the record, because Ani's outfit does not possess true jam power, and this time around, there are no atmospheric currents to hold the listener's attention, so if this is not a «space-padder» par excellence, I do not know what is.

Oh, I would really have liked to give the record a thumbs up, but now that I remember the album title, I just can't do it — it would feel like I'm being manipulated into the rating. On the other hand, the converse rating would also be wrong; as much as tracks like 'Hat-Shaped Hat' suggest that the lady should try getting into needlework, and as much as I miss her awesome guitar chops that are, for the most part, concealed either due to an outgrowth of modesty or an outgrowth of blisters, they are not enough to neutralize the honestly good moments of the record. Partly point­less, partly pretty, and we harbor enough liberal guilt to let it go with a word of kindness.

Anthrax: Volume 8 - The Threat Is Real

ANTHRAX: VOLUME 8 - THE THREAT IS REAL (1998)

1) Crush; 2) Catharsis; 3) Inside Out; 4) Piss 'N' Vinegar; 5) 604; 6) Toast To The Extras; 7) Born Again Idiot; 8) Killing Box; 9) Harms Way; 10) Hog Tied; 11) Big Fat; 12) Cupajoe; 13) Alpha Male; 14) Stealing From A Thief.

Self-produced, fortunately, and immediately a big improvement over the unfortunate Stomp. By now, we have a fairly good idea of what to expect from a Bush & Ian-led Anthrax: a series of kill 'em all style Panzer attacks (or was that Pantera attacks, given the near-complete merger of the two bands' styles?), a few alt-rock style acoustic ballads, and a couple ridiculous, but engaging comic links to dress it all up. The only question is whether it works or it sinks.

I certainly had a better time trying to groove along to the sounds of Volume 8 than its predeces­sor. Either Paul Crook has succeeded in adapting to the band's mentality, or they simply spent more time sifting out the insipid, but both the riffs and the vocal hooks go at least one notch up. Here be just a brief going-over through the good moments: "Won't you crush on me, crush on me" from 'Crush', followed by some first-rate headbanging; "Angels in my heart, devils in my eyes" from 'Catharsis', steady good rocking tonight; "From on top of the world, I'll throw you down a rope" from 'Hog Tied'; "Carrying the weight of the world in my hands!" from 'Big Fat' — these are well-designed, melodic, meaningful hooks.

The funny country rocker (!) 'Toast To The Extras' and the closing ballad 'Pieces' (a «hidden track») rule by nature of being throwaways — if you heard these songs on, say, a post-reunion Lynyrd Skynyrd album, you'd probably throw up, but in the context of the usual Anthrax grinder, they bring in an element of coziness that may win you over.

All in all, they seem to be retreating back to the grungy atmospherics of White Noise, even if there is fat chance they will ever be able to completely reiterate its success. Still, switching back and forth between the tracks of the 1998 and the 1995 album, I can't help but be surprised at how consistently better they managed to sound this time. Really, most of it is about the guitar sound: on Stomp 442, loud as it was, it came across as muffled and muzzled — here, it's as if The But­cher Bros. left and took the muzzle along, so you not only get to hear all the snarling in the pro­per tone, you get to experience some real tearing at the throat. BLOOD! That's what you want when listening to post-Belladonna Anthrax, and on Volume 8, you do get some, though perhaps not as fresh and smokin' as a true metalhead usually likes it.

Aerosmith: Permanent Vacation

AEROSMITH: PERMANENT VACATION (1987)

1) Heart's Done Time; 2) Magic Touch; 3) Rag Doll; 4) Simoriah; 5) Dude (Looks Like A Lady); 6) St. John; 7) Han­gman Jury; 8) Girl Keeps Coming Apart; 9) Angel; 10) Permanent Vacation; 11) I'm Down; 12) The Movie.

