Accept: Stalingrad

ACCEPT: STALINGRAD (2012)

1) Hung, Drawn And Quartered; 2) Stalingrad; 3) Hellfire; 4) Flash To Bang Time; 5) Shadow Soldiers; 6) Revolu­tion; 7) Against The World; 8) Twist Of Fate; 9) The Quick And The Dead; 10) Never Forget; 11) The Galley.

Considering the generally warm welcome for Blood Of The Nations, a quick follow-up was most like­ly inevitable, and almost as likely predictable. With its Teutonic balls, nerve, and verve so finely displayed for all to see, could they have lost it in but two years' time? They probably could, if they saw some reason to change the formula; but the early 2010s did not exactly spear­head a revolution in heavy metal values (or in any other values, for that matter), so what you get is another piece of work in full accordance with the spirit of Metal Heart.

The title might make one think of some conceptual «metal opera» revolving around World War II — but, in a way, the majority of German metal bands have always revolved around World War II one way or another, and the only song here that addresses the topic directly is the title track, re­plete with Hoffmann's kitschy guitar recreation of the melody of the Anthem of the Soviet Union in the coda section. Otherwise, Stalingrad is just the current code name for the general atmo­sphere of merciless brutality and the world's dog-eat-dog nature which supplies 90% of the re­quired oxygen for Accept. (Together with the album sleeve, it also looks and feels suspiciously like the packaging to some strategy-based video game — somebody in the band must have had registered for a crash course in modern marketology in the interim).

In terms of energy, precision, volume, instrument mix, and other technicalities it all sounds exact­ly the same as Blood Of The Nations — some fans point out that Stalingrad is somewhat more «melodic», which I decode as «it has some slower songs on it», but slow or fast, it's all heavy and brutal anyway, no pandering whatsoever to the metal balladry sector. Riff, gang chorus, riff, gang chorus, solo, gang chorus, build-up to final blow-up, repeat formula eleven times with minor vari­ations — nothing new.

Alas, nothing new also in the sense that the main problem stays the same: just like Blood Of The Nations, Stalingrad does not have even one fresh riff — most are minuscule variations on what already used to be. Some of the gang choruses are catchy (at least, when you look at the title of ʽHung, Drawn And Quarteredʼ or ʽAgainst The Worldʼ, you immediately remember how they went), but the melodies have not improved. The only thing that saves them is the classic crunchy Accept guitar tone — as long as Hoffmann sticks to that tone (and it looks like he will be carrying it off to Heaven, or Hell, when he goes), I cannot complain while the music is on.

Come to think of it, Metal Heart did not have a ton of great riffs, either — that album, too, rode primarily on the strength of its choruses, which might be the reason why Hoffmann explicitly chose it as the «role model» for this next stage in the band's career. Wrong as I may be, it seems to me that to come up with something like one little intro to ʽBalls To The Wallʼ takes far more genius than it takes to come up with an entire Stalingrad — where, so it seems, newcomer Mark Tornillo has completely taken over the function of «emotional jackhammer» from the resident guitarists. But it is also evident now that Tornillo is even more of a one-trick pony than Udo used to be — capable of functioning only in the scream register — and as good as he is at it, the show does begin to get tedious after a while.

As usual, speed saves, so if you want to get a rewarding taste of the record, go for the faster num­bers first — ʽHung, Drawn And Quarteredʼ, ʽFlash To Bang Timeʼ, ʽThe Quick And The Deadʼ, etc. — then check out the Soviet National Anthem for a quick laugh, and then go back to your old copy of Restless And Wild, unless you are a modern production freak (in which case, get your old copy of Restless And Wild and have it remastered). On the positive side, at least this ain't no sellout — and now we have an active countdown going on on how many more years (decades? centuries?) this band will continue to retain its holy integrity.

Check "Stalingrad" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Stalingrad" (MP3) on Amazon

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Garofano Rosso

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: GAROFANO ROSSO (1976)

1) Zobeida; 2) Funerale; 3) 10 Giugno 1924; 4) Quasi Saltarello; 5) Esterno Notte; 6) Garofano Rosso; 7) Sugges­ti­oni Di Un Ritorno In Campagna; 8) Passeggiata In Bicicletta E Corteo Dei Dimostranti; 9) Tema Di Giovanna; 10) Siracusa. Appunti D'Epoca; 11) Notturno Breve; 12) Lasciando La Casa Antica.

A soundtrack to an obscure Italian movie on the rise of fascism in the 1920s, this usually counts as a «proper» entry in the Banco discography — not only does the album incorporate several in­strumentals that were not actually featured in the movie, but most of them do not really sound much like «movie muzak». The only tangible reference to the movie theme is in ʽ10 Giugno 1924ʼ, at the beginning of which an angry crowd keeps chanting "Assassini! Assassini!" (refer­ring to the assassination of a socialist leader by fascists on that day) — but if you were listening to the album without any knowledge of its background, you wouldn't be able to guess what the hell this soundbite is doing there, other than to add a little whiff of the ʽRevolution No. 9ʼ spirit, perhaps (which would not be true: avantgarde sound collages were never on Banco's agenda).

The good news for those who, like me, are not awestruck over DiGiacomo's vocal powers (and, conversely, the bad news for those who are), is that the album is completely instrumental, with the focus placed exclusively on the Nocenzi brothers. The bad news is that it is still cursed by the typical soundtrack curse — although there are no attempts whatsoever here at «dumbing down» the sound, and from all points of view the album qualifies as rigorous symph-prog, it still fun­ctions primarily as background ambience. All the themes are tasteful and range from «pretty» to «ominous», but I was not able to spot any particularly resonant motifs. Except for one — the dark ascending piano pattern that first appears on ʽEsterno Notteʼ and then is re-introduced in ʽTema Di Giovannaʼ. Creepy, doom-laden, and... essentially, borrowed from The Beatles' ʽI Want Youʼ, once you come to think of it (the fact that they changed the last note, which only makes it less effective, only confirms the suspicion).

Overall, this is fairly mellow stuff: forty minutes of witnessing a slow, time-taking competition between the piano and the organ / synthesizer, played out according to an almost baroque code of combat. It does not strive to reach previously unexplored ground — adequately enough for a mere soundtrack, made on order — and there are no moods here that these guys had not already built up to better effect on their previous albums.

The title track, beginning with a bit of free-form «self-adjustment» and then stabilizing into a steady blues-rock jam, was deemed important enough by the band to become incorporated into their live shows — but this is really the kind of number that the Allman Brothers would have done with more spice (and more guitar! that «pastoral synthesizer» thing does get tedious after a while!) on a good day. And it is only overcome in length by ʽSuggestioniʼ, which has almost no noticeable changes in dynamics throughout its eight minutes. Ambience!

«Pleasantly boring» is what I call these kinds of records — acknowledging, at the same time, that obstinate fans of the symph-prog genre could still find plenty of minute delicacies to savor here. Unless you are really obstinate, though, don't bother — your time might be better spent reading a book on the history of the fascist movement, little as that has to do with the actual spiritual con­tent of this particular «quasi-soundtrack».

Bee Gees: Barry Gibb & The Bee Gees Sing And Play 14 Barry Gibb Songs (1965)

BEE GEES: BARRY GIBB & THE BEE GEES SING AND PLAY 14 BARRY GIBB SONGS (1965)

1) I Was A Lover, A Leader Of Men; 2) I Don't Think It's Funny; 3) How Love Was True; 4) To Be Or Not To Be; 5) Timber; 6) Claustrophobia; 7) Could It Be; 8) And The Children Laughing; 9) Wine And Women; 10) Don't Say Goodbye; 11) Peace Of Mind; 12) Take Hold Of That Star; 13) You Wouldn't Know; 14) Follow The Wind.

