Bee Gees: 1st

BEE GEES: 1ST (1967)

1) Turn Of The Century; 2) Holiday; 3) Red Chair Fade Away; 4) One Minute Woman; 5) In My Own Time; 6) Every Christian Lion Hearted Man Will Show You; 7) Craise Finton Kirk Royal Academy Of Arts; 8) New York Mining Disaster 1941; 9) Cucumber Castle; 10) To Love Somebody; 11) I Close My Eyes; 12) I Can't See Nobody; 13) Please Read Me; 14) Close Another Door.

Whether the Bee Gees' 1st (technically, «3rd», but I understand the desire to erase one's Austra­lian past... boy, those kangaroos can get annoying) is or is not their «best» album is up to each of us in particular and history in general to decide. To me, it has always been the best simply by being the most diverse — because not only were the Bee Gees perfectly capable of handling di­versity with gusto, but this also helped reduce the sheer percentage of sentimental ballads: no matter how perfect a master of that art you are, too much syrup is just so much syrup. On a cult favorite like Trafalgar, for instance, the band is a pigeonholed horde of balladeer-troubadours. But on Bee Gees 1st, the band is a freelance pack of wagon-jumpers — and that's some first rate wagon-jumping if we ever saw one.

The move to England did not immediately change much in the brothers' attitudes. They are still playing the same copycat game, indulging their love for various musical genres, trendy hairstyles, fab suits, posh chicks, and royalties — but now they have a set of advantages, including being geographically closer to their sources of inspiration and to state-of-the-art recording studios (with access to the latter provided by their new manager Robert Stigwood, the guy who also managed Cream and Clapton's post-Cream activity); and also, last but not least, simply being grown-up — their «training years» in Australia left behind and ready for prime time.

There is nothing in Bee Gees' 1st that suggests an «individual artistic vision» of any kind. (In fact, there wouldn't ever be — they would sort of try forging out that vision on Odessa, due to the po­pular demand of 1969 when it was thoroughly unhip not to be a «Visionary Artist», but it didn't really stick). But on the positive side, there is nothing on the album that would arrogantly scream «we're only in it for the money», either. The real situation, I believe, is more simple and even somewhat touching. So they heard ʽPenny Laneʼ and loved it so much, they decided to make ʽTurn Of The Centuryʼ. They threw on ʽDr. Robertʼ and dug the rhythm, so they decided to make ʽIn My Own Timeʼ. Somebody brought them a copy of Pet Sounds, they were so overwhelmed that they incorporated those vocal harmonies into ʽPlease Read Meʼ (but where are the Coke bottles?). Then they found a Mellotron in the studio, and, giggling like little kids, used it to re­cord the «Gothic Cathedral» bits of ʽEvery Christian...ʼ. In short, what we are dealing here is the plea­sure of discovery, and the double pleasure of assimilating the discovery.

If only they weren't talented — but they were, and it all works. Fourteen short songs — nobody told the fresh young lads that, even staying within UK borders, you are no longer obliged to re­cord 14 three-minute long pop songs per LP in mid-1967 — fourteen short vignettes, each of them representing a different style, and each single one making its point in either a catchy, or a moving, or a simply curious manner, sometimes all three at the same time. Nothing here has much intellectual «depth» to it, as can be seen from the lyrics, most of which are sheer nonsense (ʽHolidayʼ may be a major tear-jerker, but God only knows what it is we are supposed to be crying about: "It's something I thinks worthwhile / If the puppet makes you smile / If not you are throwing stones, throwing stones?" Bob would sing this with an evil grin). But on the level of raw emotion, it all works, from first to last note.

Bee Gees 1st certainly does not sound like a «happy» album. If it may be pigeonholed at all (although that's one hell of a complex pigeon breed), it would most likely qualify as «art pop», and «art pop» in 1967 was not supposed to be about happiness — loneliness, romantic tragedy, isolation/ism/, «me against the faceless crowds», «me misunderstood and underappreciated», etc., unless you wanted to add social critique, but that latter usually came with distorted electric gui­tars rather than woodwinds and harpsichords. The seeds of those moods the brothers had already implanted in themselves when they took up with the folk stuff years earlier, but now the seeds have turned into saplings, and if there is something unifyingly conceptual about the record, it is  «melancholic nostalgia». ʽYou Should Be Dancingʼ was still years away. (Actually, come to think of it, ʽYou Should Be Dancingʼ is a pretty sad song, too — I have always felt pity for the poor guy who just keeps lying on his back throughout. But never mind).

ʽTurn Of The Centuryʼ, as I said, is somewhat of an answer to ʽPenny Laneʼ — more lushly arranged, with a complex baroque backing track, but more or less the same in terms of nostalgic sentimentality, mixed with a little brass-provided parade spirit and the now-funny complaint of "Everything's happening / At the turn of the century / I'm gonna buy myself a time machine / Go to the turn of the century" (so totally ironic today, when so many people would do anything to buy themselves a time machine and go to 1967, which is exactly when everything was happening — and who gives a damn about any round numbers anyway?). The vocal melody is not as well-rounded as a Beatlish standard would require — in particular, the chorus resolution seems weak and a bit anti-climactic after the build-up — but they make up for this fairly well with the brass arrangement, which is every bit as «optimistically pessimistic» as the finest art-pop constructions coming from that era.

The best known songs are probably the three singles from the album, which remained mainstays for the band's live show until the very end. ʽNew York Mining Disaster 1941ʼ, despite flagging a title fit for some pre-war Woody Guthrie workers' rights' ballad, was mysteriously promoted as a «Beatles Anonymous» track (presaging the mystification of Klaatu a decade later), even though neither the group vocals are really reminiscent of the Beatles, nor is the composition's signature all that reminiscent of a «Lennon/McCartney» approach — at any rate, the real Beatles hadn't really gone for that kind of folksy sound since Rubber Soul. All of which is puzzling, but has nothing to do with the song's quality: it is a charmingly catchy folk-pop nugget, though probably not as effective emotionally as it should be (the «tragic» undercurrents of the story of the poor imaginary miners are hardly re­flected in the music at all).

I used to feel uncomfy around ʽTo Love Somebodyʼ, a song originally written for Otis Redding and one that might, perhaps, have sounded less stiff and artificial in his rendition. But it is tech­nically unimpeachable — if you kill ʽTo Love Somebodyʼ, you might as well kill off the entire «soul-pop» genre, and it is simply the realization that, for some reason, this stuff is being sung by a bunch of young white whippersnappers from Australia instead of a blind old black guy at the piano that could serve as a turn-off (a racist turn-off, I should add). It's just a good old chivalrous serenade, really, overblown, but coming from the heart and written with responsibility. (I still prefer Eric Burdon's cover version, though — a little rasp-and-roll clears away the affected man­nerisms of Barry's delivery).

Then there's ʽHolidayʼ, one of the least comprehensible, but saddest tracks in the band's catalog — which is just the way it's supposed to be: I feel sad and I don't know why, so I'll just sing some gibberish to divert myself. Robin is playing a little medieval minstrel here, humming to himself rather than the unappreciative crowd, and the result is an unwittingly unique mix of their old Everly Brothers style with the new baroque and music hall tendencies, an odd cocktail that only happens when a talented somebody hops on two wagons at the same time (and the time being 1967 only adds to the charm).

