Bee Gees: Still Waters

BEE GEES: STILL WATERS (1997)

1) Alone; 2) I Surrender; 3) I Could Not Love You More; 4) Still Waters Run Deep; 5) My Lover's Prayer; 6) With My Eyes Closed; 7) Irresistible Force; 8) Closer Than Close; 9) I Will; 10) Obsessions; 11) Miracles Happen; 12) Smoke And Mirrors.

I know it is hard to believe after the previous four reviews, but yes indeed, there is one very good song on Still Waters, very much in the style of Living Eyes and, appropriately, the best thing the Bee Gees have ever done since that album — the lead single ʽAloneʼ. It's been a long, long time since they last tried that simple, open, catchy type of folk-pop with a steady beat and an intelli­gently constructed and resolved vocal melody, but here it is, and even Barry's choice of the fal­setto as chief weapon for that particular session feels appropriate. The slick production is not slick enough to smoothe out the hooks (although, perhaps, the overall effect would have been even better without the synthesizers weaving their way inside the acoustic guitar pattern), and there are even some bagpipes hanging in there, fairly refreshing for the period.

The fact that ʽAloneʼ opens the album on such a positive note raises false hopes — are the Bee Gees finally getting back to their roots? Alas, they are not. The evil curse of the malevolent R&B spirit still hangs over the Gibbs' aging skulls, as it already becomes evident on the second track (ʽI Surrenderʼ — you do indeed), and remains so until the final minute. From here on, generic dance grooves and echoey adult contemporary ballads take over and run in such smooth, slick, sappy streams that an inattentive listen might easily make one confuse the Bee Gees with the Backstreet Boys, especially considering that, unlike their rather shabby external appearance, the voices have been preserved marvelously.

One other song that is often singled out as a highlight is ʽIrresistible Forceʼ, which does indeed manage to escape the dance beat curse and is realized instead as a straightahead dark-tinged pop-rocker, say, not unlike something by Duran Duran in their classic era. With Pino Palladino on bass, Carlos Alomar on lead guitar, Steve Jordan on drums, and a desperately soulful Robin lead vocal, you'd think they simply couldn't miss, but I still find the song terribly boring, with no in­di­vidual hook and no true creativity in the arrangement. At the very least, I see no sense in the Bee Gees doing that kind of material — 1980's college rock had already explored this «rock'n'roll rhythms with a dark personal vibe» theme so well that ʽIrresistible Forceʼ has nothing new to say, except that it says it with Robin's voice, and I am not sure that makes a positive difference.

Other than that, the only «positive» change is that there are no open embarrassments on Still Waters: be it the schlocky ballads or the nicely combed dance grooves, the Bee Gees generally act their age and cultivate images of suave, trivially elegant old gentlemen rather than steamy sexy lovers that live to move it. Unfortunately, this «graceful acceptance» of old age has not resulted in any epiphanies or career-rerouting decisions — only in sinking into further blandness, which could not be overcome even by the accidental success of ʽAloneʼ. The song is inspiring; the album is anything but — the usual thumbs down, please.

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The Blues Project: Projections

THE BLUES PROJECT: PROJECTIONS (1966)

1) I Can't Keep From Crying; 2) Steve's Song; 3) You Can't Catch Me; 4) Two Trains Running; 5) Wake Me, Shake Me; 6) Cheryl's Going Home; 7) Flute Thing; 8) Caress Me Baby; 9) Fly Away.

The band's first «proper» album, recorded without Flanders (everybody except for the rhythm section has his share of lead vocals), is the first proper LP-size imprint that Al Kooper made upon the world, and for that fact alone, is worth owning, admiring, and cherishing. However, like all Blues Project albums, it is inconsistent, and only occasionally starts scaling visionary heights — with Al as the band's resident visionary, and Katz and Kalb as a pair of disloyal henchmen, who, instead of supporting their clearly more gifted buddy, try in vain to steal the spotlight on every occasion. It is not that either of them is a poor musician: it is simply that, without Kooper, they seem unable to transcend the paradigm in which they had started out.

Take the cover of Muddy Waters' ʽTwo Trains Runningʼ, for instance. Even in late 1966, 11-minute tracks with long jam sections were still a relative novelty, and it took some guts to dedicate so much precious LP space to even one of them. But for the most part, it looks like the band itself is not quite sure about what to do with all that amount of time — mostly, they just waste it on a very slow tempo and a bunch of guitar and harmonica solos that sound a little... obsolete, perhaps, for an age where the Yardbirds and Cream were already setting new standards (and Jimi was just coming around the corner). They were probably thinking that, by expanding the composition, they could ensure some proper build-ups, climaxes, and finales for Muddy's «apocalyptic pin­nacle» of a song. But they do not.

Amusingly, it is actually the midsection of the much shorter ʽWake Me, Shake Meʼ that stands sonically close to the other well-known 11-minute monster from 1966 — the Stones' ʽGoin' Homeʼ, with freely ad-libbed vocals over a repetitive R&B groove. But although the song itself is among the most fun and rousing romps in Blues Project history, the groove section limps — too clean, too restrained, too laid-back to compete with the bite-and-snarl of classic Stones.

No surprise, then, that the most famous piece of the Blues Project's legacy, captured on the album, is neither a lengthy improvised blues-rock jam, nor a stark-ravin' rock'n'roll number: rather, it is Kooper's instrumental ʽFlute Thingʼ, a slightly dreamy number that rolls folk, jazz, and psyche­delia all into one, with Andy Kulberg's simple, but elegant and memorable flute part standing out as probably the first «serious» example of the flute as a lead instrument in a «pop-rock» context, a couple years before Ian Anderson made the situation casual. This is what the Blues Project should have done more often — an open-door synthesis of beauty and innovation. It isn't much of a «blues project», of course, but then again, ʽFlute Thingʼ does convey a blue feeling all the same, and whoever said that by «blues» we only mean the Chicago 12-bar stuff anyway?

This does not mean that the band is somehow pathologically unable to «rip it up». When Al is given the ideological lead, he knows how to make it work — his arrangement of the old blues tune ʽI Can't Keep From Cryingʼ as a hard-rocking stomper, with screechy distorted organ solos and accordingly screechy guitar counterparts from Danny, is first-rate, as it scales epic / anthemic heights, rather than attempting to delve into the devilish depths à la Muddy / Howlin' Wolf or to rapturously kick ass like the Stones. There isn't much credibility to the lyrics this way — the whole performance should rather be associated with punching fists through walls than with shed­ding an occasional tear over lost love, so something like "I can't keep from cursing" would have been a better idea for a title change — but this is not essential. What is essential is how the organ and the guitar meld together in ecstasy.