The «real» Bee Gees did not seriously register on the world's musical scene until they relocated to England in 1967 — but The Bee Gees' 1st, with all of its stunning achievements, did not appear out of nowhere, and even technically-officially, it was The Bee Gees' 3rd, since they already had two LPs out by that time, not heard outside of Australia, where they grew up and missed a good chance of becoming that nation's Easybeats. Presumably, tough-guy Australia deemed them too sissy for its own pop market.

Anyway, «Barry Gibb & The Bee Gees», including Barry's underage twin brothers Maurice and Robin, had really been releasing singles as early as 1963, and a big bunch of them was put out in 1965 as their first LP whose name basically says it all. Including, that is, pointing out the band's two major strengths, already well worked out: (a) that Barry Gibb knows a thing or two about catchiness; (b) these are some dang good, unique, harmonies — kinda like the Everley Bros., but three instead of two, which adds extra power, joyfulness, and sometimes even — dare I say it? — «spirituality». I mean, "My heart cries, ʽTimber! Timber!ʼ" — is that spiritual, or what?

Since there was nothing better to do in Australia anyway, the Gibb brothers spent a lot of time listening to the radio, and it shows. At the same time, at a very early age, they (or at least big brother Barry) understood that writing songs, rather than covering others, was the way to go — not only is it more profitable in the financial department, but you can also find awesome ways to pass other people's ideas for your own. (Not that this is a Bee-Gees-specific jab, but maybe the Bee Gees deserve to be jabbed a bit stronger than others, given as how the LP title puts such a strong em­phasis on «Barry Gibb songs»).

So just about every song on here sounds like an adolescent at­tempt to emulate somebody else without directly ripping off the somebody else (not that somebody else would bother — takes a long way for the subpoenas to reach the faraway land of Oz). The Everleys, with their lightly rock'n'rolled take on the suave folk vibe, are one of the main inspirations (ʽI Don't Think It's Fun­nyʼ, ʽHow Love Was Trueʼ, etc.), but there are also nods to Motown, to the Merseybeat scene, to the new-and-upgraded folk-rock scene of the Searchers, of the Byrds (ʽAnd The Children Laughingʼ), and the brothers were not even above an occasional listen to some «cruder» boogie and garage-rock (ʽTo Be Or Not To Beʼ).

It is hard to say what exactly is so «wrong» with this album: in a way, there are no problems here that would not be characteristic of The Bee Gees as a whole — near-complete inability to come up with, let alone innovative, but simply «idiosyncratic» ideas of their own: from the beginning of time and until the very end of it, Barry and his brothers could only really work in other peo­ple's backyards. And these here songs aren't really much worse, on their own, than second-rate work by the Everleys: catchy, sing-along-ish, pleasant, with impeccable harmonies. Guitar-based instrumentation is a bit monotonous, but what wasn't back in 1963-64? Production is a bit scruffy, but what could we expect from a cheap Australian studio at the time? The hooks on the upbeat songs are a bit kiddie-like, but why wouldn't they be, with the songwriter himself only having turned 17 when the first of them was released? And he did write a song called ʽClaustrophobiaʼ at the age of 18, didn't he? Not every 18-year-old knows what that means. (On second thought, checking out the lyrics makes me wonder if Barry really knew what it means. Oh well, not every 18-year-old knows that it actually exists).

In the end, it might simply be the fact that the brothers were not quite ready yet, nor was the time quite ready for them. Even in their prime, they would almost always be writing and performing in the confines of a genre or style, but here they are still writing and performing in the confines of particular bands or artists — so much so that, if you already have the Beatles, there is no reason to cherish an inferior imitation of Lennon/McCartney such as ʽYou Wouldn't Knowʼ, and if you already have your Manfred Mann, ʽPeace Of Mindʼ will be just an infantile copy of their already juvenile approach (and at least Manfred Mann, in their early days, were accomplished musicians intentionally targeting the «innocent teen» market with their singles — the Bee Gees could only do so much as provide the basic instrumental backing for their compositions).

I cannot bring myself to turn the thumbs down, since I had no problems whatsoever listening to this — quite «charming» in its own way — celebration of «crass naïveté», but I do hereby con­firm that the album is only of serious value for major enthusiasts of either the Bee Gees or that «wonderful early Sixties sound, when all the people were still little children playing in the grass» and «bad» music was impossible in principle. Technical detail: although both this record and its follow-up are thoroughly out of print (and seem to have never been released on CD per se), all of the songs, and much, much more, including non-LP singles, demos, outtakes etc., are available on the 2-CD collection Brilliant From Birth (not really, I'd say, but everybody is welcome to check it out and form one's own opinion).

Billy Preston: It's My Pleasure

BILLY PRESTON: IT'S MY PLEASURE (1975)

1) Fancy Lady; 2) Found The Love; 3) That's Life; 4) Do It While You Can; 5) It's My Pleasure; 6) Song Of Joy; 7) I Can't Stand It; 8) All Of My Life.

The balance is a little upset here: compared to The Kids & Me, Billy's follow-up only has eight compositions on it, and you can guess why that is — either out of a general lack of ideas, or be­cause the dance attitude of the age prevailed so heavily, many of the songs are cruelly stretched out, usually way past the point at which they have anything to say to anything but your limbs.

No, actually, scrape that from the record: ʽI Can't Stand Itʼ, one of the album's longest numbers, is not about dancing at all — it is a slow, moody, pensive instrumental that could have been brilliant if not for the fact that all of its brilliance is immediately unveiled in the first twenty-five seconds; from then on, it is all either an infinite number of repetitions or a few sidetracking, distracting solo passages. That is Billy Preston in a nutshell for you: one good idea makes the man so happy that he smears it all over the plate until it ends up looking... well, kinda thin for an idea.

There is also a more pronounced emphasis on synthesizers throughout, although Billy strictly ad­heres to the Stevie Wonder formula, preferring a guitar-like sound to his electronics rather than using them to emulate strings and organs, like many (if not most) of his contemporaries. This makes the album somewhat dated, but not in an ugly way — the instruments sound live enough and sufficiently emotional, much like Billy himself, whose optimism and energy was still pulsa­ting — perhaps boosted somewhat by the success of ʽNothing From Nothingʼ.

Other than ʽI Can't Stand Itʼ (which should have been compressed to three minutes), the main highlights here are: ʽFancy Ladyʼ, a bouncy-catchy duet with Syreeta Wright (marking the begin­ning of a long-term partnership: apparently, a fancy for synthesizers was not everything that Billy inherited from Stevie Wonder — his ex-wife and partner, too, had made the grade); ʽThat's Lifeʼ, the album's disco-est number that is simply infectiously enthusiastic; and the almost surprisingly moving solo piano ballad ʽSong Of Joyʼ, elevated from fodder level to something higher by the unexpected bass twist at the end of chorus — just as you become assured that this is just one of those «thank-you-for-all-the-happiness» songs, the melody swerves and enters darker territory, with a big question mark that might make you want to revisit it some other day.

Still, there are serious disappointments, such as the drastically overlong ʽDo It While You Canʼ, a rather pointless soft-funk jam that is not particularly salvaged by Stevie Wonder's harmonica parts, as the song never really decides what sort of mood it is aiming for. The rest of the tracks, too, are somewhat non-descript, and given how few of them there are overall, It's My Pleasure shows the curve going down again — not a bad record by all means, what with the creative synth sound and the esteemed guest stars (and I haven't even mentioned a certain «Hari Georgeson» adding guitar ornaments to ʽFound A Loveʼ), but where The Kids & Me had Billy in full adequate control of his element, this here is yet another pretext to showcase his limitations. And so I'd like to give it a thumbs down, but «officially» I won't do that — there is so much worse to come.