These three songs are certainly unforgettable, but so is almost everything else. ʽEvery Christian Lion Hearted Man Will Show Youʼ, for the uninitiated, works like a spooky creepshow, and for those who know better — like a light-hearted parody on the psychedelic movement. In fact, al­most, like a «pre-parody»: the deep church-organish Mellotron chords and Gregorian chanting (where they, apparently, sing «oh solo Dominique» instead of ecce ancilla Domini or something else with Domini it — take that, old Catholic Church!) predates the Electric Prunes' Mass In F Minor by about a year. ʽCraise Finton Kirk Royal Academy Of Artsʼ certifiedly adds The Kinks to the list of the Gibbs' influences — at least, they can do an oh-so-British bouncy piano vaude­ville number with as much gusto as Ray Davies, even if they lack Ray's lyrical insight, and it is clear that the everyday problems of the British commoner do not worry the Gibbs nearly as much as they do the author of ʽMr. Pleasantʼ.

Wrapping this up, we shouldn't forget that, even despite sticking to the three-minute format, the Gibbs pay attention to song structure — ʽI Close My Eyesʼ, for instance, changes its signature several times before settling on a psychedelic rather than simply-pop coda; ʽRed Chair Fade Awayʼ, likewise, gradually mutates from a nursery rhyme into a psycho fantasy (just as its lyrics would suggest); and ʽClose Another Doorʼ seems like an attempt to come up with their own ʽGood Vibrationsʼ — there are at least four distinct parts here, each with its own intricate com­bination of vocal and instrumental arrange­ments.

Overall, it is tempting to call Bee Gees 1st «just another well-meaning offspring of Sgt. Pepper» — the trick is that most of this stuff was recorded at the same time as Sgt. Pepper material, even if the final album came out approximately one month later. And it does seem evident that the main Beatles' influences here stem either from Revolver (ʽIn My Own Timeʼ truly sounds like a Revolver outtake, much more Beatlish than ʽNew York Mining Disasterʼ) or, at best, from the ʽStrawberry Fields Forever / Penny Laneʼ single. So there is no denying the batch of influences, or the lack of individualistic input, but there is no denying the sheer melodic genius — or simply the amazement at the fact that «It All Works» in the first place.

By all means, these songs, re­corded by some very specific people in some very specific conditions, should not be touching soul chords, but somehow, they are — I'd call this «borderline genius craftsmanship», and that, really, is the way that the Bee Gees would be operating from now on for most of their career. And in the generally healthy musical climate of the late Sixties, that «borderline genius craftsman­ship» frequently gives the illusion of actually crossing that border — hence, a «thinly overwhelmed» thumbs up.

PS. This and all the rest of the Bee Gees' 1960s catalog has recently received the de-luxe remas­tering treatment — 2-CD editions (3-CD for Odessa) with both mono and stereo versions, and the second CD comes with a bunch of bonus tracks: the bonus disc for 1st is particularly recom­mendable, with more Kinksy stuff (ʽGilbert Greenʼ), more chamber pop (ʽHouse Of Lordsʼ), more rock'n'roll (ʽI've Got To Learnʼ is actually a blues-riff-based song!), and more alternate versions and demos which are all obligatory for a real fan of the Bee Gees as a band or Sixties' art-pop as a great musical direction. And you get to hear Barry singing lead vocals on ʽOne Mi­nute Womanʼ instead of Robin! Ain't that a bait?

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Billy Preston: A Whole New Thing

BILLY PRESTON: A WHOLE NEW THING (1977)

1) Whole New Thing; 2) Disco Dancin'; 3) Complicated Sayings; 4) Attitudes; 5) I'm Really Gonna Miss You; 6) Wide Stride; 7) You Got Me Buzzin'; 8) Sweet Marie; 9) Happy; 10) Touch Me Love; 11) You Don't Have To Go.

When Sly Stone, Billy's good friend and old-time mentor, titled his debut album A Whole New Thing back in 1967, this was sort of understandable — it might not have been the most innova­tive album of the year, given all the fierce competition, but at least it was a new thing, whole or partial. When, ten years later, Billy himself named his far-from-first album A Whole New Thing, it only served to exacerbate the differences between a rough, but active genius like Sly and a pleasant, but mediocre chap like Billy. Most likely, the title simply refers to the disco wave — even though this was already Billy's second album in that stylistics, and the disco movement it­self was far from a «whole new thing» in mid-1977 (although, granted, the album was released about half a year prior to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack).

Anyway, this is an even less impressive / memorable affair than Billy Preston, even though it is almost equally likeable while it's on, and for the same reason: no slick, stiffening overproduction. Even the cheesiest entry, conveniently named ʽDisco Dancin'ʼ, features perfectly normal organ backing, perfectly lively string countermelodies, and a perfectly hearty Latin percussion break — so the tune could only be «condemned» from a purely ethical point of view (as in, "it is morally pernicious to sing songs about the joys of disco dancin'... try to be properly spiritual and choose ʽBlitz­krieg Bopʼ instead"). And songs that are not at all «lyrically defiant» — title track; ʽYou Got Me Buzzin'ʼ, etc. — are unimpeachable whatsoever. Which is not to say that there is any­thing particularly insightful to be remarked about them.

There are two instrumentals, of which the briefer ʽAttitudesʼ features some nice two-piano spar­ring between Billy and another keyboard player, while the lengthier ʽWide Strideʼ indulges in lite fusion with some free-flowing synth improv. There are a couple of obligatory ballads, too, of which ʽI'm Really Gonna Miss Youʼ is the more soulful, but less engaging one, and ʽSweet Ma­rieʼ is the lushier-sexier one, and probably, by a tiny margin, the best song on the album.

The credit list, this time around, features next to no celebrities, unless one counts Marc Bolan's soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend Gloria Jones on backing vocals, and... uh... percussionist Ollie Brown who appears on the Stones' Love You Live album as Charlie's aide-de-camp. Not surprisingly, not a single instrumental part ever stands out bar Billy's own — not that anything needs to stand out, because almost everything on here was designed as entertaining dance fodder, with no seri­ous ambitions whatsoever. (Actually, at the time Billy was saving his serious ambitions for a sepa­rate line of pure-gospel albums — the first one, Behold, would come out only a year later. However, the fact that this line is frequently omitted from published discographies is quite telling; supposedly, if you want late 1970s Billy, you will do better with Billy the disco dancer than Billy the Lord's man).

Bo Diddley: A Man Amongst Men

BO DIDDLEY: A MAN AMONGST MEN (1996)

1) Bo Diddley Is Crazy; 2) Can I Walk You Home; 3) Hey Baby; 4) I Can't Stand It; 5) He's Got A Key; 6) A Man Amongst Men; 7) Coatimundi; 8) That Mule; 9) Kids Don't Do It; 10) Oops! Bo Diddley.

This is Bo's one and only «proper» studio LP in the last thirty years of his career — «proper» meaning «distributed on an official commercial basis» (through Atlantic Records), but also «properly recorded», meaning a professional studio instead of Bo's bedroom, and also «properly available» (meaning it's still out of print, but at least you can ruffle through used CD bins on a regular basis with high chances of success).

It ain't no great shakes, and it might even be a bit below certain expectations (and a bit above other certain expectations), but in any case, it is a respectable career bookmark. A Bo Diddley al­bum from a nearly 70-year old Bo Diddley has only one point to prove — namely, that the rock'n'roll spirit can, and should, be still alive in 70-year olds — and it does that in the form of a test: can you guess that the album was recorded by a 70-year old, or does it sound ageless? Natu­rally, for everybody who has the faintest idea of who Bo Diddley is, the test is rigged from the beginning, but my own guess is that I probably couldn't guess.