Other than those two obvious highlights, Projections is rather evenly divided between blues-rock escapades (including a fun, but superfluous cover of Chuck Berry's ʽYou Can't Catch Meʼ — again, the Stones did that one in a sparser arranged, but tighter and sharper fashion a couple years earlier), and friendly rootsy compositions like Kooper's ʽFly Awayʼ (fast country-pop with a light­ly psychedelic flavor) or a cover of Bob Lind's ʽCheryl's Going Homeʼ which sounds like... uhm, sounds a bit like the Monkees, I guess. Yes, I'm sure the Monkees would have loved to have that one on their debut album. Steve Katz also steps into the spotlight with ʽSteve's Songʼ, an in­teresting attempt at fusing a baroque-style menuet with gallant singer-songwriter folk-pop à la Donovan, although its consciously experimental and glaringly derivative nature still make it feel a bit artificial.

In conclusion, I think that anyone who would bother to seriously sit down with this record back in 1966 and listen to it several times in a row could have prognosticated the obvious — namely, that the conflicting forces within The Blues Project would not allow the band to last for long; that the only way it could have carried on would be by turning into Al Kooper's backing band (with Danny Kalb playing loyal second fiddle, as he does on ʽI Can't Keep From Cryingʼ), which was impossible; and that, most likely, The Blues Project would have remained in history as an im­portant, but brief page in the personal biography of Mr. Al. Nevertheless, Projections, even with all of its imminent flaws, does remain as Al's finest moment with the band, and fully deserves its thumbs up — ʽFlute Thingʼ alone is a steady guarantee, and individual flaws, after all, only ac­centuate the rich diversity of approach: other than modern classical and Eastern stuff, there is hardly a musical genre that does not get a nod on the record.

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Bobby Bland: Portrait Of The Blues

BOBBY BLAND: PORTRAIT OF THE BLUES (1991)

1) Ain't No Love For Sale; 2) Hurtin' Love; 3) These Are The Things That A Woman Needs; 4) I Can Take You To Heaven Tonight; 5) The Last One To Know; 6) Just Take My Love; 7) I Just Won't Be Your Fool Anymore; 8) She's Puttin' Something In My Food; 9) When Hearts Grow Cold; 10) Let Love Have Its Way.

Just as I was winding myself up into the brain-wrecking procedure of writing something «origi­nal» on Bobby's fifth or sixth Malaco album, news came in that Bobby passed away on June 23rd, 2013 — nothing to be particularly sorry about, since the man seems to have lived a long and gene­rally satisfying, well-deserved life that most of us could only envy. It would seem natural to dedicate this review to his memory, but then, like all of his late period records, this isn't a parti­cularly outstanding album to deserve a «specially dedicated» review. Rather, let us just hope this entire set of Bobby Bland reviews somehow helps to keep that memory alive.

Anyway, Portrait Of The Blues sounds almost completely the same way as Midnight Run. There are two relative highlights, placed at the very start. ʽAin't No Love For Saleʼ is a moody throwback to the days of ʽAin't No Love In The Heart Of The Cityʼ (the title of the latter is even chanted in the background, just in case somebody happened to miss the stylistic link), with a bit more tension than usual, generated not only by Bobby's vocals, but also by some pretty exquisite Clapton-esque guitar work (not sure who exactly is responsible — the liner notes list about four or five different guitarists, none of whom are all that familiar). Then ʽHurtin' Loveʼ completely switches the mood from desperate to optimistic, and the lead instrument switches to organ from guitar — an equally dexterous part. No melodic inventions whatsoever, just good vibes.

From there on, the album slows down a bit, loosens up, and becomes the usual always-nice, never-grabby sequence of blues ballads and lite funk, only shifting gears once on ʽShe's Puttin' Something In My Foodʼ (slow blues-de-luxe that sounds like every other blues-de-luxe number ever recorded, but the song title and the misogynist sentiments do look funny wedged in between all the romantic libations elsewhere).

As usual, most of the titles are «written» by Bobby's Malaco sidemen (quotation marks indicate that the actual writing has mostly been confined to the lyrics, and even these mainly consist of rearranging pre-available sets of blues idioms, in the good old folk tradition), and once again they decide to cut down on the covers — in every other respect, arrangements and production do not differ from Midnight Run one iota.

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Burial: Street Halo / Kindred

BURIAL: STREET HALO / KINDRED (2012)

1) Street Halo; 2) NYC; 3) Stolen Dog; 4) Kindred; 5) Loner; 6) Ashtray Wasp.

Beat Records took the trouble of releasing two of Burial's EPs, Street Halo from 2011 and Kind­red from 2012, on a single CD — considering that they are ideologically quite close, this makes for a cozy enough «third album» to merit one more autonomous review: after all, much to Buri­al's honor, he does not regard electronic music recording as some sort of inevitable daily activity, on par with going to the bathroom, like quite a few of his peers do.

This does not automatically ensure that each new release of a Burial album turns into a mind-blowing event, but these two EPs, in particular, certainly go a step further than Untrue, and, I would say, more or less in the same direction in which Untrue alienated itself from the self-titled debut — namely, the music is gradually becoming louder and livelier, as if, indeed, the guy were busy constructing his own «cycle of life», where Burial represented the post-apocalyptic «cock­roaches, Cher, & Keith Richards» phase, Untrue was the baby organic matter recomposing itself after a lengthy wait period, and now these two EPs let you hear the newly developed steady pulse of life — immune not only to extreme radiation exposure, but even to dirty vinyl scratching.

The big difference, of course, is that, for the first time in Burial history, the dance beats are not only perfectly audible and usable, but they are also all over the place. ʽStreet Haloʼ employs a relatively straight techno track, to which Burial pins all his usual trademarks (melancholic ambi­ent synthesizers and vocal samples lifted from select R&B ballads). On ʽNYCʼ, the rhythms are more tricky, with an industrial flavor, but loud, precise, and predictable enough for the track to be classified as «body-oriented» — and then on ʽStolen Dogʼ the techno aspects are back, although, to be fair, all of the tracks are multi-part: every now and then, the beats sink into the mud, and the music takes some time to reform and regroup.

Kindred takes this liveliness even further by adding speed and frenzy — not on the title track, which mainly reproduces the atmosphere of ʽNYCʼ, but certainly on ʽLonerʼ, where not only the beats, but even the synthesizers are subjected to some rather unusual acceleration by Burial's standards (resulting in a slightly paranoid, never-stop impression not unlike the one triggered by Pink Floyd's ʽOn The Runʼ), and on the first part of ʽAshtray Waspʼ, whose rhythmic and melo­dic parts have really little to do with the image of an ashtray wasp — the fast-moving synth loops suggest dynamic journeying rather than immobile decomposing insect flesh.