Bo Diddley: The 20th Anniversary Of Rock'n'Roll

BO DIDDLEY: THE 20TH ANNIVERSARY OF ROCK'N'ROLL (1976)

1) Ride The Water (part 1); 2) Not Fade Away; 3) Kill My Body; 4) Drag On; 5) Ride The Water (part 2); 6) I'm A Man; 7) Hey! Bo Diddley; 8) Who Do You Love; 9) Bo Diddley's A Gunslinger; 10) I'm A Man.

A very strange record. Apparently, upon leaving Chess, Bo Diddley went into complete commer­cial retirement, as far as any toying with major labels was concerned. Yet, in 1976, he was still «invited» by a guy called Ron Terry to guest-star on a special RCA release — according to the title, supposed to celebrate «the 20th anniversary of rock'n'roll», but even if, out of general nice­ness, we decide to agree that rock'n'roll was indeed invented in 1956 and not one year earlier (or later), it is still not clear why (a) of all the early rock'n'rollers, the 20th anniversary of rock'n'roll should be primarily and exclusively associated with Bo Diddley; (b) why, instead of letting Bo Diddley himself mastermind the project, they made him sing a bunch of Ron Terry songs on Side A — and then let a bunch of other guys cover his material on Side B.

Never mind, we should probably blame it on the overall craziness of the mid-1970s — any time period that produces the likes of Lisztomania is bound to contain ten times as many «odd» pro­jects as it contains «insane» ones. This is one of the curious oddities, and it is not even particular­ly bad: it is merely inadequate to its purpose, and it is the first album in Bo Diddley's discography which really, genuinely loses Bo Diddley as a bit player among the general ambience.

Speaking of ambience, you would be pressed real hard to find a better application for the «too many cooks» line than this album. The roster includes, among others, such names as Leslie West, Elvin Bishop, Joe Cocker, Roger McGuinn, Keith Moon, Albert Lee, and even Billy Joel (!). But instead of bringing them out, one by one, and making this into some sort of studio-based Last Waltz celebration, Ron Terry goes for broke and crams them all together — at least, that is how it is on the 16-minute jam that occupies all of Side B (supposedly, they are not all there at the same time on Side A).

The results are predictable: the jam is extravagantly overproduced, so much so that it is impos­sible to latch on to anything in particular. There seems to be a lot of enthusiasm and energy, but you can never really tell if it is really like that or if it is just because there are so many players and singers out there at the same time. And in the end, it's all just the same old Bo Diddley stuff — maybe Albert Lee's guitar makes it flow more smoothly and with many more flourishes than the original versions, but the question is whether these versions need this smooth flow. As far as I understand it, turning Bo Diddley songs into «academic-style blues-rock», even with superb play­ers at the helm, kinda drop-kicks the initial purpose of these songs.

As for Ron Terry's songs on the first side, they are odd, too. He must have written them with Bo in mind, and particularly, with Bo's predilection for the sexy funky sounds of the decade. But these here are not so much straightahead funk grooves as creepily suggestive «swamp blues» with a funky undercurrent. ʽRide The Waterʼ, opening and closing Side A, would probably be better suited for the likes of a Screamin' Jay Hawkins, who could have, perhaps, given an appropriately spooky, joker-ish performance against these slow tempos, repetitive wah-wah chords, and mini­malistic bass punches. Mr. Bo Diddley just ain't evil enough for the swamp — let alone for an attempt to take Buddy Holly's lightweight, amicable ʽNot Fade Awayʼ and infect it with the devilish swamp blues virus as well.

There is no reason to hunt for this curio, unless obsession has already gotten the better of you — but if you do come across it, a spin or two won't hurt. The «Bo Diddley jam» might actually work if you play it real loud without stopping, all the way through — who knows, at some point all the innumerable instruments and voices might eventually fall together, blow a hole in your soul and make you see the light. And the first side, well... this is the last time you get to hear a still rela­tively young Bo Diddley sing some original material — the next twenty years would be spent in occasional touring, serious relaxation, and some home studio recording sessions, but no official releases. So that might be reason enough to regard this disc as a little «farewell gift from the boys», and get acquainted with it as a little piece of history.

Britney Spears: In The Zone

BRITNEY SPEARS: IN THE ZONE (2003)

1) Me Against The Music; 2) (I Got That) Boom Boom; 3) Showdown; 4) Breathe On Me; 5) Early Mornin'; 6) To­xic; 7) Outrageous; 8) Touch Of My Hand; 9) The Hook Up; 10) Shadow; 11) Brave New Girl; 12) Everytime.

All right — this is where the shit really hits the fan. Be it out of sheer bare sociological curiosity, every­body needs to hear this album, or at least its most significant «conceptual» streak that be­gins with ʽShowdownʼ, ends with ʽThe Hook Upʼ, and reaches apocalyptic-evil levels on the ʽBreathe On Meʼ / ʽEarly Mornin'ʼ / ʽToxicʼ sequence. It is not every day that playing just three songs in a row gets you a-thinkin' about the ultimate fate of man- and womankind, and you cer­tainly do not expect that from a Britney fuckin' Spears album — but the last time I remember my­self walking away from a musical record with a comparable feeling was Aerosmith's Get A Grip (incidentally, released a round decade earlier — watch out, 2013!).

With Britney now well over 21, and the industry still red-hot yearnin' for another smash, the next move from Britney's ʽI'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Womanʼ was obvious: the fans had to be shown that the girl finally is a woman, and a real woman, «as all men know», lives in constant need of sensual pleasure and in permanent search of sexual conquest. Ain't too sure? Ask Madonna. In fact, don't ask Madonna — better still, invite Madonna to sing a duet with Britney on the opening track and provide her with a motherly blessing and a protective French kiss. Never mind if ʽMe Against The Musicʼ matches its title so well, given that there is so much of «me» in this track and so little actual music — just a regular hip-hop beat. The really important thing is that they got Madonna here to sing "C'mon Britney, lose control, watch you take it down", and this truly creates the illusion of «passing the crown».

There are, however, a few problems. For all of the obvious criticisms of Madonna as an artist, there was never any question of her being (a) an independent soul, (b) a modest, but occasionally impressive, vocal talent, (c) an above-average songwriter who could easily pen a catchy tune or, at least, recognize one (ʽInto The Grooveʼ alone should be able to dispel any doubt). And there is quite a hint of trickery in that recommendation — for all we know, Madonna herself never ever «lost control» over a single second of her professional life. Now cut to Britney, pampered from the Mickey Club get-go through the rose-candy bubblegum ickiness — and now, all sex-dolled for the next stage of her career: «if you loved In Bed With Madonna, you're going to be really, really pleased as Britney takes you to the next stage».

And yes, this is the next stage — in humiliation, first and foremost. It had been heavily propaga­ted that In The Zone was the album on which Britney allegedly took control in her hands (heed­less of Madonna's call?), and, to prove that, we now have her name added to nine out of twelve songs — kinda suspicious, though, that most of them feature at least three extra songwriters. But more importantly, the image that comes together through these songs can have nothing to do with the natural development of a 22-year old girl from Kentwood, Louisiana, who only recently was spotted talking about saving up virginity for marriage. I can believe in artistic independence for the likes of Taylor Swift — singing her monotonous bores about princes on white horses until the end of time — but Britney Spears herself behind something like ʽTouch Of My Handʼ? (It's not that I doubt the touching aspect, mind you — only the writing).