Permanent Vacation. What a brilliant title — no, not for the album, but for the entire career of Aerosmith starting with the unhappy day of September 5, 1987, when the first record buyers sub­jected themselves to its treatment. Or, perhaps, starting with the Run D.M.C. collaboration on 'Walk This Way' from the previous year? No, probably not. When they did their rap-rock thing in mid-1986, the band was still drugged out and scary, and the friendship between rock'n'roll and hip-hop was still an exciting, rather than languid, thing to consider. In fact, when Steve Tyler pop­ped his head through that hole in the wall that Perry cut with his guitar, screaming a bloody 'WALK THIS WAY!' into the surprised faces of his black partners, this just might have been the very last time we caught him in a genuinely scary appearance.

With the appearance of Permanent Vacation, the bodies were healed and the souls were sold. This, of course, is not just a personal impression, but is deeply rooted in factual basis. In order to «modernize» (shudders!) the band, Geffen Records brought in producer Bruce Fairbairn, whose main claim to fame was engineering Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet, and outside songwriters Desmond Child and Jim Vallance, to «help out» the band in the same humiliating way that mai­nstream labels were «helping out» old-time heroes like Cheap Trick and Eric Clapton. The goal was as obvious as the quest — the goal, to make a record that sells, the task, to maintain some sort of artistic integrity and save some sort of artistic face in fierce battle with the demon of cor­porate songwriting. The goal was achieved; the quest, mostly flunked.

I am not saying that Permanent Vacation is a bad album. It has to be approached according to the standards of its day; as a chunk of hairy pop-metal, it is actually better than most of the Poi­son / Def Leppard / Bon Jovi albums of its era, if only because old-time guitarists like Perry and Whitford, even if they really wanted to, could not play in the same flat, leaden, funkless way than the guitarists in most of these bands. But every effort has been taken to make them sound like these guys. The worst news is that the guitar melodies do not register any more in my memory bank. In the Seventies, it was all about the guitar groove; on tunes like 'Toys In The Attic' or, let's say, 'Get It Up', Joe Perry was the hero and Steve Tyler the afterthought. On Permanent Vaca­tion, the roles are permanently reversed. Guitars are there to provide loud, fat (I'd even say «over­weight»), and utterly unmemorable backing to catchy pop choruses. Nothing else.

And they aren't necessarily ugly pop choruses. After all, corporate songwriters usually know their job, and at least a guy like Desmond Child knew a thing or two about catchiness (unlike, for in­stance, Diane Warren, the biggest musical orgasm faker in the history of bad sex). If the chorus to 'Rag Doll' or to '(Dude) Looks Like A Lady' (which otherwise sounds like a bizarre cross between the Who's '5:15' and a particularly sleazy AC/DC anthem) does not stick in your brain, you must be tonedeaf or something. But even 'Rag Doll', arguably the strongest song on the album, is hopelessly spoiled with its dumb electronically enhanced drums and marinated guitar sound.

Nasty green stuff keeps splurging out all over the place. What is the point of covering 'I'm Down' by The Beatles, reproduced note-for-note but with atrocious late-Eighties production values? No point. What is the point of the closing pseudo-«Kashmir»ian drone 'The Movie'? To reaffirm the listener's faith in the band as «artists»? Four minutes is hardly enough time to fish that faith out from the depths of the well in which it has been dropping for the previous fourty. What is the point of the hedonistic title track — to confirm that the band are having a braindead competition with Mötley Crüe, even though it was already obvious from the first two songs? And let's not even get started on 'Angel', the first in a series of deadly biological weapons commonly known as «The Aerosmith Power Ballad» (fortunately, these particularly scary death-bringers were still in the testing stage; real mass production would not start until Get A Grip).

My personal two favourites are in the middle; 'St. John' sort of breaks up the pop-metal formula in favor of something sincerely darker and more bizarre in the blues-rock vein, and 'Hangman Jury' is sort of what it would be like to have Leadbelly produced by Bruce Fairbairn — crass, but fun and, at least, entirely unpredictable. If anything, these two songs show that the band were still not above searching for new sounds and experiences, something that the record industry would completely forbid by the time of Pump.