As Bo was drawn in more and more into the Stones' circle of contacts — first the Ron Wood al­liance, followed by a joint public appearance in 1994, singing ʽWho Do You Loveʼ — it is no wonder that much of the playing and production here is masterminded by Ronnie and Keith, and that fact alone ensures a certain level of gritty quality. Other pieces of the puzzle include Stevie Ray's brother Jimmie Vaughan, lending a proper Texan flavour to the proceedings; Johnny "Gui­tar" Watson, deepening and nearly-monopolizing that Texan flavour; and such old vets of the business as Billy Boy Arnold on harp and Johnnie Johnson on piano. Throw in «The Shirelles» on back vocals (quotation marks reflect my lack of knowledge as to how many of the original «Shirelles» are actually involved — one? two?), and that is altogether more guest star presence than Bo ever had to back him up at any single moment in his career, including even the primor­dial soup of 20th Anniversary Of Rock'n'Roll.

This actually creates a problem — the end result looks too much like a glitzy all-star jam, with Bo merely guesting on his own record, something of which you could never accuse any of his origi­nal albums right up to 1974. Worse, even though most of the songs are credited to Bo (they must have all agreed that the old man needed the royalties more than anybody else), they don't really always sound like Bo Diddley songs. There is too little syncopation, too little funk, too little «tri­bal jamming» involved — in fact, about a third of this stuff sounds like typical Ronnie Wood boogie, another third is «Texan roots rock» à la Stevie Ray, and the final third is «modernized Bo Diddley for today's kids» material: glossy, even, and way too loud due to a whole army of cooks stirring the broth at the same time.

That said, it is still a fun record, and a fun «Bo Diddley-blessed» record, at that. ʽBo Diddley Is Crazyʼ is rigidly based on ʽWho Do You Loveʼ, and even if Bo's own rhythm guitar nearly gets lost under all the overdubs, his singing does not — and that deep caveman rumble is certainly far from an old man's croak. And he certainly ain't lost his wits, either: verses like "All I wanna do is play my music and make people happy / I don't wanna be an old drunk like my pappy" pretty much summarize the man's lifelong credo like nothing else. So even if the backing track is not very imaginative, the whole thing is still a fun-filled fast-paced romp — as is ʽOops! Bo Diddleyʼ that bookmarks the album from the other side (although the latter is seriously overlong, with the band fooling around for over seven minutes repeating the same licks over and over again).

In between, we have some slow boring 12-bar blues (ʽThat Muleʼ, mainly for fans of Billy Boy's harp blowing); Texan blues-rock shuffle (ʽCan I Walk You Homeʼ), occasionally used as a new bag for old wine (ʽA Man Amongst Menʼ, which is basically like a sped-up ʽI'm A Manʼ); one obligatory tribute to the «Diddley beat», adorned with harmonica vs. slide guitar conversations (ʽHey Babyʼ); one slow swampy funk groove (ʽI Can't Stand Itʼ); one reggae tribute to ʽCrackin' Upʼ (ʽCoatimundiʼ, definitely running overtime); and even one exercise in funkified hip-hop, targeted at the young ones, with Bo's own grandson joining in on the messaging (ʽKids Don't Do Itʼ) — «stay in school and get your Ph.D!» hints fairly well at the scope of Bo's goal-setting. (Problem is, I wouldn't mind the corniness if I knew for certain there'd be even one kid in the world, black or white, who could ever claim that his or her life was irrevocably changed by a thorough listen to this song. As it is, I suppose it was mostly the grandfathers who heard it).

So, at the very least, even if not all of this is typical Bo Diddley material, it's still a diverse set of moods and styles, which makes for a fitting conclusion to Bo's career — reminding of the good old days when the man was ready to try out nearly everything. Add it up to the perfect vocal form throughout (Bo even makes a fairly good rapper, much as I tend to snuff that form), and the fact that, whatever be the faults and flaws of the production, Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood, and Jimmie Vaughan are far more exciting guitar players than... (well, they could have gotten him Lenny Kravitz, or a stiff academician like Robert Cray — there's millions of them out there) — and altogether, it's almost awesome that Bo did get a chance to give us a proper musical goodbye with this record. And it is not bad, either, that although he still had twelve years left to try and repeat it, he either chose not to or did not get a second chance — one was perfectly enough for a solid thumbs up, two might have been excessive: A Man Amongst Men as a «goodbye» is far more effective than as a «welcome back».

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Britney Spears: Circus

BRITNEY SPEARS: CIRCUS (2008)

1) Womanizer; 2) Circus; 3) Out From Under; 4) Kill The Lights; 5) Shattered Glass; 6) If U Seek Amy; 7) Unusual You; 8) Blur; 9) Mmm Papi; 10) Mannequin; 11) Lace And Leather; 12) My Baby.

This one was recorded and released at a surprisingly fast rate — coming out a little more than a year after Blackout. The hurry is understandable, since that record was produced very much in a daze, and after a series of subsequent collapses and rehabilitations, it was only logical to try and get back in the ring with a fresh start. Again, even the album cover reflects that somehow — the wonders of therapeutic treatment, heavy makeup, and Photoshop combined, we have here a far «fresher» image than on the lost-and-confused Blackout photo. But we do have the album title — and, in fact, the album concept — that still reflects turmoil and media problems, although, truth be told, the Britney team tries to view it with irony.

Instead of In The Zone's «sex junkie» and Blackout's «sex on ice» image, Circus toys around with a «sex marionette» approach — Britney as a haughty glamor doll with occasional soul. The arrangements are generally lighter than on Blackout, with less distortion, dark bass, and even fewer «auto-tuned» songs, but what is more important is that Circus, like any circus, strives for more diversity. There are even a couple of syrupy ballads that try to recapture the spirit of «Brit­ney of old» — ʽOut From Underʼ and the cooey ʽMy Babyʼ could have easily fit on her first two albums; the latter, incidentally, is the only song on here credited to Britney without a host of co-writers, which just goes to show that the girl's own «artistry level» has never really advanced beyond the Mickey Mouse demarcation line.

Beyond that, there is not only the standard expected electropop (title track, ʽShattered Glassʼ, etc.), but also bits of less techno-crazy, mood-oriented R&B (ʽBlurʼ), bass-heavy funk (ʽLace And Leatherʼ), and straightforward «melodic techno» (ʽUnusual Youʼ). None of it is done all too well — just smooth and professional, as always — but at least the overall effect is that, for the first time in seven years, there seems to be an actual human being somewhere here, behind all the shimmery glitz and all the (still heavily present) robo-antics.

Even something really silly, such as ʽMmm Papiʼ, the album's «sex-dolliest» track of all, actually sounds like self-irony in the overall context: with songs like ʽBlurʼ and ʽMannequinʼ covering it from both flanks, lyrics like "with this fast car I can get really far", and teasing-est intonations on the whole record, it is hard to take it straight — and it is the only song here that could be taken straight. Everything else is with a conscious twist; a crude twist, for sure, but there is no doubt that Britney's songwriting team is genuinely trying to lay on a layer of «complexity» on the poor unsuspecting Britney. At the very least, she now has to play the glamor doll and the suffering, exploited soul behind the glamor at the same time.

In terms of melody or witty arrangements, however, Circus is not much of an improvement over Blackout. In fact, the arrangements are quite rote throughout — I can only try to imagine how the martial punch of ʽIf U Seek Amyʼ could have sounded in a classic Brit-pop arrangement instead of depending entirely on minimalistic electronic pulp, as if they were on such a tight budget. The chorus part of ʽBlurʼ is successfully creepy ("can't remember what I did last night, maybe I should have given in but I just couldn't fight" sung with a rare authenticity for Britney, stimula­ting  uncomfortable suspicions). The chorus of ʽKill The Lightsʼ is genuinely psychotic (and at least we can hope that somebody took Britney out to see Sunset Boulevard — education rules!). The rest is traditionally rather non-descript.