That said, whether all this change is for the better or for the worse remains an open question. The transition from a largely «static» sound to a more dynamic ambience may give us reviewers something to write about, but it also steals away some of the bold charm that was the main reason to listen to and speak well of Burial in the first place. Ever so often, I catch myself thinking that, on their own, these tracks have nothing important to add to our understanding of electronic music ever since Richard D. James had expanded it so thoroughly even before the new millennium crept in. In context — yeah, sure, «death breeding life» and all that stuff that crept into my mind while trying to visualize the offered sonic ambience. But solitary standing — not really.

Granted, both EPs were generally met with tremendous praise by the critics: Kindred, in parti­cular, has received plenty of ecstatic rave reviews («never before has his music possessed this much majesty, this much command, this much power: the pathos here has moved from sym­pathetic to completely domineering», writes Andrew Ryce at Pitchfork, making me question the very es­sence of such terms as ʽmajestyʼ and ʽpowerʼ, neither of which I would ever associate with the music of Burial). But honestly, in terms of sheer substance, I see little, if any, progress here: basically, this is just the same solid Burial formula, made a bit more accessible for the average electronic listener. As such, this pair of EPs does deserve a solid thumbs up, but it hardly seems to deserve the «amazing techni­color breakthrough» tag that certain people suffering from long / short-term me­mory loss have been so keen on sticking to it.

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Barenaked Ladies: Born On A Pirate Ship

BARENAKED LADIES: BORN ON A PIRATE SHIP (1996)

1) Stomach Vs. Heart; 2) Straw Hat And Old Dirty Hank; 3) I Know; 4) This Is Where It Ends; 5) When I Fall; 6) I Live With It Every Day; 7) The Old Apartment; 8) Call Me Calmly; 9) Break Your Heart; 10) Spider In My Room; 11) Same Thing; 12) Just A Toy; 13) In The Drink; 14) Shoe Box.

Third time around, and it's sort of a bummer. A little weakened, perhaps, by the departure of Andy Creeggan, but also seemingly a little strengthened by Page and Robertson deciding to col­laborate more tightly in the songwriting process, Born On A Pirate Ship makes the fatal mistake of being way too dark and serious way too much of the time. This state is simply not natural for these guys — they may be funny, or sarcastic, or smart, or witty, or poignant, or snobby, but singing songs of spiritual torment does not agree with these other states; most importantly, they lack the musical talent to provide the appropriate sonic backing.

Amusingly, it does not start out that way — ʽStomach Vs. Heartʼ, with its uppity martial punch and ironic subject matter («the material against the spiritual» and all that), even if it is not a par­ticularly great song, almost restores confidence in these guys, or, at least, seems to promise that the record is going to be a respectable sequel to Maybe You Should Drive. But then something odd happens, and the boys launch into an odd series of rather pedestrian murder ballads (ʽStraw Hat And Old Dirty Hankʼ), forcefully angry anti-bigotry rants (ʽI Knowʼ), suicidal pleads (ʽThis Is Where It Endsʼ, ʽWhen I Fallʼ), and various other raids on classic singer-songwriter territory, almost always with rather lackluster results.

What they now most frequently sound like is early R.E.M. with much less memorable melodies and blander, far less mysterious atmosphere — in other words, highly generic «college rock». They do work on their lyrics, and still find occasionally interesting ways of expressing the same millennia-old feelings, but it is not clear why anybody, outside of the regular 18-year old college rock audience spinning contemporary product in their dormitories way back in 1996, should care about these ways today. I mean, I can easily see how a song like ʽBreak Your Heartʼ could form a very intimate relationship with a young boy's spirit at the dawn of the great girl problem age, but when the not-so-young boy looks back on it fifteen years later... it's not as if they really wrote something here other than the lyrics, what with the song growing out of the standard Fifties' progression, borrowing a bit of its vocal melody from McCartney's ʽLet Me Roll Itʼ, and going for a «blue-eyed soul» atmosphere that is way beyond Page's vocal capacities.

Alas, similar observations could be made on almost every other song on here, regardless of its genre, mood, tempo, or tonality. ʽShoe Boxʼ, featured on Friends, is sort of okay, as it is the most Gordon-style of all these songs (catchy, friendly-sarcastic, and lightweight; naturally, this had to be the song that almost did not make it onto the final print of the album) — together with ʽSto­mach Vs. Heartʼ, they at least provide a credible framework for the record. The «big hit», which brought them some U.S. notoriety, was ʽThe Old Apartmentʼ, but it moves me about as much as, say, a Taylor Swift song could have — there is not a single musically interesting thing going on, and its nostalgic vibe, so firmly expressed in the lyrics, would never be evident to anybody not fluent in the language. Generic acoustic alt-rock, blah.

Thumbs down for this total failure of a record. Even the sleeve photo is (intentionally) ugly, not to mention its complete lack of ties to the inside contents. Although, come to think of it, when you do remember the underlying prank (that is, pronounce the title of the album making the same face that the boy is pulling on the cover), you do get the appropriately correct title for this pile of... oh well, never mind. Bottom line is: feel free to disagree with the judgement if you're mainly here for the words, but if you insist that the underlying music and atmosphere even begin to match their wittiness, well, «this is where it ends» for you and me.

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Bangles: Sweetheart Of The Sun

BANGLES: SWEETHEART OF THE SUN (2011)

1) Anna Lee (Sweetheart Of The Sun); 2) Under A Cloud; 3) Ball 'n' Chain; 4) I'll Never Be Through With You; 5) Mesmerized; 6) Circles In The Sky; 7) Sweet And Tender Romance; 8) Lay Yourself Down; 9) One Of Two; 10) What A Life; 11) Through Your Eyes; 12) Open My Eyes.

If you liked Doll Revolution more than I did, this slow-on-the-move follow-up will probably en­chant you even further. If, however, you were left somewhat unimpressed, then beware — most of the problems are still here, and as the Bangles get older and their marrow gets stiffer (although they still manage to remain visually attractive), chances are that this level is as good as it is ever going to get. Father Time is a pretty hard guy to beat.

Still, at least this time around there is a sense of tasteful purity here, filtering out any production excesses on the level of ʽSomething That You Saidʼ — no attempts whatsoever to appeal to the current mainstream tastes in pop music, easy as it could have been for them to try on the pitiable red-dress / white-horse glamor of Taylor Swift. All the guitar melodies and vocal harmonies bear the time-approved stamp of the Paisley Underground (and, by induction, that of the Byrds-and-Beatles brands of jangle-pop); all the rhythm sections are in strictly manual mode, with no signs of being tampered with in the final production stage; all the lyrics are as far away from modern day problems as possible — in short, just a good sip of that old-timey California sun essence.