But these itty-bitty experiments get hopelessly lost in the sea of sludge and filth, with Steve Ty­ler, formerly one of the shiveriest nasty young men in existence, now jumping into the role of one of the ugliest dirty old sleazebags in the industry. Just like in the good old days, more than half of the songs are about getting some; but where the frenzied screams of "doctor, doctor, doctor, get your sweet ass off the floor" once sounded authentic, all this new stuff like "somebody better call a doctor or wake me up with a shove" ('Magic Touch') is no longer convincing at all — a fourty­year old Tyler is, of course, still decades away from being a Viagra patient (at least, I hope he was), but he is no longer able to sustain or justify his sex drive all through the album. Granted, again, there are not as many cringeworthy moments here as there are on Pump ('Love In An Ele­vator' — GOD!), but they're there all right, and I really don't want to hear song after song about dirty old men from dirty old men, be they Aerosmith or the Rolling Stones or Frank Sinatra.

Sometimes I feel genuinely envious of people who have no problem enjoying Permanent Vaca­tion with the same happy abandon that they enjoy Rocks or Toys In The Attic, i. e. with the ide­ology of «these guys rocked in the Seventies, now they rock in the Eighties and Nineties! — sure they rock in a different way, but times change, you know?» Try as we might, I and those with similar feelings will never be able to experience similar emotions from 'Rats In The Cellar' and '(Dude) Looks Like A Lady' — but maybe this is just our problem? Maybe we are overintellectu­alizing things instead of just letting go?

Then again, if we just let go, pretty much every rock song with a mid-tempo 4/4 beat may be able to rock our socks off, and where's the fun in that? Nah. I freely admit there are some good vocal hooks on the album, and a few creative ideas, but no sober Aerosmith album deserves anything higher than a rigid thumbs down. Back to drugs, boys; back to drugs — the only way to save the music. (Then again, maybe not. Dirty old men are bad enough, but dirty old junkies would make Requiem For A Dream look like an innocent joyride).

Al Stewart: Time Passages

AL STEWART: TIME PASSAGES (1978)

1) Time Passages; 2) Valentina Way; 3) Life In Dark Water; 4) A Man For All Seasons; 5) Almost Lucy; 6) Palace Of Versailles; 7) Timeless Skies; 8) Song On The Radio; 9) End Of The Day.

Before I start, here is a short message from a valued Internet partner of mine.

«Greetings from Amazon! We have recommendations for you. Viewing Al Stewart's Time Pas­sages? Frequently bought together with Year Of The Cat and Past, Present And Future — add all three to Cart! (No, we do not offer a discount; would not that be too predictable for a respec­table on-line service?) Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought: Year Of The Cat — Al Stewart; Past, Present And Future — Al Stewart; Modern Times — Al Stewart; Sparks Of Ancient Light — Al Stewart; 24 Carrots — Al Stewart; and whatever other Al Stewart is avai­lable as a mega-expensive import from the Land of the Rising Sun, the only country that is al­ways willing to pander to men of exquisite tastes as long as they are ready to sacrifice food, gas, and lodging to permanent spiritual growth.

What? Not «Dumbass All-Consuming Customer»? Signing out and logging in with your regular name? All right, Mr. Smartypants, here is some updated information for you. Still viewing Al Stewart's Time Passages? WHY???... Mind you, it is actually frequently bought together with Tales Of Mystery And Imagination and I Robot! Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought: Pyramid — The Alan Parsons Project; Eve — The Alan Parsons Project; Turn Of A Friendly Card — The Alan Parsons Project; and then, all down the line. Only one customer had the nerve to buy Breakfast In America — Supertramp, but we wiped out his bank account as a restricting measure, so hopefully he'll never try that one again.»

Now, back to the review. I would be lying through my teeth if I said that Al Stewart was all but strangled on this album. He is, after all, writing songs, lyrics included, and singing them. He is returning to his world of allegories, with, at the very least, Thomas More and heroes of the French Revolution roaming through the tracks to refresh your memories of history classes. But it is also true that, by this point, Parsons, now an established rock star in his own rights, probably viewed all of the records that he was still producing as his own private domain; consequently, he produces everything as if Al Stewart were not Al Stewart at all, but rather Eric Woolfson, his sin­ging and playing partner in The Project. As a result, Time Passages is, basically, an Alan Parsons record with special guest star Al Stewart invited to tell us about Thomas More.