Over all of this looms the shadow of ʽWomanizerʼ, the annoying eardragon that should work much better as a mouth muscle exercise for post-coma patients, but somehow turned into a «clas­sic Britney Spears single» instead. It does not fit in well with the rest of Circus and it does not «ring true» at all — this whole idea of a suddenly «feminist» Britney kicking her Romeo in the guts is like a last-minute attempt to ride the coattails of Pink and Avril Lavigne. On the other hand, it does work as a comical gimmick that is all but impossible to scrape out of your eardrums — after all, the word «womanizer» does have a cool ring to it, and what if it rings 300 times in a row? — and then there was that video with the naked Britney in the sauna... hmm, decent pop song, on second thought.

For those actually interested in hearing the album from top to bottom — it does not deserve the honor (nobody in the whole wide world deserves to experience the barbie chimes of ʽMy Babyʼ, at the very least), but it would make sense to hear the bonus tracks on expanded editions: three of them, stacked together, give a good idea of the album's diversity — there is the funny, half-Ma­donna, half-Apples-In-Stereo psycho-techno of ʽRock Me Inʼ, the thoroughly awful, cheap, pri­mitive dance-techno of ʽPhonographyʼ (yes, the lyrics make it obvious that the title was chosen due to phonetic similarity with a different word), and the «Phil Spector Meets The 21st Century (In Jail, While Inferior Crooks Are Running The Show)» electrono-Motown-ish lushness of ʽAm­nesiaʼ. From thoroughly awful to curious, we have it all, making a real circus out of Circus. If only the musical realization of most of these ideas wasn't so bland, I could see this turning into a respectable... nah, into a fun album. But it was, so I couldn't.

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Änglagård: Viljans Öga

ÄNGLAGÅRD: VILJANS ÖGA (2012)

1) Ur Vilande; 2) Sorgmantel; 3) Snårdom; 4) Längtans Klocka.

«The Return of Änglagård» does not exactly bear the same stunning force as «The Return of The Beatles» (or «The Return of Jimi», for that matter), but for those in the know it will be a pleasant surprise nonetheless. Furthermore, there would be little sense for the original lineup to get to­ge­ther in order to try out something completely different — whatever little fan support this band had in the first place was all due to the «Änglagård brand», and now, eighteen years after their second and last studio LP, the retro-oriented Swedes come back together to prove to the fans that the brand is still in place.

If anything, Viljans Öga (Eye Of The Will) is not just mere proof that Mattias Olsson, Anna Holmgren, and the rest of them «have not lost it» — it is an almost mathematically accurate proof. Play this back-to-back with Epilog and there will not be a single seam: the album is a direct time machine back to 1994 (and, considering that the band's original albums were almost like a time machine back to 1973 or something, we are now battling chronospace with even more verve and efficacy than before). And, in a certain way, the very appearance of such an album in 2012 is even more of a «miracle» than it was back then. At least the early Nineties were sort of an age of musical turmoil, with both the mainstream and the underground currents at a crossroads — in that context, even the conservative / «unhip» retro-proggism of Änglagård somehow had its place. But in 2012, with most of the musical directions either stiff and rigid, or fragmented to minuscule bits, it must require even more bravery to put out this kind of record.

Four tracks, running from twelve to sixteen minutes each. No singing (for Änglagård, we already know that is a plus). No English titles (good reason to brush up on your Swedish). A symphonic structure, overall — the tracks definitely feel like four separate, but atmospherically unified move­ments of one hour-long whole. Medieval folk acoustic guitars, processed psychedelic elec­tric guitars, faraway Mellotrons, and pastoral flutes as dominant forces. Tricky time signatures. Key and tempo changes every minute. Moody autumnal main themes. Yup, this is Änglagård all right. And they have not been influenced by Radiohead or The Flaming Lips or The Animal Col­lective in the meantime. In fact, it certainly looks like they haven't even heard of any of these guys. In fact, it looks as if they spent those eighteen years safely resting in their coffins. (Come to think of it, some of these parts could have made a great soundtrack to a movie on aging vampires and their existentialist problems).

Some of the reviews I have read (and there have been very few reviews, apart from prog-specific resources) were highly critical of it all — what is the very point of a «progressive» band with no «progress», they said? Naturally, they had a point, but, come to think of it, Änglagård were al­ways a «regressive» band rather than a «progressive» one. They loved their King Crimson, their Yes, and their Genesis, and wanted to keep that old spirit alive in their own vessel. They offered no genuine «innovation» — they wrote their own melodies, but strictly according to the old reci­pes, and they never had any inclination to come up with something radically new. They did it rather well, too, and in these circumstances, there is something admirable about this iron-will obstinacy. Something three-hundred-Spartanic, if you know what I mean.

A different problem is whether Viljans Öga is altogether more «boring» or more «academically stiff» than its predecessors. The fact that all of its four parts are roughly the same length, roughly feature the same instrumentation (with minor variations, such as the presence of a guest cello on one or two tracks, etc.), and roughly follow similar symphonic patterns — alternating quiet and loud parts, climactic build-ups and fall-downs, etc. — might, indeed, suggest unnecessary rigidi­ty. At least Epilog had those little interludes that varied the flow. On the other side, lack of self-dis­cipline and the entire «break-all-the-rules» routine, which has been the norm for intellectually oriented pop music for so long, is so all-pervasive anyway that, from time to time, it is actually interesting to see musicians lock themselves into a pre-set ball-and-chain structural pattern, espe­cially when nobody actually forces them to do it. (I would say that the only occasion here on which they break out of the formula is the «mad» coda to the album — where, once the main theme has been played out, some free-form noise is followed by an eerie circus music part. Open to creative interpretation for everyone!)

Hence, Viljans Öga is not so much the «Eye Of The Will» as it is the «Triumph Of The Will» — a severe, ultra-academic, disciplined, somber tour-de-force. But it is not entirely mechanistic or man­neristic — Änglagård is a band born out of sincere love for certain forms of music, and their skill at creating musical landscapes of morose, melancholic autumnal beauty, alternating with «battle­scapes» inspired by ʽLarks' Tongues In Aspicʼ or ʽThe Gates Of Deliriumʼ, is... well, I wouldn't dare to say «unmatched», not being all that familiar with the neo-prog scene of the last twenty years, but let's just say that, even without a serious effort, Viljans Öga can easily induce visions, and that is what separates «progressive» music that lives and functions from «pro­gres­sive» music that, impressively constructed as it is, seems to lack the «power on» button.

None of which is to say that this is «great» music. The main themes are imbued with epic state­liness (ʽLängtans Klockaʼ), or repetitive melancholy (ʽSorgmantelʼ), or both (ʽUr Vilandeʼ), but the melodies are not sharp, shrill, or «deep» enough to arouse any emotions above «pleasant» — exactly the same way it has always been with Änglagård, so no big surprise here, either. But, on the other hand, this is where undefendable subjectivism comes in — so you might just want to skip this part where I award the album a «mild» thumbs up, approximately three-fourths respect and one-fourth heart's content, and just look it up for yourself, particularly if somber, stubborn, slightly somnambulous, but sympathetic Swedes soothe your senses and sweeten your spice.

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Asia: XXX

ASIA: XXX (2012)

1) Tomorrow The World; 2) Bury Me In Willow; 3) No Religion; 4) Faithful; 5) I Know How You Feel; 6) Face On The Bridge; 7) Al Gatto Nero; 8) Judas; 9) Reno (Silver And Gold); 10) Ghost Of A Chance.

I tried looking for some smart 'n' sleazy joke on the album title, about Asia finally ma­king it in the adult entertainment business after all these years or something like that — all in vain, because dirty jokes stick to Asia about as well as they do to a freshly cut block of ice. Who would I be kidding? Naturally, XXX is just about the thirty years of the band's existence in a world of Roman numbers, Roger Dean album covers, and Popular Romantics. In fact, you could even argue that the title of the album is simply Asia, once more — since the «xxx» is actually formed by six little fish less-than-randomly trying to escape the jaws of the now-senile, but still actively hun­ting Asia dragon. Now that might be sexually suggestive, perhaps.