Anyway, that whole stretch I was talking about, once we get done with the lacklustre Madonna number and the even less inspiring Ying Yang Twins collaboration (lesson one: never collaborate with anyone who cannot even properly spell yin-yang), is quite demonstratively evil. Not «bad» as such, since it does feature at least a few really creative musical moves, but «evil», as Britney falls under the heavy press of sexploitation. She does know how to sex up her voice properly — she might even know that better than Madonna, preferring to take lessons from Donna Summer instead, and doing it in different ways: sensual purr on ʽBreathe On Meʼ, breathy hush on ʽEarly Mornin'ʼ, aggressive horniness on ʽToxicʼ, paranoid rutting on ʽOutrageousʼ, post-orgasmic re­covery on ʽTouch Of My Handʼ (what else have we missed here?). But when all of it is taken together, the overall impression is that the girl had been placed under heavy, I mean REAL hea­vy drugs — most of the songs pile on the trance atmosphere so densely that you can almost feel the presence of some invisible manipulative hypnotizer behind the girl's back.

ʽBreathe On Meʼ and ʽEarly Mornin'ʼ, in particular, are really creepy — not even minding the ly­rics (which sometimes actually border on questionable irony: "Monogamy is the way to go / Just put your lips together and blow"), they give you what you've always wanted: Britney the sex pup­pet (insert coin and wind up for your pleasure), protected by the illusion of «sexual liberation». All the more creepy, that is, given that no less than the great Moby himself — always happy to play the Joker for an unsuspecting mainstream crowd — masterminds ʽEarly Mornin'ʼ, giving it a spooky, dark, psychedelic twist with a gruff «rotating» bass pulse and swooping electronic strings as we are told that "it don't stop till the early morning / passed out on the couch I'm yawning".

The centerpiece of the album has always been, and still is, ʽToxicʼ — musically, the most inven­tive number on here, not only because it manages to fuse Bollywood strings with James Bond-ian surf guitar in a completely natural manner, but also because it gives us three different Britneys (verse, bridge, and chorus so totally different in tone and mood), with «unlawful carnal delight» as the only unifying theme. If the vocals weren't buried so deep under production make-up, one could even say that this is the only song on the record where we could perceive Britney having some genuine fun — but this is not about real people having real fun, after all.

By the time we are through with Britney's imaginary sex life and get to the ballads (only two of them this time — power crap on ʽShadowʼ, romantic piano crap on ʽEverytimeʼ), it is hard not to wonder if the famous breakdown, with a complete — at least temporarily — collapse of her per­sonal life in the ensuing three years, was not a direct consequence of the recording of In The Zone, or, rather, the whole shenanigan (recording, touring, calculated need to «uphold the image» etc.); even worse, far be it from me to start moralizing, but I wonder just how many young peo­ple's lives were, in any way, influenced by this stuff.

Because, clearly, reasonable adults can take this for what it is — unabashed musical pornography — and put it to the appropriate use. Brit­ney's teen or post-teen audiences are another matter — they could very easily be deluded into taking this for a decisive statement of «sexual liberation», maybe even a «feminist» one (even despite the fact that most of the corporate songwriters and producers behind the raciest moments here were all men), and restructure their life in accordance with the spirit of ʽBreathe On Meʼ, ʽEarly Mornin'ʼ, and, of course, ʽTouch Of My Handʼ, the song that does not justify masturbation, but glorifies it ("Into the unknown, I will be bold, I'm going to places I can be out of control..." and, of course, the completely immortal line "I'm into myself in the most precious way"!!!) — oh yeah, we've gone a long, long way from ʽPictures Of Lilyʼ and even ʽShe Bopʼ.

Even if I tend to exaggerate here — after all, it's just a run-of-the-mill dance-pop album, wouldn't it be too much honor to accuse it of raising the sexploitation bar to such hideous heights? — there is no denying the fact, it seems, that ultimately, it is all very cheap. Yes, the involvement of Moby and the inclusion of a few really neat arranging ideas (ʽToxicʼ, first and foremost) does raise the stock value of In The Zone a little bit, but if you take it as a whole — not just the melodies, but the lyrics, the vocal message, the accompanying videos, the racy tour antics — the worst thing about it is that there is nothing here that is truly, genuinely «sexy», it's more like a musical equivalent of a tasteless, boring old peepshow (watch this and tell me if I'm wrong). There is just no getting away from the fact that, no matter how big the size of the image-making army might be, here or in the future, ʽOne More Timeʼ was still the apex of Britney's sexuality — I mean, what fun is there, really, when she's so goddamn legal already?

On the other hand, I will admit that, drugged or not drugged, she does at least sound like she is still alive on most of these tracks — if you have some interest in an actual human being on the verge of being replaced with a piece of machinery, In The Zone is your last bet. Everything else, metaphorically speaking, represents the post-lobotomy period. And yes, I'd like to say that I pity the poor girl, but is she really in need of my, or anybody else's, pity? After all, the sales weren't all that bad — three million copies sold in the US alone, and how much coke can one score with those numbers? Even if you have to share with all the ten thousand producers?

Check "In The Zone" (CD) on Amazon
Check "In The Zone" (MP3) on Amazon

Ayreon: The Human Equation

AYREON: THE HUMAN EQUATION (2004)

1) Day One: Vigil; 2) Day Two: Isolation; 3) Day Three: Pain; 4) Day Four: Mystery; 5) Day Five: Voices; 6) Day Six: Childhood; 7) Day Seven: Hope; 8) Day Eight: School; 9) Day Nine: Playground; 10) Day Ten: Memories; 11) Day Eleven: Love; 12) Day Twelve: Trauma; 13) Day Thirteen: Sign; 14) Day Fourteen: Pride; 15) Day Fifteen: Be­trayal; 16) Day Sixteen: Loser; 17) Day Seventeen: Accident?; 18) Day Eighteen: Realization; 19) Day Nineteen: Dis­closure; 20) Day Twenty: Confrontation.

By now, we all should know: Arjen Lucassen is really «The Flying Dutchman», that is, he is ac­tually trying to officially enshrine himself as the Wagner of rock music: writing nothing but ope­ras, using fantastic settings to reflect universalist messages, and ensuring that only the strongest, with the biggest attention spans and the most time to burn, will survive. Unfortunately, the com­parison is hard to elaborate — unlike Wagner's librettos, Lucassen's lyrics are not only preten­tious but, for the most part, childishly crafted, and he has yet to find his own Tristan chord. The main problem of Wagner's music is, however, shared with fidelity — each of the «operas» is hor­rendously pad­ded out. Music of such ambitious stature cannot deserve being spread across less than two CDs, after all. Yeah, there used to be a time when the Beatles could sum up the state of the world within the five minutes of ʽA Day In The Lifeʼ, but they were just summarizing — Ayreon is here to present you with a detailed account balance. Or, at least, such might well be Arjen Lucassen's personal philosophy.

What is interesting about The Human Equation is that, for once, Lucassen decided to break up the series of fantasy tales in favor of something more «mature» — a bizarre Freudian opera about psychic convalescence through a twenty-day-long period of re-experiencing one's accumulated traumas in a comatose state, or something like that. In fact, this is nothing less than Ayreon's own personal version of The Wall: here, too, you will find abusive schoolteachers, carefree parents, abandoned lovers, and a climac­tic scene of «disclosure» where... anyway, I am not going to pretend that I am unwilling to spoil the plot for you, given as how I am not sure I got it all right in the first place (and I never really bothered much about the second one).

Does it help make the music any better? Absolutely not. Arjen Lucassen knows not the meaning of the word «subtlety», and has never heard the expression «less is more», or, if he has, he must have understood it the other way around — this is why no Ayreon album is ever going to threaten the shelf status of The Wall, even relative to modern kids who practice the «never trust anybody any art piece over thirty» ideology. Frankly speaking, you'd only understand the deep substantial difference between Universal Migrator and Human Equation if you started checking on them armed with a lyrics sheet — and I wouldn't advise you to do that. "It's time to leave your shel­tered cage / Face your deepest fears / The world is against you / You're fighting back the tears" is about as profound as it ever gets. Oh well, could be worse.