At least two of the songs, 'Life In Dark Water' and 'Palace Of Versailles', with their grim, depres­sing synthesizer depths / heights, sound as if they come straight from Pyramid. If you hate gene­ric «soft-prog» of the mid-Seventies, that one style that was dumbed down even further in the next decade, becoming «adult contemporary», better program them right out at the very begin­ning. Personally, I think that 'Dark Water', with its spooky tale of submarine life, is atmospheri­cally successful, whereas 'Versailles' is too languid and boring to match its exciting lyrical subject, but these opinions could be turned round any day, for all I know.

The other tunes are a bit sunnier and cheerier, and the more the sun shines in on the music, the more we see of Al and the less of Alan. 'Valentina Way' is a solid, and surprisingly fast, pop-ro­cker with great melodic work from Renwick; 'Timeless Skies' is the only chance we get to enjoy the old folkie acoustic style; and both the title track and 'Song On The Radio' are two conscious attempts to pick off from where 'Year Of The Cat' left us yearning for more — big brawny an­thems with strings, synths, and saxes battling it out on your radio. Perfect cruising material for 1978, and still going strong.

But don't take this «more of Al, less for Alan» for a retracting of my earlier words: major or mi­or key, all of this is uniformly overproduced, overglossed, and poli­shed to near-ugly perfection. The best solution is try and not pay any attention to the production at all, but concentrate on the basic melody. I am not a Parsons-hater (in fact, I have lots of respect for The Project in its classic form), yet the best thing about Time Passages is still Stewart's persona whenever it emerges, plus Tim Renwick's guitar playing whenever it is he that gets the chance to solo and not any of the key­board or sax players. Most of the songs are still reasonably well written; unfortunately, Parsons seems to have spoiled Stewart into thinking that arrangement and production matter at least as much as the melody, if not more, and, furthermore, resulted in turning him into a heavy Parsons addict. Just one listen to his next record is sufficient to see how disastrous that addiction turned out eventually. Thumbs up through clenched teeth — and seriously not recommended for any­one with a significant alergy to typical 1970s production values.

Aretha Franklin: Young, Gifted And Black

ARETHA FRANKLIN: YOUNG, GIFTED AND BLACK (1972)

1) Oh Me Oh My; 2) Day Dreaming; 3) Rock Steady; 4) Young, Gifted And Black; 5) All The King's Horses; 6) A Brand New Me; 7) April Fools; 8) I've Been Loving You Too Long; 9) First Snow In Kokomo; 10) The Long And Winding Road; 11) Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time); 12) Border Song (Holy Moses).

Seriously amazing. In a certain sense, this is Franklin's Abbey Road: one last colossal punch of an effort with a 100% payoff, before the inevitable disintegration. Of course, like the Beatles' so­lo careers, Franklin would still keep on shining, sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer, but ex­plode in such a dazzle of fireworks — never again. If you stop at this point and go no further, the Almighty will surely not count this against you (especially since it is my firm belief the Almighty himself would rather shake his booty to 'Rock Steady' all day long than remain bored stiff with fifteen minutes of 'Amazing Grace').

I have no idea why, but absolutely everything one could ever love and respect about A. F. is right here in this fourty-minute package. For one thing, there is no filler. Each song has its purpose and no two sound exactly alike. The arrangements are fabulous. The rate of cover tunes to original compositions is respectable, and the original compositions steadily outshine the covers. The pro­duction only occasionally gets bogged in soft-rockish values of the period. The balance between diversity and stylistic coherence is ideal. In short — perfection.

Let's see — where do we start with the songs? Okay, 'Rock Steady'. Aretha gets a little lost here among all the other sounds, but this is so damn right. In a terrific funk groove like this, she has to be a bit player, important, but not overwhelming, and that is exactly what she is. No other Frank­lin song rocks like this, as the bass, the chicken-scratch guitars, the sleazy brass bridge, and the voodooistic background vocals take you right in the middle of the jungle. This is not typical for Aretha, but I certainly wish it were, since she is perfectly capable of tackling hardcore funk head-on along with the best of 'em. She wrote it herself, too.