Anyway, strange as it is, 2012 finds the reunited band still reunited — all four members still per­fectly happy to work as a team — and still turning out unmistakably «Asian» material. There are no attempts to return to the mildly progressive experiments of Phoenix: XXX is a direct sequel to Omega, a steady, balanced stream of relatively short stadium-pop songs with loud and catchy Wetton choruses and immaculately crafted backgrounds with thickly layered keyboards and choral vocal harmonies. No corny power ballads whatsoever, not a single one: a few upbeat «power anthems», perhaps (like ʽFaithfulʼ or ʽI Know How You Feelʼ), yet overall, the guys admirably act their age — it's almost maddening, but I can't think of a single insult to fling at these songs.

The only disappointment is that, once again, Steve's role begins to get downplayed, almost as if they were intending to replay the old story another time. He does get to solo on many (not all) of the tracks, but the solos are usually short and supportive, never at the heart of the matter — and the primary melodies are almost exclusively keyboard-driven, or founded on rather unassuming, safely generic power-pop riffage (ʽJudasʼ). That heavenly slide tone is still out there somewhere — look for it in the deliciously flowing phrasing on ʽGhost Of A Chanceʼ, for instance; but that is the problem, since you really have to look for these bits. Otherwise, they just slip by through the cracks in your attention span, dissipated among the evenly rolling waves of the Asian Sea and those singalong Wetton choruses, surfing on the surface.

I do have to confess that ʽBury Me In Willowʼ is touching: maybe it is the heart surgery that Wetton underwent in 2007, or simply the fact of time rolling on, but as far as introspective songs that reflect on one's mortality go, this one is fairly strong, no matter how utterly «mid-1980-ish» the drums and keyboards make it sound. Supposedly, it all has to do with one's opinion on the natural properties and the «spiritual adjustment» of the lead singer's voice — well, I, for one, think that Wetton is one of the best guys around to carry on that retro-chivalrish tragic-epic vibe, and his "this is my final day, you know I would not joke, so bury me in willow, not in oak" strikes a fine chord somehow.

In fact, most of the songs here do. They are all stylistically similar, extremely even in terms of lyrics and sentiments, no highlights, no lowlights — moderately intelligent, catchy «adult pop» (actually, «old geezer pop» at the moment, but hey, that's a market niche, too). Thirty years after its inception, is this late-period brand of Asia actually any worse than it was at the beginning? Certainly, they've lost the freshness of approach and a bit of energy — but they make up for this in terms of accumulated «wisdom», as they now seem to know perfectly well what works for them and what does not. And since Asia has never really been a «young man's band», it is little wonder that they can get better as they get older.

I think I'll go with a thumbs up here, after all. I have no idea what to say about individual songs — so totally interchangeable most of them are — but the formula still works, and the funny thing is, the less they have left to prove, the better it works. It used to be that Asia was this unwieldy, cheesy «synth-art-pop» monster, polluting popular taste with their perfectly shaped, but consis­tently stillborn anthems. Now, somehow, in some way, perhaps because they have been doing it so long that nobody gives a damn any more, their creations show tiny glimpses of life — the still­born reanimated, through increased scientific progress. It's probably a corny way of describing the situation, but that is the impression I get when looking back at this oddly corroded thirty-year history — and it could have been a much worse impression.

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Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Come In Un'Ultima Cena

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: COME IN UN'ULTIMA CENA (1976)

1) ...A Cena, Per Esempio; 2) Il Ragno; 3) E Così Buono Giovanni, Ma...; 4) Slogan; 5) Si Dice Che I Delfini Par­lino; 6) Voilà Mida (Il Guaritore); 7) Quando La Buona Gente Dice...; 8) La Notte E Piena; 9) Fino Alla Mia Porta.

Since this is not a soundtrack no longer, but rather a good old concept album, loosely (very loosely) based around the theme of the Last Supper, with DiGiacomo returning to his normal place as band frontman, initial hopes of getting another Io Sono Nato Libero are fairly high. But alas, as it turns out after a few listens, the main problem of Garofano Rosso was not in being a soundtrack — incredible as it may seem, the band simply started running out of fresh ideas and basic energy, and Ultima Cena continues that process.

It is still essential for the fans, since at this point, the band does not yet show any signs of «com­mercializing» their sound. Technically, we are still dealing with the same old Banco: a complex fusion of classical, jazz, rock, pop, and «San Remo» influences, formally unpredictable at every turn and aiming for an equally complex mix of emotional / intellectual reactions. Nor is there any technical sign of «slacking»: the Nocenzi brothers and Rodolfo Maltese give themselves no re­spite, churning out riffs, solos, and tonal experiments a-plenty.

Bad news, though: it no longer works so well, particularly in the context of their earlier successes. Banco's musical themes were never all that «catchy» — their approach to music was more in the classical than in the rock vein — and while it paid off well during the early stages, by 1976 the trick was getting stale. There is hardly anything here that they didn't do better on their first three albums — which is especially ironic considering how much there is: just about every single sty­listic twist, technical move, emotional pass, etc., that they were capable of will be encountered on one or several of the tracks. Everything going on at once — and nothing imprintable.

At first, I was afraid it was just me; then I began to find out that many reviewers had the same feelings — for instance, the All-Music Guide review clearly stated that the album «shows signs of breathlessness», although the reviewer was kind enough to let ʽIl Ragnoʼ (ʽThe Spiderʼ) and ʽSloganʼ off the hook for their «power» and «energy». I wouldn't be capable of the same kind­ness. Sure, ʽIl Ragnoʼ has a steady beat, a heavy bass line, and a distorted guitar riff to keep it going, and the introductory part of ʽSloganʼ tries to be dark and ominous... but none of that goes far enough, or, rather, all of it goes too far: not one of the instrumental parts has enough power to impress on its own, and, when taken together, they cancel out rather than strengthen each other. The cogs are grinding with all the required mechanical precision, but somehow, the clock does not run with the necessary effectiveness.

Some small consolation may be taken in the fact that this time around, the obligatory soft ballads are almost completely stripped of that irritating Italian suaveness — ʽE Così Buonoʼ and ʽLa Notte E Pienaʼ are formed by little acoustic-and-flute patterns that are more in the old baro­que tradition than in the «Mediterranean pop» style, and DiGiacomo's vocals sound much less manne­ristic and affected in that setting. Which is not to say that either one is a musical masterpiece of unprecedented depth and power — only to say that, with their presence, Ultima Cena reaches a consistent standard of «uninterrupted mediocrity»: an album that is bound to delight dogmatic fans of «That Classic Banco Sound», wherever it may be found, but is far more likely to disap­point those who rigidly demand «progress» from their «progressive». Because this here is not progress — this is a classic example of stagnation, and (just as it happened with quite a few other «prog» acts) it may even serve as a weak justification for the band's soon-to-be transition to an unabashedly pop stylistics.

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Bee Gees: Spicks And Specks

BEE GEES: SPICKS AND SPECKS (1966)

1) Monday's Rain; 2) How Many Birds; 3) Play Down; 4) Secondhand People; 5) I Don't Know Why I Bother With Myself; 6) Big Chance; 7) Spicks And Specks; 8) Jingle Jangle; 9) Tint Of Blue; 10) Where Are You; 11) Born A Man; 12) Glass House.