It all sounds wonderful: from the opening riffs of ʽAnna Leeʼ (a song that inexplicably shares the name of its imaginary protagonist with an old Beach Boys song, yet borrows its chief chord pro­gression from the overture to Tommy) and right down to the respectfully performed cover of Todd Rundgren's ʽOpen My Eyesʼ, there are no formal complaints to be lodged. The album was carefully planned — some of the songs, according to the liner notes, had a fairly long history of development, and ʽOpen My Eyesʼ was remembered as one of the first songs the girls liked to perform live in the early days — and just as carefully executed, even despite the fact that Michael Steele is no longer in the band, so the songwriting was more or less evenly distributed between Susanna, Vicki, and Debbi.

But the problem of Doll Revolution remains — all of these songs are strictly second-rate, a nos­talgia trip for lovers of nostalgia trips, with the words NOSTALGIA TRIP imprinted in large blinking golden letters all over the place. Speaking of which, All Over The Place, too, could certainly be accused of being nostalgic and derivative — but it was conceived and realised at a time when its «unhip» nostalgia clashed so fiercely with the futuristic sheen of mainstream pop that it created an exciting cultural wormhole; plus, the girls were young, fresh, snappy, snazzy, punchy, and aggressive. Sweetheart Of The Sun, in comparison, has very little «punch» to it: a song like ʽBall 'n' Chainʼ, put forward by Debbi, is a rock'n'roll number alright, but its sound is stiff and formulaic, way too clean, polished, and calculated, not to mention utterly derivative, to make the song matter even the slightest bit once it's over.

I will be the first to admit that there are a few numbers here where the harmonies are really, really lovely. Hoffs' ʽUnder A Cloudʼ, for instance, is a steady grower and has her working that «head in a cloud» lovestruck charm to perfection. ʽMesmerizedʼ does not quite match its title, but still comes up with a fairly emotional nursery-rhyme type Brit-pop chorus. And it wouldn't hurt if Vicki's acoustic ballad ʽCircles In The Skyʼ someday managed to replace ʽEternal Flameʼ in the public conscience (well, at least we are allowed to dream). But for every such grower, which still requires about two or three listens to cast its spell, there is one or two inferior copies of it — and the overall monotonousness of the proceedings is inavoidable.

In short, if I am mistaken about the Bangles making age-based concessions (and I would love to be wrong), the only alternative critique would be that they simply go way too far in the «sunny» direction. Perhaps, like most normal people, they have simply settled down, found inner peace, and only sing about whatever it is that they really have in their hearts these days — music for honest, hip, and time-honoured family entertainment. If so, I am very happy for them, and I cer­tainly do not regret spending time on listening to their happy songs of the new millennium. But even John Lennon, in his happiest hour that was so ominously cut short, was not above adding a drop of honestly experienced (or, at least, magnificently simulated) doom and gloom (ʽI'm Losing Youʼ) to his happiest record (Double Fantasy) — so here is one more reminder that the Bangles are not the Beatles. An album can only have that much value if it gives you songwriting compe­tence and emotional fluff instead of songwriting genius and emotional depth, and Sweetheart Of The Sun goes as far as it can go with its limitations, but alas, that just ain't far enough.

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Barclay James Harvest: Time Honoured Ghosts

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: TIME HONOURED GHOSTS (1975)

1) In My Life; 2) Sweet Jesus; 3) Titles; 4) Jonathon; 5) Beyond The Grave; 6) Song For You; 7) Hymn For The Children; 8) Moongirl; 9) One Night.

For this somewhat uninspired (very mildly speaking) sequel to Everyone Is Everybody Else, the band moved to a studio in San Francisco, and either the nice summer climate of California molli­fied their brains after the proverbial London rain and fog, or such was the overall decadent musi­cal atmos­phere of 1975 that the rotting process would have started in any case. The average song quality on Time Honoured Ghosts drops down another couple of notches — mainly because the band seems intent on purging out both the last drops of psychedelic influences, and its hard-rocking component at the same time (the presence of a few distorted riffs here and there notwith­standing, their collected crunch now never really rises above Crosby, Stills & Nash level). The melodic quotient still remains, but so does the narcissistic sentimentalism — and there is only so much heart-on-sleeve attitude that a tired old sense of perception can stand.

Moreover, it does not help that Lees continues to explore the gimmickry line, launched with ʽThe Great 1974 Mining Disasterʼ. This time, we are offered ʽTitlesʼ — a dreamy, more or less inof­fensive mix of the California sound with the European art song, but rendered unlistenable by stay­ing loyal to its name: the lyrics do indeed consist of little other than titles of Beatles songs, stringed together to form a ghostly Profound Message ("across the universe one after nine-o-nine, I've got a feeling for you blue and I feel fine"). Every artist may have his, her, their ups, downs, collapses, revivals, breakdowns, and comebacks, but this, unfortunately, is a kind of creativity re­served for artists with serious mutations in their taste buds — not only does it cast its cheesy sha­dow over the entire album, but it simply blocks my ability to take these guys seriously.

Once again, Lees and Holroyd share primary songwriting and singing duties, this time on a more or less equal basis, and now that the band is firmly rooted in soft rock territory, the styles of the two also begin to merge. Lees tries to set an intense atmosphere over the first seconds of the LP: ʽIn My Lifeʼ (another glaring nod to the Beatles, as if ʽTitlesʼ weren't enough) opens (and closes, after a rather dreary mid-section) as a fast melodic blues-rocker that probably has more energy than the rest of the album put together. The preachy lyrics are, as usual, quite off-putting ("But I was young, did not know, grace is for God, greed is to know"), but if the entire album had been relatively faithful to this style, instead of switching to unexciting acoustic foundations, slower tempos, and exaggeratedly soulful high-pitched vocals (from ʽSweet Jesusʼ and onwards), the band might have earned more respect from me. Instead, it just bores me one minute and offends me the next, and there is nothing I can do to myself to prevent those effects.

Every now and then, Holroyd's ʽMoongirlʼ on the second side is extolled as the album's definitive highlight, a magical-mystery art song where Sgt. Pepper-influenced guitars are integrated with Woolly's enchanting keyboard overdubs like never before or after. I probably would not mind, had the main chord progression and its key role in the song's coda not been so blatantly (with very minor changes) lifted from a far superior song — Eric Clapton's ʽLet It Growʼ, which al­ready has more than everything that ʽMoongirlʼ has to offer.

In between this «contextual failure» of one of the album's suggested highlights and the embarras­sing pretense of ʽTitlesʼ, the rest of Time Honoured Ghosts simply fails to attract this writer's attention or provoke any interesting comments. So I will finish by saying that, perhaps, the best song on the album is the sole contribution from Woolly — ʽBeyond The Graveʼ is yet another of those attempts to emulate the symphonic ambitiousness of early XXth century music (from Mah­ler to Strauss), this time carried out with surprisingly few overdubs and practically no guitar at all: organs, synthesized strings, and choral harmonies do all the job instead. The «poor man's majestic effect» is there all right, although I would have honestly preferred that the song remain complete­ly instrumental — not only are the vocals needlessly delivered in plaintive Procol Harum mode, but the lyrics, as usual, are beyond contempt ("we will survive beyond the grave, and as we sleep we will be saved, life in its essence will endure while still on earth we can be sure" — we can take stuff like that from Black Sabbath, perhaps, but hardly in a song that pretends to draw its inspiration from academic styles of music).