She also wrote 'Day Dreaming', a soft ballad more in the vein of Roberta Flack than her own, but one whose melody and atmosphere, with its cloudy electric pianos and flute swirls, perfectly match the title. She also wrote 'All The King's Horses', whose main hook — merging Humpty-Du­m­pty with a tragic tale of lost love — is as ingenious as it is genius. And even if 'First Snow In Kokomo' is not so much a song as it is a hummable piece of artistic memoirs set to gospel piano and weeping guitar, it is still a beautiful experience worthy of most jazz greats.

Once again, she intentionally misinterprets Otis Redding by turning 'I've Been Loving You Too Long' upside down: Otis wrote it as a near-suicidal tune, in a Tristan-like manner, presenting love as a destructive, lethal drug habit — Aretha discards any allusions to self-destruction and states her point very clearly: since she's been loving him too long to stop now, it is he who has no cho­ice but to stay... or suffer the odds, whatever they might be. And who can tell whose interpretati­on is the more artistic one? Probably Otis', since the high tragedy and the elegant subtlety of the original are lost on Aretha; but that does not mean her take on this is not deserving, either.

The title track, a complete reworking of Nina Simone's original hit, puts us in celebratory mood and in a far more intelligent way, of course, than straightforward sloganing of the "Say it loud" type. More joyful celebration, but without a serious social background this time, is to be found on 'Oh Me Oh My' and the cover of the Delfonics' 'Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time?)' — to which the only possible answer is one hundred percent positive, of course.

As for 'Border Song', there was probably no way Franklin could not have covered it; in fact, I have a creeping suspicion that Elton and Bernie intentionally designed the tune in a way that would entice every single black soul artist to cover it (thus ensuring their financial future in case the boots and glasses failed to do their job). But you gotta give it to her: she fights through Tau­pin's meaningless lyrics with the same reckless abandon that she fought through Robertson's equ­ally meaningless lyrics on 'The Weight', and somehow makes them meaningful in the (or, per­haps, through the) process — and, besides, the song works fine as a wrapping-up coda to the whole al­bum. I wouldn't have refused a fifteen-minute jam-style reprise of 'Rock Steady' in its place, of course, but that's just me.

For more and more fans over the years, this is Aretha Franklin at her best, and I tend to agree. Only 'Rock Steady' would have made my personal Top 5; but where else will you find a Franklin LP that is (a) so consistent, (b) so variegated, (c) so well-crafted and intelligently arranged, (d) heavy on hits and hooks? Thumbs up on all these counts and more.

B. B. King: Blues On Top Of Blues

B. B. KING: BLUES ON TOP OF BLUES (1968)

1) Heartbreaker; 2) Losing Faith In You; 3) Dance With Me; 4) That's Wrong Little Mama; 5) Having My Say; 6) I'm Not Wanted Anymore; 7) Worried Dream; 8) Paying The Cost To Be The Boss; 9) Until I Found You; 10) I'm Gonna Do What They Do To Me; 11) Raining In My Heart; 12) Now That You've Lost Me.

At first, this seems decent; at the very least, much better than King's unhappy debut for ABC five years earlier (and, odd as it is, only his third studio album in five years altogether; Confessin' The Blues from 1967 was the second one, but it is almost impossible to find these days, and not very relevant either, since it was one of those lame attempts to get B. B. by on the strength of his voice alone, replacing Lucille with horns and strings).

The problem is, without particularly serious concentration on the numbers, I caught myself reali­zing that I did not notice that much guitar on this record, either. All the songs feature big band arrangements, led by Johnny Pate, and for each of these numbers that rarely go over three minu­tes, King gets lots of singing, but only a few bars of soloing. When you do get to hear the notes, they are as crisp as it gets, showcasing his polished and improved sound from the late Sixties, but you will not get the chance too often.