This is where the «brilliance» starts getting noticeably brilliant. Technically, this may have to do with the fact that the band had much more studio time, donated to them by benevolent producer Ossie Byrne — of course, the final recordings still sound muffled and tinny compared to the sound the band would get in England, but it is more important that they actually had more time to work on the moods, melodies, and harmonies. The result is a record that has its highs and lows, but definitely sows the first seeds of the greatness to come.

The two main singles off the album announce the two main styles in which the pre-disco Bee Gees would excel: ʽMonday's Rainʼ is a romantic slow-burner, with Robin Gibb's «rack-the-goat» vib­rato carrying the gist of the romance (actually, his pitch is surprisingly low on this number), and ʽSpicks And Specksʼ is upbeat piano-pop in the old British music hall tradition. Tasteful Aus­tralian people clearly designated their preferences: the album itself was originally called Mon­day's Rain after the first single, but once the public let it sink and went instead for ʽSpicks And Specksʼ, the record was quickly retitled and re-released as such.

Who knows, actually, how things would have turned out if ʽMonday's Rainʼ were to become a hit — not only could this have delayed the Bee Gees' relocating to England, but it might have raised Robin's early credit higher than necessary, prompting the band to turn into professional crooners when they really had so much more to offer. Not that ʽMonday's Rainʼ (on which Barry and Ro­bin actually share vocal duties) is a particularly bad ballad — the main vocal melody is quite inspira­tional, even if it has to win its way over rather trite doo-woppish backing vocals and a rather sterile backing track, and it does somewhat pave the way to ʽTo Love Somebodyʼ. But for those who, like me, are in a rather complex love/hate relationship with the «nightingale» aspects of the Bee Gees, ʽMonday's Rainʼ will be the first song to fall under this relationship.

Not so with ʽSpicks And Specksʼ, which is fun, catchy, bouncy, and lively, despite the rather de­pressive lyrical message — it is ironic that the song became the band's biggest Australian hit just as they were embarking on the boat to England, so that one could easily interpret lines like "All of my life I call yesterday / The spicks and the specks of my life gone away" as a veiled goodbye to the country that failed to accept the Gibbs as a proper homeland. (That said, the band never failed to play the song on their subsequent Australian tours, so they probably weren't that mad). Here, too, one can see the seeds of ʽTurn Of The Centuryʼ — much tastier seeds, as far as my taste is concerned, than ʽMonday's Rainʼ.

The rest of the songs is a mish-mash, but nowhere near as derivative a mish-mash as on their first album. Now the brothers are already trying to put a more personal spin on everything they do, ex­cept for when they are in a plain giggly parodic mode — ʽBorn A Manʼ, for instance, is a trans­parent send-up of The Animals, right down to imitating Eric Burdon's vocal intonations, parody­ing the «macho» lyrical style of British R&B ("I'm glad I am born a man" — where is political correctness when you really need it?), and mocking the «chaotic» build-ups of that style with some open instrumental tomfoolery and sped-up vocals. It isn't a very tasteful parody, but it is so clearly a parody that it would be sort of silly to take offense at it.

When the brothers are being more serious, they invest into semi-decent Beatlesque pop-rock (ʽHow Many Birdsʼ, ʽTint Of Blueʼ) or folk-rock that makes good use of their three-man harmo­ny skill (ʽPlay Downʼ, ʽWhere Are Youʼ, etc.). It is clear that, had they had their wish, they would just as eagerly have invested in the emerging «art-pop» or «baroque-pop», but the move­ment was still way too fresh for them to get all the basics right, and they were heavily limited in their use of instrumentation: Geoff Grant on trumpets is the only «extra» session musician here, beyond the Gibb brothers themselves, supplying most of the basic instruments, and two guest drum­mers (one of whom, Colin Petersen, would later officially join the band and sail with them to England). So, while most of these songs are kinda nice, they are still only half-way fleshed out, with monotonous, unimaginative arrangements, poor sound mix, and a nagging sense of «we're still only learning how to be hip» dragging it all down.

Nevertheless, Spicks And Specks still deserves its thumbs up, if only for containing the band's first excellent song and no true stinkers (ʽBorn A Manʼ could be one, but only if it is erroneously taken seriously). Also of note, by the way, is the B-side to ʽSpicks And Specksʼ, which never made it on the LP — ʽI Am The Worldʼ, arguably Robin's proudest moment in the Austra­lian stage of the band's career; he does his best to match the title with some stunning vocal aerobics on the chorus, which deserve respect even among those for whom they do not generate admiration.

Billy Preston: Billy Preston

BILLY PRESTON: BILLY PRESTON (1976)

1) Do What You Want; 2) Girl; 3) Bells; 4) I've Got The Spirit; 5) Ecstasy; 6) Bad Case Of Ego; 7) Take Time To FIgure It Out; 8) Let The Music Play; 9) Simplify Your Life; 10) Let's Make Love; 11) When You Are Mine.

A self-titled album that comes in the middle of an artist's career is usually taken to signify a «re­boot» of sorts — «please allow me to re-introduce myself», «now I'm twice the man I used to be», that sort of thing. And indeed, Billy is photographed on the cover in an introductory pose — in a new and, frankly speaking, rather disturbing light. With the huge Afro hair cut away to make room for the brand new top hat, the setup suggests Vegas glitz, and the chronological context suggests disco-rama. In this context, even the familiar tooth gap begins to look corny, rather than reassuring, as it always used to be.

Next, a brief glance at the track listing shows that at least three of the tracks are re-recordings — one number from That's The Way God Planned It (ʽDo What You Wantʼ), two more from Encouraging Words (ʽLet The Music Playʼ and ʽWhen You Are Mineʼ). More cause for worry­ing: since it would clearly be hard to improve on these songs' melodic genius, it is more likely that they were singled out for experimental treatment — restructure and polish the grooves to fit the spirit of contemporary dance pop. And what do you know — that is exactly what they were singled out for, as becomes evident from the very first seconds.

Essentially, Billy Preston is a lite-disco album, reducing most of Billy's traditional sides (social message-oriented soul, party/booty-oriented R&B, heaven-bound gospel, and a little bit of senti­mental balladry) to one single invariant. There are a couple exceptions, but for the most part, this is all just one non-stop crystal ball wave of entertainment. It doesn't sound awful at all — behind all the disco «smoothing» of the old funk grooves, Billy's backing band is still playing live and having fun, and it even sounds like Billy himself is having fun, even with the top hat on. But, as could be expected, there is next to nothing to distinguish it from its multiple brethren.

Guest stars are mostly wasted — supposedly, Merry Clayton (of ʽGimmie Shelterʼ fame) is some­where here adding hardly noticeable background vocals, and if you pay close attention, you will witness Jeff Beck playing a really mean, revved-up fusion solo at the end of ʽBad Case Of Egoʼ, almost completely buried under the horns and vocals. Horns, by the way, are provided by Tower Of Power, which usually means quality, but it's not as if anybody took real good care of the arran­gements here — everything is fluent enough, but completely passable.

There is but one instrumental this time around, and it's probably the best of the lot — the slow orchestrated «blues-waltz» of ʽEcstasyʼ, with tense, wailing synth and guitar solos, goes rather brusquely against the prevailing disco grain. Unfortunately, it has no autonomous, overriding theme to it, but it is still a serious piece of work, the only one here that I wouldn't mind «antholo­gizing» if Billy's post-1975 career is ever considered to qualify for selection. (Most people would probably slobber over ʽBad Case Of Egoʼ just because it has Jeff on it, but at least on ʽEcstasyʼ you can actually hear the guitar, even if it is only played by Steve Beckmeier).

That said, I will not denigrate the album even further with a thumbs down, not this time, either, because any record that has a cheery, lively feel like that, generated by one of the cheeriest guys in the business, is OK by me. Going disco may have killed off any serious aspirations that Billy's mid-1970s career could contain (what with all the Stevie Wonder collaborations, etc.), but it did not exactly kill off his spirit — just singed off some of his hair.