Lucassen did get some top-notch vocal talent for this Psychodramatic Masterpiece, though. The protagonist («Me») is voiced by Dream Theater's own James LaBrie, one of the major anta­gonists («Fear») — by Mikael Åkerfeldt of Opeth, and another one («Rage») — by Devin Townsend of Strapping Young Lad: again, not much ground for practicing «subt­lety» with these steel-throat war machines, but oh the masculinity of it all! And, matching the good old Aryan, uh, I mean, Ayreon manpower are the ladies — lead singerines from the little-known bands Elfonía (Marcela Bovio) and Mostly Autumn (Heather Findlay), the latter of which, playing «Love», can go from a Sandy Denny lament to a Kate Bush purr whenever she wants to. Nifty, if not exactly breath­taking.

But interesting musical ideas have decidedly given way to being a bit too much focused on the operatic components. Although Lucassen is no longer segregating his «progressive» and «metal» sides — meaning that there will be no fifty-minute long unbroken stretch of bland power metal — the re-blending is sorta sour, with way too many tracks simply fusing together the grumbly chugga-chugga and the strings-supplying synthesizers (see ʽSchoolʼ, for instance): so many, in fact, that the good bits have to be fished out like dumplings from a broth, over the course of re­peated listens. This means work, and who likes being driven to work by pretentious long-haired Dutch potheads? There you are.

Cutting to the chase, here are some tasters that might — or might not — convince you that The Human Equation is not utterly worthless. Actually, all of them were cleverly released as singles. ʽDay Seven: Hopeʼ, re-titled for single release as ʽCome Back To Meʼ, is a somewhat touching, well-written art-pop song, carried by a catchy organ pattern. ʽDay Eleven: Loveʼ has a somewhat annoying power metal chorus, but the main melody is a surprisingly sexy waltz (the major attrac­tion here are Heather Findlay's alluring Kate Bush-isms).

Weirdest of all is ʽDay Sixteen: Loserʼ, which might be the first track I know of to combine the sound of an Australian didgeridoo (played by Jeroen Goossens) with that of an Irish jig — and then lay some mammoth metal riffage over both. If that is not enough for you, try waiting until the end of the song for a ridiculously over-the-top death metal rap to put the cherry on top. Oh, and how could I forget the added bonus for Uriah Heep fans? Ken Hensley himself wanders into the studio to play an old-style ʽGypsyʼ-like psychic organ solo. The oddest thing of all, it seems to work — the song is so utterly baffling that, at some point, it transcends «hilarious» and starts sending out schizophrenic waves all over the room.

Other than the singles, Equation has quite a respectable finale — ʽDay Twenty: Confrontationʼ builds up genuinely spooky atmospherics with cleverly piled up loads of phased and echoey gui­tars, processed organ, and «metal slide» riffs saved for the chorus. With all the vocalists coming together and the song eventually speeding up, it does seem to be headed for some sort of Wagne­rian finale — unfortunately, the abrupt ending is sort of anti-climactic, but I guess Ayreon just had to ensure himself some continuity with the rest of his oeuvres, which explains the superfluous reference to the «Dream Sequencer».

None of this should conceal the fact that a large, large, large chunk of the material is quite non-descript (and the problem would only get worse with the next release), and can only appeal to big fans of power metal vocalization. But then, come to think of it, such is the fate of 90% of operas ever written — not only is it impossible to keep the genius afloat for two or three hours on end, but you are not even really supposed to try. What is really bothersome is that so many of the tracks stretch out past acceptable limits, and that so many of the themes are rather monotonous variations on each other — not just «boring», but «boring in the same boring way». On the other hand, this might simply be an invitation to make your own Human Equation: I'm sure that most of us could trim this down to about forty minutes of interesting and even inspiring music. Start off with the singles, then think about whether you need the rest. The singles are good.

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Bad Religion: The Dissent Of Man

BAD RELIGION: THE DISSENT OF MAN (2010)

1) The Day That The Earth Stalled; 2) Only Rain; 3) The Resist Stance; 4) Won't Somebody; 5) The Devil In Stitches; 6) Pride And The Pallor; 7) Wrong Way Kids; 8) Meeting Of The Minds; 9) Someone To Believe; 10) Avalon; 11) Cyanide; 12) Turn Your Back On Me; 13) Ad Hominem; 14) Where The Fun Is; 15) I Won't Say Anything.

Everybody is free to choose the breaking point at which the next review of a Bad Religion album consists of a single phrase — «Yes, this is another Bad Religion album that sounds just like a Bad Religion album». Most of the non-obsessed people would probably experience that breaking point somewhere around Suffer or, at most, Against The Grain: obsessed as I am, I managed to struggle my way almost to the very end, although none of these reviews could probably count as particularly insightful.

With The Dissent Of Man, I finally wash my hands. Yes, this is another Bad Religion album that sounds just like a Bad Religion album. But I will still add that the current highlights are Graffin's power-poppy ʽSomeone To Believeʼ, with a colorful guitar solo, and Gurewitz's ʽTurn Your Back On Meʼ (unusually sentimental for a Bad Religion song, despite the usual crunchy backing).  

Actually, wait, there is something to add. Compared to most of the previous releases, The Dis­sent Of Man is almost scandalously apolitical. There are love songs, nostalgic memoirs, charac­ter portraits — and only a tiny handful of songs that explicitly mention Afghanistan (ʽAd Homi­nemʼ) or descend into moralizing, with more of a Biblical flavor sometimes than a Chomsky one ("well I know what's wrong, and I know what's right, and I know that evil exists sure as day turns into night" — a simplistic, but damn well constructed couple of lines, actually).

This is either a sign that the band is getting old, after all, and getting ready to pass on the torch, or perhaps it is just a side effect of the Obama factor, but in any case, it works well in terms of the general atmosphere — there is nothing on here that could be filed under «cringeworthy banality», although there is nothing that comes close to the apocalyptic fervor of ʽNew Dark Agesʼ, either. All that remains is give this stuff another thumbs up. Which, at this point, merely indicates that «Bad Religion have not lost it yet», although, presumably, only death itself — or three severe cases of either finger arthritis or Alzheimer's —  will break this interminable chain, because wri­ting and recording songs like these is theoretically a process without any boundaries whatsoever.

  
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Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Banco

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: BANCO (1975)

1) Chorale (From Traccia Theme); 2) L'Albero Del Pane; 3) Metamorphosis; 4) Outside; 5) Leave Me Alone; 6) Nothing's The Same; 7) Traccia II.

I am not sure if Banco, the band's first English-language album, had any serious merit in putting the band on the international market — chart information is missing (and it probably didn't chart anyway), and, besides, by 1975 popular interest in progressive rock was already waning a bit, so it is highly unlikely that the release of Banco on Emerson, Lake & Palmer's Manticore label made even a tiny handful of people aware of the existence of the fine Italian team. Regardless, though, even if Banco were to break them through internationally, it should by no means be al­lowed to go on serving as anybody's introduction to the band.

The very idea is ridiculous — «prog» audiences are generally expected to be more open towards other languages and cultures than «pop» audiences, and how's that sound anyway? «Oh no, not me, I only listen to ten-minute suites with weird time signatures and unpredictable chord changes if the lyrics are in English, otherwise it's a bit too complicated for me». Not to mention, of course, that, with certain reservations, the language of music transcends national boundaries by definition, whereas singing — and emoting — in a non-native language might be a fairly risky business.

In particular, while I personally do not care too much for DiGiacomo as the band's lead singer, there is no denying that he is a perfect natural — raised on the Italian opera / pop tradition and everything. The same style, transposed on the phonetic and verbal structures of English, at best, sounds forced, and at worst, embarrassing. Granted, DiGiacomo does his best to camouflage the proverbial Italian accent, but it still isn't good enough, certainly not on ʽLeave Me Aloneʼ (ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ), which has no business whatsoever being sung in English with carefully preserved Italian intonations. This is not-ta too good-duh.