So, although it would still take a long time to reach the genuine creative nadir for these guys, Time Honoured Ghosts is the first BJH album to which I could not possibly react with a thumbs up even if a swarm of professional musicologists were to prove that each of the songs features a variety of subtle, previously unheard of musical ideas. Mushy, unmemorable, preachy, gimmicky, downplaying the band's strengths and extolling their weaknesses, it is not a «catastrophe» — it is a «failure», which is even worse, because catastrophes can at least be curious and amusing. Well, check out ʽTitlesʼ, perhaps, for such curiosity's sakes, then join me in my thumbs down if you, too, do not react so lightly to taking the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

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Bee Gees: Size Isn't Everything

BEE GEES: SIZE ISN'T EVERYTHING (1993)

1) Paying The Price Of Love; 2) Kiss Of Life; 3) How To Fall In Love; 4) Omega Man; 5) Haunted House; 6) Heart Like Mine; 7) Anything For You; 8) Blue Island; 9) Above And Beyond; 10) For Whom The Bell Tolls; 11) Fallen Angel; 12) Decadence.

The Bee Gees are back — well, to be more precise, a modest pinch of Bee Gees essence is back, which does not seem to bother the band too much, because, as they say themselves, «size isn't everything». There is no question of the band even as much as lifting a finger to shake off the arbitrary shackles of mainstream production values, but at least they do remember to make some room for the harmonies. If High Civilization could have really been put out by anyone, your average local boy band included, Size Isn't Everything has «Gibb property» stamped all over it. Even Barry's occasional slip-backs into falsetto, not any less irritating by themselves, feel like home after the frustration of the sensation of alienation on Civilization.

Unfortunately, harmonies aren't everything. One listen to the lead-in single, ʽPaying The Price Of Loveʼ, with its primitively programmed beats and synthesizer swamp, is more than enough to un­derstand that the Bee Gees still have not remembered what it actually means to «give a damn about the way you sound» — and the same evaluation applies to every other track on the album. Even the acoustic ballad ʽBlue Islandʼ, where it is the guitar and not the keyboards that forms the musical backbone of the song (and a melancholy harmonica provides the additional flourishes), feels dull, because the melody never goes beyond simple chord strum, and all the mild moodiness of the song is tightly locked within its vocal lines. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the best thing they have offered us on the album.

Occasionally, the band would offer some explicit justifications for the sound. For instance, Robin claimed that on ʽHeart Like Mineʼ, he was intentionally aiming at capturing some of Enya's am­bience, which explains the dreary tempos and «cloudy» processing of the electronics. But the Bee Gees do not have Enya's natural-born feel for this texturing — they have never been able to con­quer the digital world and put it to their own purposes; and furthermore, this ambience simply does not agree with Robin's «wimpy» voice — it requires either becalmed operatic majesty or a dreamy psychedelic hush (the latter, several ages ago, used to be quite within Barry's capacities, but it's been a long, long, long time...).

Besides, for every tolerable, if somewhat boring, mood piece like ʽHeart Like Mineʼ or ʽHaunted Houseʼ, there is a clichéd adult contemporary ballad (ʽHow To Fall In Loveʼ) or bland dance-pop entry (ʽAnything For Youʼ). With the fast-paced pop rocker ʽAbove And Beyondʼ, they register one welcome attempt to incorporate some old-style Motown spirit; and with the album's biggest hit, ʽFor Whom The Bell Tollsʼ (alas, not the Metallica cover, which would have really been something, wouldn't it?), they conjure a puff of religious grandiosity. But nobody even needs three guesses to guess why, at the end of the day, these songs still suck.

And I have not yet mentioned the band's cheeky dabbling with techno — if ʽFallen Angelʼ is not enough to prove that they have as much talent and authority to cover that direction as they have with Enya, then try out the European release bonus track — ʽDecadenceʼ, a techno remix of ʽYou Should Be Dancingʼ for the rave generation. In other words, whatever crumbs of good taste they may have reassembled together on ʽBlue Islandʼ get scattered to the four winds by the end of the record; and ultimately, this is just another thumbs down for a band that made the classic mistake — having conquered the trends of the 1960s and the 1970s, decided that conquering trends would be the logical way to go until the end of time. But fashion isn't everything, you know.

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The Blues Project: Live At The Cafe Au Go Go

THE BLUES PROJECT: LIVE AT THE CAFE AU GO GO (1966)

1) Goin' Down Louisiana; 2) You Go, I'll Go With You; 3) Catch The Wind; 4) I Want To Be Your Driver; 5) Al­berta; 6) The Way My Baby Walks; 7) Violets Of Dawn; 8) Back Door Man; 9) Jelly Jelly Blues; 10) Spoonful; 11) Who Do You Love.

Along with the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, the Blues Project were one of the first American acts that consisted of young middle-to-low class white guys playing the black man's devil music, won­dering how the hell it could ever have happened that they had let British young middle-to-low class white guys take this sort of initiative a couple of years earlier. They were less successful than Paul Butterfield about landing a record contract, only managing to have their first album out in early '66. On the other hand, unlike Butterfield's, their debut was a live one, recorded in No­vember '65 at the Cafe Au Go Go in the Village — introducing the band at its rawest and wildest, and drawing inevitable analogies with the Yardbirds, who were also introduced to the world in full through a red-hot live session back in '64.

The original Blues Project line-up included Danny Kalb on lead guitar and vocals; Steve Katz on rhythm guitar; Andy Kulberg on bass; Roy Blumenfeld on drums; and latecomer Al Kooper on organ (Kooper originally played guitar, but ever since he first tried out the organ on the sessions for Dylan's ʽLike A Rolling Stoneʼ, the instrument was promoted to his personal good luck charm — not that he had any particular knack for that particular instrument). Last, but not least, was vocalist Tommy Flanders, whose cultural and social background put him somewhat apart from the rest of the guys (well, the names speak for themselves) and may have been responsible for the tension that eventually drove them apart even before the album was released.

The record is not fully representative of the Blues Project onstage — like most of the other bands that tried out the live album schtick at the time, due to format demands, they had to cut down on the jamming and improvisation and concentrate on relatively short, compact song-based numbers. Nor did they yet have much audacity in trying out their own material: other than Andy Kulberg's instrumental ʽThe Way My Baby Walksʼ, all of the tunes are covers. And for the most part, the Blues Project predictably covers... the blues: Chicago stuff from Muddy and Howlin' Wolf, with a bit of Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry thrown in for the extra energetics, and a Bobby Bland tune for a little extra bit of soulfulness.