Bo Diddley: Live At The Ritz

BO DIDDLEY & RONNIE WOOD: LIVE AT THE RITZ (1988)

1) Road Runner; 2) I'm A Man; 3) Crackin' Up; 4) Hey! Bo Diddley; 5) Plynth (Water Down The Drain); 6) Ooh La La; 7) They Don't Make Outlaws Like They Used To; 8) Honky Tonk Women; 9) Money To Ronnie; 10) Who Do You Love.

Bo's recording activity throughout the late Seventies and the Eighties was about as high as any activity you'd expect from a bear in prolonged hibernation. He did record and distribute several cassette-only albums, produced in his own home studio in Archer, Florida, and fairly hard to locate these days (al­though they are sometimes offered as digital downloads): Ain't It Good To Be Free («...ain't it a bummer that nobody really cares?») in 1983, and Breaking Through The B.S. («...because Ol' Man Bo can still do better than goddamn Pump!») in 1989. I have not heard them, know next to nothing about them, and have a deep suspicion that neither is a masterpiece — but that suspicion don't amount to no fact, so you might wanna be on the lookout if you think an Eighties' album from Bo Diddley looks like a sufficiently kinky proposition.

The only Eighties' record with Bo's active participation that is readily available today is this concert album, recorded in New York in November 1987 by the short-lived «Gunslingers» pro­ject, involving Bo Diddley and Ronnie Wood. Considering that 1987-88 was the only period in the history of mankind during which The Rolling Stones had «ceased to be», the project actually had a theoretical chance at longevity — purely theoretical, that is, because already the first expe­riment showed that the matching was far from perfect.

Technically, Live At The Ritz may, and should, be included into both artists' discographies, but I prefer to review it under the Bo Diddley section, because (a) Bo's the older one, (b) the ratio of Bo to Ron songs here is approximately 3/2 (and only if we formally count ʽHonky Tonk Womenʼ as a Ronnie Wood song; ʽMoney To Ronnieʼ, despite the title, is a semi-improvised blues jam with Bo taking control), (c) Bo starts off the show as well as closes it, (d) the event was clearly of more importance to Bo than to Ronnie — it's one thing to simply fool around on the stage with one of your idols, and another thing to get your first major label record out in twelve years, even if you have to share it with some grinning clown from England who prefers to jump around the stage rather than actually play guitar (okay, so it wasn't nearly as bad in 1988 as it is now).

The problem is that a good live Bo Diddley show needs a good live Bo Diddley backing band — and the people assembled on that stage had fairly little to do with that. The rhythm section, con­sisting of Debby Hastings on bass and Mike Fink on drums, is fairly flat-footed (they can't even set up a proper Diddley beat on ʽHey! Bo Diddleyʼ); the keyboard player (Hal Goldstein) occa­sionally switches from regular old piano — the only keyboard instrument suitable for this kind of event — to state-of-the-art synthesizers, killing most of the joy on ʽCrackin' Upʼ; and as much as the presence of two of the Temptations (David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks, the latter also play­ing harmonica and occasional keyboards) could adorn the show... it didn't.

Above all else, the mix is quite poor: Bo's own rhythm playing is rarely elevated from anything other than background din, and Ronnie's leads (some, if not many, if not most of them actually supplied by third guitarist Jim Satten) are sometimes barely audible against the huge drum sound (remember, the late Eighties were a drummer's paradise — everybody used to think that ampli­fying the drum sound gives you complete, absolute power over the listener). All in all, the ambi­ence just isn't that great for a real sweaty rock'n'roll show.

The other side of the business is, of course, that Ronnie has no business taking part in Bo's stuff, and Bo has no business whatsoever to strut along on Ronnie's material. As good as all that mate­rial is on its own, I fail to see where it is that the two actually help out each other — unless we begin to count harmony singing, and I'd rather we don't (everybody knows that Ronnie is the only person in the world who sings even worse than Keith Richards, and using Bo Diddley as the re­sident «Auto-Tuner» is hardly a good solution to the problem). Ronnie gets a few of his trade­mark bluesy slide leads, e. g. on ʽI'm A Manʼ, but Bo Diddley songs are not solo guitar vehicles, and the leads aren't stunning enough to justify turning them into such vehicles. And whether Bo is actually doing anything on Ronnie's numbers, I have not been able to find out.

The Ronnie-led chunk part of the album is actually better than the Bo-led majority part, if only because the backing band is so clearly geared towards more «modern» numbers than the oldies. The performance of Ronnie's ʽOutlawsʼ, for instance, approaches first-rate barroom-boogie rock­'n'­roll, and he gets in a rough, but expressive slide-fest on ʽPlynth (Water Down The Drain)ʼ, which also incorporates contrasting bits of ʽAmazing Graceʼ and ʽProdigal Sonʼ. (The decision to also include ʽHonky Tonk Womenʼ was either due to audience pressure — or, perhaps, Ronnie always had that secret craving to finally wrestle the classic solo away from Keith. Spoiler bit: Keith is still the winner).

Still, this is never really «bad» — it is saddled with too many problems to reach «classic lost gig» status, but both of the gig's protagonists clearly had themselves some fun; it simply failed to be perfectly captured on the recording. Historically, it was important for the effort to drag Bo, a little bit at least, back into the spotlight and show that, at the age of sixty, he personally had not lost it at all: guitar chops intact, powerhouse voice still well-powered. A little more sad is the realization that he was actually dragged out of a deep freeze — having him play on that stage with all those people is like watching some resuscitated pre-historical mammal put in a cage with its modern descendants. But, on the other hand, he doesn't seem to mind, bother, or show any serious dis­comfort about this — so let us not look at this from pessimistic angles, either.

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Britney Spears: Blackout

BRITNEY SPEARS: BLACKOUT (2007)

1) Gimme More; 2) Piece Of Me; 3) Radar; 4) Break The Ice; 5) Heaven On Earth; 6) Get Naked (I Got A Plan); 7) Freakshow; 8) Toy Soldier; 9) Hot As Ice; 10) Ooh Ooh Baby; 11) Perfect Lover; 12) Why Should I Be Sad.

It is hard not to admit that the «Britney team», no matter how cheap, crass, or cynical it may get (and standards are constantly rising), at least has a sense of crude (exploitative) humor: Blackout is probably the perfect title for a new Britney Spears album in 2007, in the light of — or, should we say, «in the blackout of...»? — everything that we know of Britney's public, and not-so-pub­lic, life over the preceding three years. As the demon that she had foolishly let her mentors unleash on her during the In The Zone sessions predictably entered her offstage life as well, I remember the whole thing almost beginning to take on the shape of a medieval moral tale — sell your soul to you-know-who, and here comes the retribution.

Blackout came right in the middle of the turmoil, recorded in the midst of drug-related scandals, broken marriages, trials, psych wards and what-not. For some people, these situations actually act as creative catalysts — great art coming out of great suffering and all that — problem is, since «creati­vity» and «Britney Spears» never belonged in the same sentence, all we could hope for is somebody else getting catalyzed by Britney's ordeal and creating something to match. Clearly, certain such efforts had been made. The results, however, are somewhat puzzling.

Blackout is very different from In The Zone. This is a much darker, colder, sterner album — in certain respects, more mature, and definitely more cynical. As a cohesive atmospheric piece, it actually succeeds — where In The Zone was the sound of a wild, no-holds-barred, try-every­thing-once party, Blackout is the hangover effect, and even though the party as such is over, the ef­fect is every bit as disturbing because it seems irreversible. With all the icy, IDM-inspired syn­thesizers, techno beats, and processed vocals, Blackout opens the «robo-phase» of Britney's ca­reer, and, coming straight off the heels of In The Zone, there is no getting rid of the implied fee­ling — this is where too much sexploitation actually gets you. In other words, «one fuck too much» and the senses start shutting down. (Isn't that what happens to porn stars?)