The material, as expected, veers between straightforward 12-bar and explorations in closely con­nected territory, e. g. Lonnie Johnson-style balladry ('Losing Faith In You') and danceable blues-rock ('That's Wrong Little Mama', guessable as a response to 'That's Alright Mama'). The lead single was 'Paying The Cost To Be The Boss', probably the correct choice since it hits the harsh­est (without adding much that we did not know about the man, of course). The second single was 'I'm Gonna Do What They Do To Me', probably the correct choice since it hits the second harsh­est (without adding much that we did not know about 'Paying The Cost To Be The Boss').

In its historical context, however, the album sounds hopelessly dated even by the standards of 1968. The record is made in strict accordance with the same old rules: short songs, big horns, mo­dest solos, a complete lack of exploration. Its only saving grace is the clean, modern-sounding production, but if you listen to blues for clarity of sound rather than force of expression, you'd better stick to the likes of Robert Cray.

Andrew Bird: Armchair Apocrypha

ANDREW BIRD: ARMCHAIR APOCRYPHA (2007)

1) Fiery Crash; 2) Imitosis; 3) Heretics; 4) Dark Matter; 5) Plasticities; 6) Armchairs; 7) Simple X; 8) The Supine; 9) Cataracts; 10) Scythian Empire; 11) Spare-Ohs; 12) Yawny At The Apocalypse.

The title has a very nice ring to it, and it is well certified that both the title and the album itself stem from Bird's fervent passion for armchairs. How could such a passion remain undetected when there is a budgerigar on the album cover? If you do not immediately spot the connection between common pet parakeets and armchairs, you are unlikely to be eligible for the fan club.

But it does not take a true fan to understand that Apocrypha continues the trend: Bird is making himself look bigger. The record is louder and jumpier, and the first noticeable thing about it is how much more guitar- (particularly, electric guitar-)based most of the songs are; on this record, the violin is degraded from the status of ruthless monopolist to that of a valued, but contractually restricted partner. One explanation is the everlasting quest for new sounds and sensations; the other is that record buyers generally fall for guitar-based music easier than they do for violin-ba­sed one, what with the people still rolling over Beethoven and telling Tchaikowsky the news after all these years, and, true enough, the record became Andrew's biggest seller to that point (mea­ning that it actually sold something).

Grim facts, however, indicate that the changes are but superficial. Quite symbolic of everything that this album is is 'Imitosis', essentially a rewrite of 'I' from Weather Systems, with the same main hook of "we're basically alone", but with the addition of booming electronic drums, guitars, chimes, background vocals, and cosmic sound effects. Oh, and a surrealistic video to boot. But as imaginative as the rearranging is, does it truly add up to the original feeling of the song? Not the way I see it, at least.

I judge, therefore, that if you do not think an artist like Bird deserving of spending your patience upon his earlier, less accessible, records, Armchair Apocrypha is a good introduction to what he is, always was, and, most likely, forever will be. Long-time fans, however, may be disappointed if they were expecting some sort of spiritual growth or development. On the other hand, long-time fans who think of Bird as a nice lad with a good ear for melody rather than the 21st century Buddha of pop music will find plenty to dig.

Because, for instance, 'Heretics' is just a great optimistic pop song with a luvverly strings arrange­ment; when the chorus goes "No, we don't want to hear the sound of a draw", then, provided you are a human being with the capacity of crying rather than a walking brick wall, I predict that, af­ter one or two listens at most, you will be perfectly willing to agree that you really don't want to hear the sound of a draw, regardless of what that sound might sound like. (I'm pretty sure some people will say it's an anti-Bush song, but I do not even want to conduct any research on that). So is 'Plasticities', a cheerful song about fighting for music halls and dying cities driven by a sort of simplistic retro-style Brit-pop guitar riff in the chorus, and 'Dark Matter', which is nowhere near as dark as the actual matter, and...

...well, now that I think of it, the attitude has shifted: more drums and guitars mean less brooding melancholia, which, along with the violin, is now confined to select entities ('Armchairs'; 'Scy­thian Empire', probably the only song in existence to unite Scythians, Achaens, Thracians, and Haliburton under one roof; the short instrumental 'Supine', of obvious superficial appeal to lin­guists but, unfortunately, devoid of lyrics, so we never get to know just how well Andrew has studied his Latin grammar).