Furthermore, it just does not look like the band was too happy about doing this conversion. Sur­prisingly enough, they went to the trouble of actually re-recording all the tracks, maybe because they'd lost the mastertapes and were unable to wipe DiGiacomo's vocals off the originals (the completely instrumental ʽTraccia IIʼ is the only number here that has been directly carried over), but the re-recordings never reach the same level of power and enthusiasm — and they also go much easier on the electric guitar (played by new band member Rodolfo Maltese, replacing Mar­cello Todaro) and seriously heavier on synthesizers, which is not to my liking at all.

Finally, what's up with the idea of re-recording the old stuff anyway? I am not that much of a fan to spend lots of time comparing the old ʽMetamorfosiʼ with the new ʽMetamorphosisʼ, and thus, only the first six minutes of the album are of relative interest: ʽChoraleʼ, subtitled ʽFrom Traccia Themeʼ, is an atmospheric «look-how-impressively-we-synthesize-church-organ-effects» com­position that has nothing to do with either the original ʽTracciaʼ or ʽTraccia IIʼ (all three could have been constituents of a single dismembered multi-part suite, though), and ʽL'Albero Del Pa­neʼ (ʽThe Bread Treeʼ) is an uplifting, dynamic anthem built on the conjunction of ferocious acoustic strum and a sea of romantic synthesizer joy. I suppose that both were included mainly to provide the Italian sector of the market with an incentive to buy the album.

As things are, the album seems to be generally out of print today, and for a good reason. Nobody really needs to understand what the band is singing about — the finest musical masterpieces re­quire the listener to supply his own images and interpretations, and once the frontman starts bat­tling with a foreign accent, all images and interpretations start deteriorating accordingly. A curi­ous document indeed — but, even though ʽL'Albero Del Paneʼ is salvageable, it is hardly enough to save the album from a decisive thumbs down. Recommended to avoid, even if found in a used bin (or, more likely, in some forgotten dusty container that accidentally did not make it onto the Rome – New York flight).

The Band: A Musical History

THE BAND: A MUSICAL HISTORY (2005)

CD I: 1) Who Do You Love?; 2) You Know I Love You; 3) Further On Up The Road; 4) Nineteen Years Old; 5)  Honky Tonk; 6) Bacon Fat; 7) Robbie's Blues; 8) Leave Me Alone; 9) Uh Uh Uh; 10) He Don't Love You (And He'll Break Your Heart); 11) (I Want to Be) The Rainmaker; 12) The Stones I Throw; 13) The Stones I Throw (Will Free All Men); 14) Go Go Liza Jane; 15) Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?; 16) Tell Me, Momma; 17) Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues; 18) Words And Numbers; 19) You Don't Come Through; 20) Beautiful Thing; 21) Caledonia Mission (sketch track); 22) Odds And Ends; 23) Ferdinand The Imposter; 24) Ruben Remus; 25) Will The Circle Be Unbroken.

For all of The Band's gloriously legendary status — unlike their godfather and mentor, Mr. «I-wrote-more-songs-than-you-ever-heard-in-your-life» Zimmerman, their archived vaults have turned out to be surprisingly low on unreleased treasures. Outside of the regular discography, the only complete archival release in their history was 1995's Live At Watkins Glen, an odd mons­trosity that was presumably recorded at the Watkins Glen Festival in July 1973, although, in rea­lity, only two or three tracks were taken from the actual show, the rest being either studio out­takes with cheaply overdubbed applause or live selections from earlier shows. The album, re­leased by Capitol without The Band's consent or even knowledge, is now out of print, and most of its tracks are available as bonus cuts on Moondog Matinee or Rock Of Ages — but the fact that one had to stoop to such a silly forgery in order to make an extra buck on The Band's reputa­tion is quite telling of the state of affairs.

A year before that, Capitol actually put out the first Band-related boxset — the 3-CD compilation Across The Great Divide, with the third disc replete with demos, outtakes, and bits of pieces of The Band's history. This one is also out of print today, replaced by a much stouter collection — 2005 saw the emergence of The Band: A Musical History, now spread across five CDs and one DVD (the latter mostly consisting of otherwise available bits of live appearances, e. g. the three number performed on SNL in 1976 and the material from 1970's Festival Express), and probably containing every single bit of non-regular-LP stuff from The Band that we might ever need to hear. Not that the need would be overtly acute.

Formally, A Musical History is one of those «for-beginners-and-fans-alike» collections that will not properly satisfy either group. The fans will already have most of these tracks on the original LPs — moreover, many of the outtakes here now also feature as bonus additions to the new re­mastered CD series; beginners, on the other hand, would do much better with a small compilation (or just buy the first two albums anyway). Once I have filtered out standard album tracks, previ­ously unreleased material that has now been converted to bonus tracks, and «tangential» stuff like the «Dylan & The Band» recordings (including, among other things, several tracks from The Ba­sement Tapes and the regular single recording of ʽCan You Please Crawl Out Your Window?ʼ), I was left with a little under 2 CDs length of material — and most of it is rather slim pickings.

The only real bit of treasure, and even that mostly for a historian of The Band, is the first disc, which does indeed trace their musical history throughout the early and mid-1960s — arguably an essential listen for everybody wanting to understand how the band became The Band. Starting with a few sides they cut as «Ronnie Hawkins & The Hawks», with Hawkins as the unquestio­nable frontman and leader; going through the early incarnations of «Levon & The Hawks» and «The Canadian Squires»; and finishing with raw demos recorded in 1967-68 as they were just trying to lift off the ground — this is a thorough and convincing picture of the transformation of an ordinary rock'n'roll outfit into a...

...well, no, not really. To be honest, in the context of whatever was going on in the musical world in the 1960s, most of this first disc sucks: I cannot imagine how anybody would have sensed any seeds of Music From Big Pink in anything on here. The Hawkins-era numbers are pedestrian covers of electric blues and boogie standards — «The Hawk» has always been a much better growler and screamer than singer, and the only point of relative interest are a few scorching garage-rock solos from Robertson... both here and on most of the «Levon & The Hawks» num­bers — in the early days, the newly-liberated band was still mostly churning out formulaic boo­gie-blues like ʽLeave Me Aloneʼ, and only Robbie's stinging, screeching leads stand out: you can easily tell what it was that got Dylan interested in The Hawks in the first place. (Curiously, Bob's own rare instance of lead guitar playing on an early classic album of his — ʽLeopard Skin Pillbox Hatʼ on Blonde On Blonde — is extremely similar in style to Robbie's early solos).

Some of the more impressive of Robertson's early, sketchy attempts at songwriting include the catchy R&B number ʽHe Don't Love Youʼ and the gospel-folk anthem ʽThe Stones That I Throwʼ, but they are still deeply rooted in the clichés of these genres. Things only start changing when we get real close to 1968: ʽYou Don't Come Throughʼ, pitching a Manuel falsetto against a similarly high-pitched guitar melody, shows a first brief, embryonic glimpse into the roots of the sad beau­ty of Big Pink, and Manuel's own ʽBeautiful Thingʼ is a tender demo that could grow into some­thing bigger, but maybe it was deemed just a bit too waltzy to deserve elaboration. On the other hand, the early version of ʽCaledonia Missionʼ seems to pair the already well-boiled vocal melo­dy with an utterly incompatible arrangement — too fast, too upbeat, too different from the mood of Garth's merry harpsichord accompaniment. No, really, it is all almost as if they just woke up one morning — and found out that they were geniuses, after all. Same thing happened to the Bea­t­les — why couldn't it happen to The Band?