On the other hand, seeing as how this is the Village, after all, it is only natural that the band's territory also extends in the direction of folk — with a somewhat surprisingly modernistic slant, as, instead of doing ʽIf I Had A Hammerʼ or at least ʽTurn Turn Turnʼ, they prefer to popularize imported fellow Donovan (ʽCatch The Windʼ) and the Village's own Eric Andersen (ʽViolets Of Dawnʼ), as well as redo the traditional folk-blues tune ʽAlbertaʼ ("...let your hair hang low..." and all that) in sentimental folk ballad mode (with a whiff of lounge jazz, perhaps). This certainly gives them their own twist, since even Paul Butterfield, not to mention the Yardbirds, preferred to stay away from the sissy vibes of folk balladry — but the Blues Project, from the very beginning, showed that it was not going to insist on taking its name too literally.

All fine and dandy, but how good are these guys, really? Well — they certainly have enough energy to rock the Café (although, judging by the rather limp applause, the house wasn't exactly jam-packed on those evenings), and they are smart enough to introduce their own tempo, time, and to­nality changes into the songs, so as to limit the comparison angle between the covers and the originals. The singing, more or less equally divided between Kalb and Flanders (Al also gets to sing on the Chuck Berry cover), is competent, and the playing is engaging as long as it is pos­sible to think of it in terms of «honor duels» between Al, trying to prove to Danny that his is the rocking-est organ in town, and Danny, trying to prove to Al that his is the flashiest and speediest style of playing on the other side of Eric Clapton.

The latter, in fact, is not that far removed from the truth: Kalb's parts are expressive, fun, and technically stunning for late '65, showing a clear interest in the jazz school of playing as well as the expectable Chicago blues lessons. The weak side is the thin, limp guitar tone, unfortunately, quite characteristic of all the pre-Hendrix era (and quite a few of the post-Hendrix era) American R&B-ers — of course, you had to be fairly careful with your feedback and distortion when play­ing in the folk-oriented Village, but in retrospect, there may simply be too little «power» here to properly capture the interest of the modern listener. Downplay that aspect, though, and Kalb's parts on such blues snarls as ʽJelly Jelly Bluesʼ and ʽSpoonfulʼ will indeed be second only to Mike Bloomfield (inasmuch as aggression-channeling young American six-stringers from 1965-66 are concerned).

And yet, this rarely feels like an album where everybody is doing whatever is the most suitable thing for them. The Rolling Stones (not always, but often) and, say, The Doors (remember their ʽBack Door Manʼ?) were able to capture and preserve the creepy-devilish atmosphere of these Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf tunes. These nice, bright kids from New York are not able to do that — they can host a friendly rock'n'roll party, and they can let off some steam, but there is no sense of allegoric «danger» coming from their renditions. In fact, the jazz-folk recreation of ʽAl­bertaʼ, in terms of soul and feeling, easily trumps almost everything else that they do here — pointing out the general route which Al Kooper would soon start to take.

So, if it weren't for the notoriously exciting bits of Kalb / Kooper interplay, and an overall good chance of assessing young Danny's talents from several different angles, Live At The Cafe Au Go Go would not be much more than a valuable historical document. In fact, even with Danny, it isn't much more than one — mainly a teaser, and certainly no match for Five Live Yardbirds, the album whose model it loosely follows. Fortunately, the Blues Project still had some time left to ripen and come into its own, before the whole mutual-tension and lack-of-perspective thing would start tearing it apart.

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Bobby Bland: Midnight Run

BOBBY BLAND: MIDNIGHT RUN (1989)

1) You've Got To Hurt Before You Heal; 2) Lay Love Aside; 3) Kiss Me To The Music; 4) Keep It A Secret; 5) Take Off Your Shoes; 6) Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone; 7) If I Don't Get Involved; 8) I'm Not Ashamed To Sing The Blues; 9) Midnight Run; 10) Starting All Over Again.

No surprises, although, fortunately, the classic covers are back — there is no way Bobby could go wrong with his (predictable, but wonderful all the same) interpretation of ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ, or with the old Mel & Tim ballad ʽStarting All Over Againʼ, which makes here for a somewhat more optimistic and uplifting conclusion than last time's ʽThere's No Easy Way To Say Good­byeʼ, and the funny thing is that one doesn't even have to listen to either in order to understand that.

Still, two oldies' covers on a late period Bobby Bland album is too few, because the remaining songs are again provided by his sidemen, and are not in the least memorable. Just like last time, there is exactly one «fun» 12-bar blues (ʽTake Off Your Shoesʼ), nice while it's on; and then, like every self-respecting old bluesman, Bobby commands himself a song that explains why exactly he is still hanging around after so many years (ʽI'm Not Ashamed To Sing The Bluesʼ — actually, a song like that did make sense in 1989, when the popularity of the blues was only just beginning to recover after a decade-long snooze; that said, it's not as if the song smells of any particular heroism or self-sacrifice).

Additionally, ʽYou've Got To Hurtʼ opens the album on a powerful epic-ballad note; ʽLay Love Asideʼ tries to echo Bobby's dance-oriented R&B grooves of the mid-1970s; and the title track straightens out a reggae groove as the band does indeed search a little bit to expand its horizons. Neither the epic thing, nor the dance thing, nor the reggae schtick feature any outstanding musi­cianship or musical ideas, but at least there seems to be a bit more emphasis on guitars and strings rather than synthesizers, and a bit more diversity, which would altogether indicate an upward movement of the curve. If anyone still cared, that is. Anyway, expressing the same idea in com­mercial terms — better grab Midnight Run for a quarter than Blues You Can Use for a nickel.

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Burial: Untrue

BURIAL: UNTRUE (2007)

1) Untitled; 2) Archangel; 3) Near Dark; 4) Ghost Hardware; 5) Endorphin; 6) In McDonalds; 7) Untrue; 8) Shell Of Light; 9) Dog Shelter; 10) Homeless; 11) UK; 12) Raver.

Supposedly, the only way I can say something vaguely interesting about Untrue that has not al­ready been said by the ranters and ravers — and there have been quite a few of them around 2007, with Burial's second album predictably making even more of a splash than the first one, since this one was already expected — is by keeping up those visual interpretations. Naturally, Untrue is a logical sequel to Burial, conceived and executed in similar ways, built on similar ideas, and pro­ducing similar reactions. But if there are at least a few departures, how does that agree with the impression of a devastated post-World War III planet?