So it's up to everyone to decide what is more precious for history — a cloudy, gloomy Andrew Bird, or a loudy, boomy Andrew Bird. My own verdict is, of course, a thumbs up, but mixed in with a little disappointment. It's wonderful to know the man can find a major enough popular ap­peal to combine artistic integrity with financial stability, but a little sad to know that he has, most likely, reached the summit of his artistic mountain and that there's nowhere to go from here but in the direction of gravity's pull. Fortunately for us all, he's such a light fellow that gravity does not affect him all that much.

Ani DiFranco: Little Plastic Castle

ANI DIFRANCO: LITTLE PLASTIC CASTLE (1998)

1) Little Plastic Castles; 2) Fuel; 3) Gravel; 4) As Is; 5) Two Little Girls; 6) Deep Dish; 7) Loom; 8) Pixie; 9) Swan Dive; 10) Glass House; 11) Independence Day; 12) Pulse.

Welcome to the world of soft jazz. It is almost frightening how consistently mellow this album is — almost bordering on «adult contemporary» in a few spots, and completely jettisoning the in­die-rock flourishes of Dilate as if they never existed. Maybe she was feeling «trapped» in that ae­sthetics, or perhaps everything is much simpler: a couple friendly drinks at the bar with a few lo­cal jazz musicians and presto, all of a sudden your affection for the trombone has grown three hundred percent overnight.

Regardless, for Ani's level, this is her «easy listening» album. Unfortunately, in the light of her modest songwriting talents, it translates as «possessing very little staying power». Dilate was go­od when it was flashing out its sharp edges, song after song; Plastic Castle patiently smoothes out all these edges until the whole environment becomes thoroughly child-safe — and unpala­table to those with more capricious tastes.

The album's major piece is, of course, 'Pulse'. Starts off as a tender, caring ballad (one of those rare displays of pure human emotion untainted by feminist reasoning), then, several minutes later, becomes a late-night jazz jam / lullaby with guest star Jon Hassell contributing a lengthy trom­bone solo. The music sits firmly three feet away from the line that separates «pretty» from «gor­geous», but there is a modestly introspective quality about it that would immediately brand any­one who'd try to dismiss the whole thing with the seal of cynicism. Technically, Ani's band does a great job on the piece, so much so that they almost threaten to turn her into but one of the essen­tial components of the whole thing. (Not that I would mind).

As for the actual songs — there is the faraway nastiness of the acoustic riff on 'Pixie', and the zy­deco flourishes on the title track are pleasant when they arrive to drag this ballad out of its lan­guishing mediocrity, and the studio version of 'Gravel' is as sharply staccato-driven as the live version; but, of course, her Grammy Award nomination came for 'Glass House', the album's ful­lest-sounding song and also one of the blandest, a generic indie-rock angst number. (Guess it was at least loud enough for the Grammy people to notice). Really, what's to discuss? This is just Ani, a little calmer than usual. But still coming up with the regular verbal bliss: "May their souls rest easy now that lynching has been frowned upon / And we've moved to the electric chair".

Feel free to give it a thumbs up if you are one of those late-night wine-glass candle-light soft-porn types, with 'Pulse' right up your alley, of if you are one of those types who think that guitar distor­tion is nothing but pretentious uglification and that the sax-and-brushes thing is really where it's at. From my own point of view, I'd rather abstain.

Anthrax: Stomp 442

ANTHRAX: STOMP 442 (1995)

1) Random Acts Of Senseless Violence; 2) Fueled; 3) King Size; 4) Riding Shotgun; 5) Perpetual Motion; 6) In A Zone; 7) Nothing; 8) American Pompeii; 9) Drop The Ball; 10) Tester; 11) Bare.

This is where the band officially turns to shit. No one knows why exactly, but three factors may be of importance: (a) Scott Ian has crossed the 40-year mark, automatically putting him into the «Metal MILF» category, an acquired taste if there ever was one; (b) lead guitarist Dan Spitz, a major pillar of melody for the band in the past, abandoned his comrades, unofficially replaced by his former guitar technician (!) ominously named Paul Crook; (c) most importantly, even though the band in­sists on more or less continuing in the same doom-laden, smile-free style they had on White Noise, they went from producer Dave Jerden — who knew how to get that style right — to a brand new veteran producer duo, who quite obviously do not know how to get it right. They call themselves The Butcher Bros., and that's just about right.