On the level of individual songs, Blackout does not work one tiniest bit. Its opening single, ʽGim­me Moreʼ, forever tied to a disastrous «live» MTV performance that introduced the «new-look Britney», is hardly memorable for anything other than the opening "it's Britney, bitch" — and only in the function of «least convincing line in a Britney Spears song ever». The rest is a mess of synthesizer sirens, morose Gregorian chant-inspired vocal harmonies, and atmospheric attempts to turn the message of ʽMe Against The Musicʼ on its head — give it a cynical edge, let the mind show some condescension towards the body — but there is no hook, and dark atmos­phere alone does not suffice, since, after all, this is still dance-oriented electropop for the masses, not a Dead Can Dance record or anything.

Then there is the obligatory anti-media rant — ʽPiece Of Meʼ is probably one of the few «sticky» bits on the album, and also one on which the heavy use of Auto-Tune is fully justified: the very idea is that, on this song, the listener who wants a «piece of her» will have to deal with the robo­tic casing, installed by the security system. If it only weren't so predictable, or so hypocritical (don't say they didn't warn you, Brit!), I could almost say that it works: there is something vague­ly Kraftwerk-ian about it, reminding of the good old days of Man Machine. In any case, it clear­ly stands out from the rest of the tracks, be it in a good or a bad way.

Because the rest is... well, even compared to the production values of In The Zone, everything is pretty bland. Auto-Tune, electro beats, processed background vocals, no curious or even vaguely interesting overdubs, and an atmosphere of total robo-stupor — depressing and boring at the same time. It is not even quite clear to me how the album could appeal to Britney's established fanbase, what with its near-total lack of the «let's have fun» message. As you slide down to the promises of the track called ʽGet Naked (I Got A Plan)ʼ — a title that should presume some giddy Prince-like bawdiness — you find that, in its essence, the song is more like a dirge than a sex an­them, and that its repetitive message of "get naked, get naked, get naked, take it off, take it off" sounds more like something you'd expect to hear in a doctor's office rather than in a strip club. So much for all the sex symbolism.

ʽToy Soldierʼ, masterminded by hip-hop producer Sean Garrett, is probably the closest that this amorphous mass ever gets to a bit of chaotic crazy fun — martial rhythms, burlesque mood, and a «drunk-off-my-head» vocal part that has Britney coming out of her robot shell for once (or, per­haps, more like borrowing a hyperactive emotional chip for three seconds). But even on that song the «fun» in question is not real fun — merely the side effect of a mechanical spring failure in the orgasmatron, with unpredictable results (for once).

Overall, the only reason why this is called Blackout and not Meltdown is that the latter excludes the possibility of recovery — here, it was immediately implied in the title that Britney's suffering is deemed temporary. It is also implied that Britney's career as such had nothing to do with it: it's all about the over-demanding fans (ʽGimme Moreʼ), the evil media (ʽPiece Of Meʼ), and that shit­head of a husband (ʽWhy Should I Be Sadʼ, closing the album on a «touchingly» personal note). It is also a nice preventive cop-out in case the album were to become panned — give the lady a break, after all, she clearly isn't in a state to produce her masterpiece. But who are we fooling? As usual, the album has very little to do with Britney herself — and this time around, they did not even bother about raising the enthusiasm bar in the studio: In The Zone might have been state-of-the-art dance-pop when it came out, but Blackout seems to be slacking in that respect. As an attempt to save a bit of face, it isn't that awful — but to say that Britney is «way past her prime» here would be a gross understatement. On the other side, she probably should have been grateful to still have a record contract under the circumstances.

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

Ayreon: 01011001

AYREON: 01011001 (2008)

1) Age Of Shadows; 2) Comatose; 3) Liquid Eternity; 4) Connect The Dots; 5) Beneath The Waves; 6) Newborn Race; 7) Ride The Comet; 8) Web Of Lies; 9) The Fifth Extinction; 10) Waking Dreams; 11) The Truth Is In Here; 12) Unnatural Selection; 13) River Of Time; 14) E = mc²; 15) The Sixth Extinction.

I am ashamed to say that, this time around, I did not even bother looking up the basic contours of the story. It seems to be something of a cross between the, ahem, «realism» of Human Equation and the sci-fantasy of Universal Migrator, all having to do with machines overtaking man, when everybody starts thinking and acting binary (or, at best, hexadecimal), and somehow conceptually tied in to every other Ayreon album ever released — you gotta give Lucassen some credit, his megalomania never got in the way of accurately tying together all the little loose ends.

The problem is, this time around the music never really stimulated me into looking up any details. If the first half of Universal Migrator worked moderately well as a «musical picture gallery» of sorts, and Human Equation, de-padded and properly filtered, had a psycho-thriller sheen to it, then this follow-up, being every bit as large and pompous, hardly offers a single fresh idea. Se­ven­teen singers in total show up for the project — at this point, it seems that contributing to an Ayreon prog-metal-opera turns into an obligatory clause in every power / symph / doom-metal band frontperson's contract, and they are all standing in line on his front porch on a daily basis. (Gotthard, Blind Guardian, and King's X are among the more notorious acts this time). And they all blow it on this mastodont, quite mediocre even for Ayreon's usually questionable standards.

Of course, there is no questioning the technical side of it all. Every note is in place, all the acous­tic, electric, and electronic overdubs meticulously tested and adjusted to each other, each singer and singerine wined, dined, coached and poached to perfection. We could hardly expect anything less of a guy who has never sullied a single one of his fantasies with overt sloppiness. Extract it from its context, forget about every other Ayreon record ever released (better still, forget about every other record ever released, period), and 01011001 will be a monumental achievement in its own rights. As it is, it is about as exciting as the sequence of zeroes and ones that constitutes its true title (the letter ʽYʼ, short for either YAKETY-YAK or YARDBIRD YAWN, depending on your current state of mind).

In utter frustration, I cannot think of a single track here worth a specific mention. It seems as if Lucassen was so overwhelmed by the sheer number of people he got to act in his next play that he subconsciously fell back on his old musical stock, recycling all of his «meat-and-potato» ideas (folk, metal, electronic) without bothering to find any new combinations. Even the presence of one or two ʽLosersʼ or ʽShooting Companiesʼ could have already made a big difference, but no, these hundred minutes run on without a single ripple on the surface.

Obviously, this criticism makes little sense if we are simply supposed to like Ayreon as a musi­cal phenomenon. One does not criticize something like, say, Haydn's symphonies for (frequently) soun­ding indistingui­shable from one another, so why should this be different with Lucassen? Yet, first of all, it does not hurt to remember that 01011001 is Lucassen's first, and only, musical of­fering in four years (how many symphonies could Haydn have come up with in the same inte­rim?), and even a hardcore fan could be entitled to something that did not sound exactly like a rearranged/restructured medley of past successes (and failures).

And second — this is where personal taste comes in — Ayreon's music has always been cheesy, humorless, padded, bloated, and emotionally monotonous. It was only during those select, happy, cherished moments where Lucassen was able to break through these walls that I felt like there was something to gain (and there really was). «Generic» Ayreon material has no reason to exist in my world («poor man's Rush» could be a good description), and I wouldn't want to recommend it for anybody else's, either. Hence, decidedly a thumbs down here, and here's hoping that the next Ayreon release will be more creative and let us learn something that we didn't already know, and wished we never knew in the first place.

Check "01011001" (CD) on Amazon