Well, the one thing that is different is that Untrue is a little busier. Its compositions may feature two samples instead of one, or three instead of two. Or there might be one or two extra layers of electronics. Most interestingly, there is a heavy increase in vocal samples of R&B artists — com­pared to Burial, almost every composition is populated with them, and now Aaliyah, Erykah Badu, Amanda Perez, and even Christina Aguilera have joined the roster. Coupled with Burial's dark bass and post-industrial electronics, their vocal loops represent the kinkiest in ironic decon­struction. If I were any of them, I'd probably start campaigning for a ban on sampling now — this is a prime example of «no-fair! use» (as opposed to «unfair»).

On the other hand, there are so many of these vocal bits now that they can no longer be interpre­ted as the symbolic last remains of human voices on the destroyed (deconstructed?) Earth. Rather, this might be the start of the rebirth cycle — the little ambient melodies that manage to break through the core of the bass frequencies and the vinyl crackle represent the world beginning to slowly get back on its feet (even if you have to use the vocal talents of Ray J. and Beyoncé to achieve the set goals).

In other words, Untrue is not nearly as «creepy» as its predecessor — and, consequently, not nearly as thrilling, at least not for those who have already, like me, formulated their own «rules of the universe according to Burial». It only takes playing the lead-in tracks back-to-back: ʽDistant Lightsʼ with its metallic hum and clanging midsize robots carrying on with their daily tasks, and ʽArchangelʼ, with its pseudo-Mellotron electronic backgrounds and Ray J.'s pleading, high-pit­ched vocals looped so densely that the whole track begins to resemble a goddamn prayer.

Of course, we're back in the dark on the correspondingly titled ʽNear Darkʼ, but even that track is hyper-populated with vocals that carry out their rotten task of humanizing the robotic beats. ʽGhost Hardwareʼ is a great title, and the interaction between the sampled Aguilera and the elec­tronics is ghostly indeed, but still there is no genuine sense of danger. Darkness, perhaps, but a peaceful, non-threatening — at least, not immediately threatening — kind of darkness. Later on, there will even be moments of majestic darkness: ʽDog Shelterʼ, for instance, completely free of beats and sounding as if it had been stolen out of one of Eno's vaults.

From this point of view, Untrue is a bit of a letdown for me. The combination of dubstep forma­lities with ye old time industrial and dark ambient stylistics that this guy latched on to was not tremendously unique or innovative, but it was quite a find, certainly much more of a find than you'd expect from one of the several million wannabe electronic wizards dicking around with pre­packaged software. Here, it already seems a bit sissied-up and diluted, shedding some of that at­mosphere — even if, paradoxically, I suppose that more work must have been invested in Untrue than in its predecessor. But this is just one of those cases where too many ingredients do not exactly spoil the broth, yet somewhat cancel out each other.

Still, a thumbs up, because if my visualisation fails, it's just my problem, right? In most respects, nothing has really changed, and if your perception of this kind of music follows more abstract guidelines, you might not even notice this seeming transition from «dark black» to «dark gray» in this guy's work (to an extent, reflected even on the album sleeves, as I have noticed). In any case, the moods are still there, along with an occasional surprise or two (such as the evil bass swoops on ʽEtched Headplateʼ, grinning at the wimpy R&B samples), and even if the world according to Burial is no longer as thoroughly bleak a place to live in, it is still desolate enough to impress a mind like mine, normally bored to death with this kind of electronic patchwork.

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Barenaked Ladies: Maybe You Should Drive

BARENAKED LADIES: MAYBE YOU SHOULD DRIVE (1994)

1) Jane; 2) Intermittently; 3) These Apples; 4) You Will Be Waiting; 5) A; 6) Everything Old Is New Again; 7) Al­ternative Girlfriend; 8) Am I The Only One?; 9) Little Tiny Song; 10) Life, In A Nutshell; 11) The Wrong Man Was Convicted; 12) Great Provider.

I cannot imagine the Barenaked Ladies' second album not being a relative disappointment for everybody who was, one way or other, bowled over by their first one. But apparently, at this point the band was worried about its image — neither Page nor Robertson wanted to be regarded as a one-dimensional goofy comic act, and agreed upon not just toning down, but almost completely freezing their sense of college humor. Consequently, Maybe You Should Drive is still a relative­ly lightweight, but completely serious chapter in Barenaked Ladies history... in which the prota­gonists demand to be recognized as insightful singer-songwriters, providing useful spiritual guide­lines for the restless youth masses of 1994.

The changes actually go beyond simply saying temporary goodbye to the lyrical and musical jokes. There is also a strict limit imposed on the innumerable pop culture references of yesterday, and, worse of all, there is a clear increase of «alt-rock» elements — more electric guitar, more Pearl Jam rhythmics at the expense of vaudeville, in short, a more generally-accessible and al­together-predictable type of sound that moves one step closer to «selling out», or, at least, finding an audience outside of the smarmy college rock circuit that is generally in on the joke. The gam­ble paid off somewhat well, putting them on the lower ranges of the US charts without compro­mising any integrity. But the question of «what exactly is it that these guys have to offer?», which would sound rather silly and condescending when applied to Gordon, seems to become far more valid upon the first listens to Drive.

After all, the Barenaked Ladies do not set any particularly high standards for either singing, play­ing, or writing any fabulous melodies. It is only the combination of all these ingredients — plus the humorous and intelligent atmosphere — that elevates them to something of a less instantane­ously forgettable status. And although the intelligence is still there, it is not exactly clear why we really need another record chockfull of songs about various types of male-female relationships (usually tense, flawed, or unsuccessful, since these guys are not about to get accused of sissyism: ʽI Want To Hold Your Handʼ is definitely not in the Barenaked Ladies' idiom).

Several listens into the album, provided one does have the time and patience, the cohesiveness starts to come out and the atmosphere slowly begins to work out some charm. The songs may not be all that involving or innovative, but they are inoffensive, clever, and mildly catchy, reflecting a certain «average brainy Joe» spirit — no pretense at universal importance, no pomp, no self-in­dulgence or narcissism, just one little life-sketch after another. Yes, just one of those little records made for a (quoting Bob) "when you're tired of yourself and all of your creations" kind of sce­nario — in between the loudness and ecstasy of Brit-pop and Seattle-grunge, there might be a brief moment for the humble social commentary of Page and Robertson.

The record does not really get much better or more attention-pulling than on ʽJaneʼ — opening the album with a folksy acoustic flourish, a steady toe-tapping tempo, and some melancholy pop harmonies. The subject matter? Uh... trying to date the girl at the local beauty parlor (without success, naturally). The hook? Nothing, really, but the strange «naturalness» of the song — the way it might seduce the listener by having nothing in particular to its name. A pleasant trifle that, with its very existence, reminds us that about half of our life consists of such pleasant trifles. This is the secret of the Barenaked Ladies that all mediocre songwriters should keep in mind — if you have nothing to write about, write about nothing, and you might just have something.