The riffs have lost all sensitivity; still brutal and venomous, but no longer communicating with the listener. So much so not communicating, in fact, that, first time ever, I find the best song on here to be the acoustic ballad 'Bare', graciously offering a last-minute respite to those brave few who have withstood the metallic pressure to the end; and even then, there is hardly anything spe­cial about that number. It merely reminds you of the long-forgotten fact that music may have ac­tually been designed by its original creators to nurture your senses, not torture them.

There is nothing informative or meaningful I can say about these songs. The band complained that Elektra Records had let them down by refusing to promote the album, but, for once, I see the record company's point very clearly — what was there to promote? There is not even a single song that could qualify as a stand-out single. It's all about the branding-iron guitar tones and the clen­ched teeth vocals from a totally misused John Bush.

Earlier on, I mentioned how State Of Euphoria may not have a lot of outstanding tunes, but sort of gets by through conviction and passion alone. The idea does not, however, work with Stomp 442. As hateful and aggressive as it is, the band has completely lost direction — it is hateful and agg­ressive because that's what the fans expect out of them, not because they want to experiment with the emotion of hatred. The results are predictable and boring, and there are few things in the world more threatening to one's love of music than having to sit through a boring metal album. Thumbs down; stay away unless you're into dental extraction.

Aerosmith: Classics Live II

AEROSMITH: CLASSICS LIVE II (1987)

1) Back In The Saddle; 2) Walk This Way; 3) Movin' Out; 4) Draw The Line; 5) Same Old Song And Dance; 6) Last Child; 7) Let The Music Do The Talking; 8) Toys In The Attic.

The second volume in this odd series easily trumps the first one in terms of quality, but somewhat baffles the mind in terms of coherence. Most of the tracks are from a December 31, 1984 show (coinciding with Tom Hamilton's birthday, so there is no escape from the obligatory h-b-t-y with Tyler directing the audience) — most, that is, with the exception of 'Let The Music Do The Tal­king', recorded around two years later, and 'Draw The Line', recorded around six years earlier. So, technically, this is all the same band with all the same five members, but representing three en­tirely different life stages — the drugged-out pre-breakthrough, the still drugged-out reunion, and the cleaned-up, er, post-reunion.

The final product might have gained better credibility had Columbia simply released the entire show from 1984; but, apparently, the point was not to replicate any of the «classics» from the previous volume, so here we are with another bunch of hits (but what the hell is 'Movin' Out' do­ing among them?) hastily glued together. Another waste of vinyl?

Perhaps, but it still kicks ass. As the band was getting ready to enter the «Lite» stage of their ca­reer, the live performances were taking on a special appeal. What I mean is, even twenty years after the completion of the sellout, Aerosmith were still phenomenal onstage when performing the old classics; watch any live version of 'Back In The Saddle' from the early XXIst century and it does not take much to understand that the Tyler/Perry duo have kept their brawn and grit as fine as, or, perhaps, even finer than the Jagger/Richards pair. So how could they go wrong in the 1980s — reunited, refired, and with Tyler's voice so far free from the pranks of old age?

Classics Live II certainly rocks. There is not much need for it on the part of anybody who alrea­dy owns Live Bootleg, but, for the record, 'Back In The Saddle' is way superior to the 1978 ver­sion (all the screaming is carried off with honor, and Perry never messes up the riff), 'Walk This Way' is devoid of the talkbox mutation (provided you hated the talkbox in the first place), and the collective singing on 'Toys In The Attic' generally manages to stay on key (a very frequent prob­lem for this particular number). These are the few tempting moments. The rest is just regular pro­fessional entertainment. It won't blow the pants off any regular Aerosmith fan — but, inasmuch as pure joy is concerned, it is miles better than Permanent Vacation.