Of the elsewhere unavailable stuff on the other four CDs, there is only a small handful of recom­mendations I could deal out. The live performance of Woody Guthrie's ʽI Ain't Got No Homeʼ with Bob from the Carnegie Hall concert (January 20, 1968) is more of historical value for Bob than The Band (marking his first live appearance after the motorcycle crash), but is totally en­joyable even regardless of the context. The live version of ʽSmoke Signalʼ is a rare example of a number from Cahoots done live, and done well. Robbie's ʽTwo Piano Songʼ, with Manuel and Hudson manning said pianos, is a pretty piece that transcends genres — the players are trading pop / classical / ragtime patterns between each other, obviously feeling inspired; too bad they never got around to finishing the composition (which could have, among other things, made a damn stately finale for Northern Lights). And ʽHome Cookin'ʼ could have been Rick Danko's only example of a completely self-composed song in the classic era Band catalog — but maybe they decided, like me, that the chorus hook was a tad too reminiscent of ʽJust Another Whistle Stopʼ to be allowed to live.

The rest is mostly technical inclusions — an alternate run through ʽ4% Pantomimeʼ with Van Morrison, a live rendition of Little Richard's ʽSlippin' And Slidin'ʼ, with all the usual reservations about The Band playing visceral rock'n'roll, an early, not-too-different take on ʽAll La Gloryʼ, etc. etc.; not a lot. In the end, the boxset may be more precious for all the packaging, photos, liner notes etc. — these things always have more value as intelligent shelf decorations anyway. But I suppose that if everybody is entitled to this kind of boxset, it would be unfair to delay this honor for the very sym­bol of Americana, or else Black Oak Arkansas and R.E.O. Speedwagon might get their dues paid first, and that would be truly embarrassing.

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Billy Preston: The Kids & Me

BILLY PRESTON: THE KIDS & ME (1974)

1) Tell Me You Need My Loving; 2) Nothing From Nothing; 3) Struttin'; 4) Sister Sugar; 5) Sad Sad Song; 6) You Are So Beautiful; 7) Sometimes I Love You; 8) St. Elmo; 9) John The Baptist; 10) Little Black Boys And Girls; 11) Creature Feature.

A perfect title, actually — if there is one soul performer who might be said to have it special for the kids, it is unquestionably Billy: never going heavy on 16+ themes, always loaded with sunny charisma, yet very rarely lapsing into overt tastelessness. Formally, this is not a «kiddie» album, but it is very lightweight in attitude and atmosphere, almost intentionally targeted at those who like it easy-going, unburdened with too much pretense or complexity, but still retaining some basic rock'n'roll grittiness, for the sake of the reputation.

Billy's main inspiration in those days seems to have been Stevie Wonder — it is no coincidence that both of them used to be the opening acts for the Stones, Stevie in 1972, Billy in 1973, and there is nothing surprising that Stevie's own sunny-optimistic style, borrowing all the brightest sides from ye olde R&B, jazz, and pop traditions, must have inspired Preston to try going in the same direction. Thus, The Kids & Me is like a lite, much simplified version of Talking Book (Innervisions was chronologically closer, but had much more socially-conscious tenseness to it — not that Billy is never socially conscious, but that side of his is downplayed on The Kids & Me), with more emphasis on dance beats, but the same idea of merging the «catchy pop-hit»  with the «building up an R&B groove» approach, and dressing it all up in modernized production values with a buzzing synthesizer on top.

The inspiration proved worthwhile — the album gave Billy his second and last #1, ʽNothing From Nothingʼ, a song that is even fluffier and sillier than ʽWill It Go Round In Circlesʼ, but even more catchy, sort of a fast-tempo vaudeville number with layers of piano, banjo, and brass com­bining, respectively, the atmospheres of music hall, country-western, and New Orleanian party muzak. The song may be easily despised, but it is hardly worth wasting your despisal generator on such an innocent, cuddly trifle. Besides, it was the first musical number ever to be performed on Saturday Night Live, so it's already made history, want it or not.

Almost everything else here is just as short, sweet, (more often than not) catchy, and up to the point. The only exception is the slow anthemic love ballad ʽYou Are So Beautifulʼ, which Billy happened to co-write with Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys — and which Beach Boys fans will consequently recognize from Dennis' own live performances (e. g. on Live At Knebworth). Of course, the fully worked out, elaborately arranged version here is the one that shows the song's true potential — a little cheesy, but passionately and honestly sung, with an odd, (no doubt) Stevie-influen­ced, synth tone smearing weird electronic honey on top.

Around this ballad, strategically placed in the middle, all the little ditties hop around, shifting their places in the blink of an eye — funky instrumentals (ʽStruttin'ʼ), proto-disco with a head-spin­ning strings-to-brass marriage (ʽSister Sugarʼ), almost-completely-disco with metronomic beats (ʽSometimes I Love Youʼ) and Bible-for-juniors adaptations (ʽJohn The Baptistʼ, possibly the most upbeat song ever dedicated to the poor martyr — and sort of a blueprint for nearly the entire career of The Average White Band), and, at the end of the day, a «mock-spooky» B-movie-paro­dy (ʽCreature Featureʼ, where Billy fools around with a talkbox, correctly using it as a tool for producing goofiness, rather than going the Peter Frampton route and trying to employ its po­tential with «serious» purposes).

On the whole, The Kids & Me is a surprisingly «adequate» record, one on which there is never any feeling that Billy — a «limited» artist, for sure — may be overstepping his limits, stretching out in directions that he really cannot handle. For a «deeper» Billy Preston — deep enough, that is, to talk to God and humanity in general, but not deep enough to say a lot of interesting and ori­ginal things to either — Encouraging Words or its predecessor still remain the basic standard, but the «fluffy» Billy Preston never got any more charming than on this record, where the fun almost literally drips through his fingers. Thumbs up.

Bo Diddley: Big Bad Bo

BO DIDDLEY: BIG BAD BO (1974)

1) Bite You; 2) He's Got All The Whiskey; 3) Hit Or Miss; 4) You've Got A Lot Of Nerve; 5) Stop The Pusher; 6) Evelee; 7) I've Been Workin'.

This one is sometimes called Bo's «jazz album», mainly because some of the session players here were relatively big names on the jazz market, and a very strong brass presence is felt on most of the tracks. However, there are no «jazz» compositions on here as such — most of it is the same old funk that Bo had practiced all over the early Seventies, with a bit of B. B. King-ish «blues-de-luxe» thrown in for good (actually, bad) measure. And there is no need to feel disappointed: Bo Diddley feels at home with funky grooves, yet whether he would feel equally at home trying to make his Bitches Brew remains questionable. Fortunately, perhaps, we shall never know.

There are only seven tracks this time, and it does not help the album that the longest one, ʽEveleeʼ, is a slow 12-bar blues that we really do not need from Bo — the vocals are powerful, but blunt, the harmonica player, walking in the footsteps of Little Walter, seems to be too small to take a peek out of the footprint, and the rest of the arrangement is nothing that B. B. King's backing band could not do just as well or much better. The fact that it takes its time so leisurely is strongly indicative of filler — and bizarre, since danceable funky grooves that take their time are not only more understandable and enjoyable, but are right up Bo's alley as well.

Because, other than ʽEveleeʼ, the other six tracks are all welcome additions to the catalog — par­ticularly ʽBite Youʼ, which could arguably be called Bo's last genuine Chess classic. Playing the big bad (horny) wolf to a snappy funky bassline as the brass machine works it out like a newbuilt factory — this may not be as delightfully psycho-chaotic as the best stuff on Black Gladiator, but it still totally ranks in overall body temperature with whatever James Brown was doing at the time (although, presumably, Bo's backing band is a little less fluent).