Elsewhere, the boys subconsciously invoke the classic old spirit of the Great American Songbook and how, at its best (and there have been plenty instances of the worst), it used to exude this non­chalant elegance, made outstanding with extra verbosity. ʽIntermittentlyʼ is one such case ("some­one somewhere has unglued our epoxy / and now I'm kissing you by proxy" may be one of the most bizarre ways to express the idea of separation used in a pop song) — feather-light gigolo confession transplanted to a new age: "when immeasurably / turns to intermittently / there's no use in going on / except for fear of being wrong". Continuing a tradition initiated on the previous album, the band is said to have recorded this one naked in the studio — if this somehow means that ʽIntermittentlyʼ is their most personal statement on the album, they must be fairly nasty people in real life. Then again, most people seem to be, so...

Of course, even once you have grown accustomed to the album, it can still get fairly monotonous as the endless who's-sorry-now types of songs replace each other — and I am not sure, for in­stance, if the idea of sequencing them so that ʽThe Wrong Man Was Convictedʼ, the longest, slowest, bluest, dreariest number is placed almost at the end, even if the song itself is hardly guil­ty of anything, being written neither better nor worse than anything else on here.

If you are only interested in the bouncy, happy, catchy side of the Ladies, this album would only work as a short EP — consisting of, let's say, ʽThese Applesʼ (Robertson's falsetto that caps off each chorus is kinda cute), ʽAʼ (fabulous lyrics about the incidentally first letter of the alphabet, but not a particularly interesting melodic structure), ʽEverything Old Is New Againʼ (Ray Davies could have appreciated that one and its lazy-friendly punch), and ʽLife In A Nutshellʼ, the only more or less fast number on the album with scandalous lyrics ("when she was three, her Barbies always did it on the first date" — where are you, Tipper?). However, even these four may be singled out simply for possessing more sheer energy than the others — not for being extra funny or extra melodic or extra anything else.

In the end, although the review has surprisingly turned out more positive than I originally thought it would be, I cannot really dispense a thumbs up. The songs are nice and clever, but in the end, the album simply tries way too hard to convey the message of «hey guys, we can do so much more than Gordon showed us capable of», and I am still not too sure that this message is a cor­rect one. If I do ever get sure, watch out for those thumbs. But as it is now — maybe you shouldn't drive, after all, because this record is just a bit too sober for my tastes.

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Bangles: Doll Revolution

BANGLES: DOLL REVOLUTION (2003)

1) Tear Off Your Own Head; 2) Stealing Rosemary; 3) Something That You Said; 4) Ask Me No Questions; 5) The Rain Song; 6) Nickel Romeo; 7) Ride The Ride; 8) I Will Take Care Of You; 9) Here Right Now; 10) Single By Choice; 11) Lost At Sea; 12) Song For A Good Son; 13) Mixed Messages; 14) Between The Two; 15) Grateful.

Unfortunately, this is not quite the comeback one could hope for. You know how it sometimes works: good band digs up fine formula, then sells out to silly cheesy trends and fads, then breaks up, then comes back again with a cleared-up head, ready to tackle fine formula once again with extra added maturity and professionalism at the expense of youthful excitement and freshness — solid four stars as compared to the original five.

Doll Revolution, too, could be expected to work that way. Surely, if the Bangles had any reason to overcome their personal problems and reconvene, it wouldn't be to recreate their glossy mid-to-late Eighties sound — not now, not in the early 2000s, with the garage rock revival in full swing? And since they never really lost their songwriting skills, not even on Everything — they simply yielded to external pressure that required mainstream-oriented acts to rely on corporate writers — couldn't we hope for yet another ʽHero Takes A Fallʼ, twenty years on?

Unfortunately, no. The first song on the album inspires confidence: energetic mid-tempo, pul­sa­ting bass, nicely distorted garage guitars, catchy vocals, aggressive bite-me delivery, and clever lyrics. Then it turns out that the song is actually an Elvis Costello cover, taken from his When I Was Cruel album from the preceding year. That in itself is not a problem — better Elvis Costello than Prince, at least if you're a Bangle. The problem is that nothing else on Doll Revolution even begins to come close in matching that level of energy and vivaciousness.

The first single off the album, and the only one that made even the tiniest ripple on some Euro­pean charts (but not in the US), was ʽSomething That You Saidʼ — a nostalgic trip to the realm of 1980s synth-pop, with Hoffs' creaky, but still sexy, vocals adorned by drum machines and elec­tronics a-plenty; no «power ballad» aspects here as there were on ʽEternal Flameʼ, but melodical­ly and mood-wise, the song is even cornier. Again, there is nothing else here that sounds the same way, yet the commercial calculation is clear — the song was designed to appeal to contemporary dance-pop and soft-rock radio stations, almost as if someone really thought there might be a good reason for somebody to be interested in this shit coming from such a relic of the past.

Everything else here is stuck in between the two extremes — nothing is either as fun as the rol­licking, snappy title track or as irritating as the barren romance of the synth-pop non-hit. The songs generally fluctuate between smooth-flowing, even, not too exciting jangle-pop (much of which is sung by Debbi and Vicki) and slower, not too exciting ballads (many of them sung by Susanna). The level of spice-and-spunk is so low, really, that some of the tunes may easily be mistaken for a Christine McVie solo project (ʽHere Right Nowʼ) — nothing awful about it, but hardly the rightest choice for the Bangles, who, at their best, always had some sharp claws hidden behind the furry-purry surface.

Lyrics-wise, most of the songs are equally «plain» — simple love messages, sometimes with a little bit of flailing of the male hero, sometimes with a few tears over some faraway breakup; one tune, ʽSingle By Choiceʼ, credited solely to Vicki, comes across as very strange — the con­fi­dent­ly delivered message ("single by choice, never marry, never ever divorce") sounds a bit weird in the context of our knowledge that "Peterson married musician John Cowsill on 25 October 2003" (i. e. less than two months after the release of the album). Unless the whole thing is supposed to be ironic, but it honestly doesn't come off that way. Weird.

Overall, the whole thing sounds... nice, which is certainly not enough of a reason to justify this comeback, because the jangle-pop market in the 2000s is so huge anyway. Sure, the production (other than on ʽSomething That You Saidʼ) is tasteful, the girls' voices still sound vibrant (although Su­sanna's has thinned out a wee bit), and the songs are not too poorly written. But the album is also overlong — at sixty minutes, it could have certainly used some trimming — and monotonous: as far as unpredictability is concerned, I miss a ʽWalk Like An Egyptianʼ or some such adorable genre twist in between all the jangly sweetness.

On the other hand, there is no question that it could have been much, much worse, and that true Bangles fans will not be disappointed — at least, not completely disappointed — by what has been offered. And an album that loyally preserves a firm link to the legacy of Big Star and Fleet­wood Mac cannot be a complete failure in any case. Just don't call it Doll Revolution — Doll Mummification would probably be closer to the truth.

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