There is also a noble, and surprisingly gritty, anti-drug diatribe (ʽStop The Pusherʼ) that sounds totally believable — Bo's "don't buy, and the pusher will die" is probably as straightforward and anthemic as he ever advanced with instructive social statements, and it is tied to a harsh and lean, «we-really-mean-business» bass/guitar interplay that helps drive the point home. Remember this, kids: if you wanna make a musical social statement that bites, make sure it's really a musical so­cial statement, and an interesting one, not just a variation on «Just Say No» set to the melody of ʽHoochie Coochie Manʼ or something like that.

Bobby Charles' ʽHe's Got All The Whiskeyʼ is saved from monotonousness by nice guitar and bass flourishes all over the place (in terms of whatever the bass guitar is doing here, it is probably the jazziest number on here); ʽYou've Got A Lot Of Nerveʼ is optimistic R&B with a bit of a pub flavor — just the kind of music that Ray Davies was pushing for so hard in his Everybody's In Show-Biz period, except that Bo rules it far more masterfully; and ʽI've Been Workin'ʼ finishes the album with a little «bleak soul», on a more ominous and desperate note than everything else — for the most part, Big Bad Bo is either uplifting, or humorous, or both, but this last number lays on some brassy and bass-y darkness; and there is something ironic, I guess, that the last track on Bo's last album for Chess bears the title of ʽI've Been Workin'ʼ and a slight aura of depression — seeing as how it has been more than a decade since he had his last bit of commercial success with the label. On the other hand, it makes no sense to read too much sense in any single Bo Did­dley track: the man was not exactly known for being a master of subtle nuances.

Anyway, thumbs up for Big Bad Bo — a winner both in terms of spirit and impressive, if not ut­terly jaw-dropping, musicianship, and not a bad way to say goodbye to the label that had been Bo's home for twenty years. It is a little sad that, after all, this «funky renaissance» period, so healthy to Bo's own persona and sounding so doggone underrated from the point of view of the 21st century, never caught on with the public back in its own time — but, apparently, playing good music was not enough: you had to build yourself up the appropriate image to go with that, something that James Brown was still capable of doing, but not ol' Bo, whose rectangular guitar and sexy female sidekicks were just about as far as he was willing to go in the visual entertain­ment department. Maybe a boa constrictor around the neck would have helped — unfortunately, no snake could properly withstand being shook up by the Diddley beat.

 

Britney Spears: Britney

BRITNEY SPEARS: BRITNEY (2001)

1) I'm A Slave 4 U; 2) Overprotected; 3) Lonely; 4) I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman; 5) Boys; 6) Anticipating; 7) I Love Rock'n'Roll; 8) Cinderella; 9) Let Me Be; 10) Bombastic Love; 11) That's Where You Take Me; 12) When I Found You; 13) What It's Like To Be Me.

Presumably, the commercial success of Britney's first two albums swooshed past the breaking point — that point where, upon having dutily supplied a legion of teens with sweet fodder, she could be dumped by the industry altogether. The legions were still hot for more Britney — but also, the legions were growing up, and so, much like Harry Potter, Britney had to grow up along with her legions. So it was decided — meticulously planned and executed, too — that the third album would be... well, since we all know that «Artists» are supposed to have «Transitional Al­bums» that gradually bring them to their «Mature Stage», that was exactly what the third album was supposed to be. (Never mind that real artists rarely, if ever, calculate their records as «tran­sitional» — they just come out that way naturally — but who are we kiddin' here).

If there is a more blatant way to emphasize this «transition» than naming one of the album's key tracks ʽI'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Womanʼ, I'd like to hear it, but it seems like Max Martin had all potential competition beat on that one. Even more important is the fact that throughout, the focus is altogether on «Me, The Real Britney». Defending her «freedom» on ʽLet Me Beʼ, asser­ting her independent personality on ʽWhat It's Like To Be Meʼ, complaining about being way too ʽOverprotectedʼ, and peeking at us with a slightly scared (or was that «stoned»?) Mowgli-type look from the sleeve photo — yep, that's «Britney», all right: the girl who just got told by Justin Timberlake what it's like to be her. Did you ever realize that it is usually the media-baked glitzy shallow stars who like to extol their «independence» and «not-like-everybody-else-ness» and «let-me-live-my-own-life-ness», usually over the blandest melodies and arrangements ever, rather than the ones who are truly independent? You most probably did — and you most probably understand why that is so.

However, to achieve the official status of «transitional», the album must not concentrate entirely on pseudo-confession and mock-introspection. In terms of sheer covered ground, Britney is her most mish-mashy, variegated album ever. For one thing, individuality and maturity be damned, there is still a lot of the «old» bubblegummy Britney, still polishing her whitebread dance-pop moves on ʽBombastic Loveʼ and ʽCinderellaʼ, or cooing away little-princess romantic ballads (ʽWhen I Found Youʼ; the techno-spiced, but just as sickeningly sweet ʽThat's Where You Take Meʼ — high up in the skies, silly, whatever did you think? Wait for just a couple more years, we'll get there even­tually).

For another thing, there is a brief, thoroughly and healthily failed attempt at dressing her up like a rough'n'tough rock star, with probably the most banal choice that could be made — Joan Jett's (actually, Alan Merrill's, but who cares these days?..) ʽI Love Rock'n'Rollʼ. Since there has never, ever been any additional evidence to the fact that Britney does, in fact, love rock'n'roll, not even her Oh So Cool "hey, is this thing on?" at the beginning manages to justify this next gaffe — granted, not nearly as face-palmish as the fiasco of ʽSatisfactionʼ, but only because, unlike the latter, ʽI Love Rock'n'Rollʼ was never a very good song in the first place.

Much better is the lead-off single from the album: ʽI'm A Slave 4 Uʼ, written and produced by The Neptunes, is probably one of the decade's better mainstream R&B dance numbers (not that I'm really an expert!), if only because its main hooks have nothing to do with mainstream R&B, but are based on an odd combination of boing-boing-ing electronic percussion with almost psy­chedelic vocalization (the "I'm a slaaaaaaaave for you..." bit, not the "get it get it get it" bit, which I originally mistook for "kitty kitty kitty", and it was way more fun). This is Britney dipping her toes into the seductive world of syncopation, sampling, and sex-tease, and it succeeds far better than dipping the same toes into bombastic riff-rock — except that ʽI'm A Slave 4 Uʼ is complete­ly «de-personalized» and could have been recorded by just about anyone.

But no, this is the first and last time you are going to hear me complain about how «there's not enough Britney in this song», because the last time we really heard «the real Britney» was on ʽDear Diaryʼ, and it is not quite clear why anyone should ever want to hear more of «the real Britney» — thank goodness we now have all those tons of makeup on top, which is really the only reason to give a quick listen to these records in the first place. Problem is, on Britney that makeup is still laid on too thin — remember, we are supposed to be in transition here, not girls, not yet women. ʽI'm A Slave 4 Uʼ and, to a much lesser extent, ʽBoysʼ feature respectable pro­duction jobs — the rest of the N'Sync-ish dance numbers sink through the floorboards as usual. Plus, more trouble looms on the horizon as we see the first elements of auto-tuning on a couple of tracks, squeezing out the last irreplaceable element of Britney's — her sexy rasp — but, for the most part, fans of her limited, but not un-cute, vocal cords will still find plenty here.

Altogether, forgetting about the individual imaginativeness of ʽ Slaveʼ for a moment, Britney's «transition-ality» was realized rather poorly — the album lacks both the super-glamor-gloss of ensuing releases and the Lolita-style pesky perverted oh-so-guilty pleasure aura of the bubblegum teen-pop stuff. For the most part, this is bad, utterly sterile music as usual, but now it even sort of lacks the most basic sense of purpose, and in a way, this is the most «boring» album released under the name of B.S. up to date. In fact, I'd rather go and vomit one more time to ʽDear Diaryʼ than have to sit through this no-spine-whatsoever Justin Timberlake duet. On second thought, I just realized that I don't have to do either of these things — see, life isn't so bad after all.

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