Bob Dylan: New Morning

BOB DYLAN: NEW MORNING (1970)

1) If Not For You; 2) Day Of The Locusts; 3) Time Passes Slowly; 4) Went To See The Gypsy; 5) Winterlude; 6) If Dogs Run Free; 7) New Morning; 8) Sign On The Window; 9) One More Weekend; 10) The Man In Me; 11) Three Angels; 12) Father Of Night.

The fact that New Morning came out just four months after Self Portrait is frequently brought up as an argument that the album was an «appeasement» for critics and fans alike — that Bob's huge ego simply could not stand the rotten-tomato treatment of his latest record, and so New Morning was rushed out, first and foremost, in order to wipe out the bad memories. As could be expected, Dylan himself denied this; and, likewise, there are strong counterarguments — for in­stance, the bulk of the album was recorded over the first five days of June 1970, whereas Self-Portrait itself was only released commercially on June 8.

But then again, it sure does seem that way. Is it a coincidence, after all, that 1970 was the only year, past-1965, in which Bob would release two albums rather than one? Is it a coincidence that Self-Portrait was all covers and this one was all originals? Is it a coincidence that there are al­most no signs of the «clean» crooning style of Nashville Skyline / Self-Portrait, as Bob is get­ting back to the tried and true? I don't think so. I think that there was an explicit goal here — to get that damn Rolling Stone to renege on its aggression, and wrench that precious «we've got Dylan back!» tag out of it. Although I'm not sure Bob himself would confess to that in the pre­sence of God Almighty, provided he does hold a ticket to Heaven after all.

For all I know, New Morning does not give us back «our» Dylan, since he was there all the way on Self-Portrait. But it does open him up from yet another, previously unknown side — that of a quiet, relatively unassuming, relatively undemanding family man, quite content to enjoy the little things and not force any diatribes, proclamations, predictions, sermons, or hallucinatory visions on the world at large. Well, maybe just a few, every once in a while. For old times' sake.

The fact is that, throughout the late Sixties and early Seventies, Dylan really was a family man. Like a good, traditional Jewish father, he already had four kids, and with the birth of Jakob in 1969, he found himself pleased to take a detour in the world of diapers (either that, or he knew how important it was for the frontman of The Wallflowers to be hugged and pampered on a 24-hour basis). Serenity was unstable from the beginning, and did not last for long, but a strong ray of it is evident all over New Morning — making it, as the title also suggests, the sunniest and homeliest of all Dylan records, so that it is probably best played on the porch of your country house, on a hot summer day when you have nothing else to do. Heck, I am writing this review right now — in my 7th floor apartment, on a cold autumn day when I have tons of stuff to do, and I can still put myself in that mood just by pushing play. That's how strong the mood is.

Stuck between Bob's own rendition of ʽIf Not For Youʼ and George Harrison's vision of it on All Things Must Pass, I will take George — who found the song a place in his awesome religious experience and turned it into a thing of, like, transcendental beauty. Dylan's original, in compari­son, is humble and homely, no wall of sound, no soaring slide passages, and even a tempo that seems a little too rushed, giving no time for the sentiments to complete the blow to one's head. But even so, there is a feeling that this might be the first thoroughly «sincere», unveiled, intentio­nally simplistic-sounding (both lyrically and musically) love song he'd ever put on record — not the cloudy, hip-o, intellectualistic tapestries on Blonde On Blonde, some of which may or may not be about love, but who can really tell; not the «look-at-me-I-sing-love-songs-like-a-country-pro» crooner stuff on Nashville Skyline; no, just an old-fashioned catchy love song, with the heart on the sleeve represented by the subtle vibraphone touch. Surely it wasn't by chance that, of all the new Dylan songs Harrison had heard while jamming with him in May 1970, it was ʽIf Not For Youʼ and no other that he latched on so quickly — only on very, very rare occasions does Bob come up with a great love song.

There is a lot of piano on the album: Bob himself places the ivory keys at the center of six of the songs, and, where extra sophistication is required, Al Kooper contributes his services — particu­larly impressive on ʽIf Dogs Run Freeʼ, a rare, if not only, Dylan incursion into the world of late night cool jazz, reciting beat poetry over Al's sprinkly arpeggios, Maeretha Stewart's scat vo­cals in the background, and an overall atmosphere that would seem more appropriate for 1955 than for 1970, but then, why refuse when you can indulge your «inner family man» by going retro and satisfy your «try anything once» life principle at the same time? The good news is, it all works out — once you realize that the key word is ʽfreeʼ, it all falls in place (or out of place, which is pretty much the same thing here).

The other Kooper-led song is ʽThe Man In Meʼ, which Al liked so much as to appropriate it for his own catalog (1972's Possible Projection Of The Future), but this is where it becomes ob­vious that Al Kooper is no George Harrison — his version dispensed with the piano and replaced it with solemn-sounding organ, needlessly serious-ifying the mood. It also cut out the "la-la-la"s which are totally essential to the song, giving it a little bit of healthy idiot flair to compensate for the metaphysical heaviness of the refrain ("takes a woman like you to get through to the man in me" — could an apology for one's male-chauvinistic excesses in the past be worded in a better way?). I think it was the "la-la-la"s and little else that prompted the Cohens to include the song in the Big Lebowski soundtrack — although, come to think of it, New Morning in its entirety is the most Lebowski-compatible album Dylan had ever recorded in his life.

Dividing the songs into «high-» and «lowlights» on New Morning is impossible due to the very conception of the album. On John Wesley Harding, there was a very clear demarcating line be­tween songs like ʽAll Along The Watchtowerʼ (epic!) and ʽDown Along The Coveʼ (whee, groovy!). As for New Morning, well, on one hand, it is true that some of the tunes explore gran­der themes than others. ʽThree Angelsʼ, with its gospel organ and allegoric story about the world failing to notice the angels with their horns, is one; ʽSign On The Windowʼ, exploring loneliness and escape from it in the possible joys of domestic bliss (sort of an «Eleanor Rigby Got Married» from a Dylan perspective), is another; ʽFather Of Nightʼ, concluding the album in brief snippet fashion, is a reworking of a Jewish prayer.

But on the other hand, none of these songs could have ever been properly reworked into blazing Jimi Hendrix anthems — they simply represent occasional dips into pensiveness and solemnity on a generally light-hearted, «simple man» type of daily schedule. Here we celebrate the arrival of yet another 24-hour cycle with the title track, sung deliciously out-of-tune (the only thing lack­ing is Keith Richards on background vocals), but with all the soul it takes. There we do a bit of barroom blues, pulled by the hair out of «generic» mode like only Dylan can — by re-defining the concept of «nag­ging» with the repetitive song title. Here we send up Princeton University, who had the nerve to present Dylan with an honorary degree when he least needed it (ʽDay Of The Locustsʼ, somehow still managing to piano-celebrate the innocence of nature in between all the sneering — and if it were up to me, I would probably rename some part of the Princeton campus to «The Black Hills Of Dakota», if only to take revenge on the songwriter). There we just rollick along to an unassuming, but utterly non-Nashvillian all the same, country waltz (ʽWinter­ludeʼ), and so on. All soft, all cozy, lazy, tender, and sarcastic at once.

New Morning essentially concludes the third phase in Dylan's career — the «country years», some might call it, although «the campfire years» or «the log cabin years» seem much more to my liking. Subsequently, his musical ascetism would reach its peak and culminate in abandoning music altogether for a couple of years, except for a few unproductive sessions and a rare gig for George's Bangla Desh concert — which he shared, surprisingly enough, with yet another recluse: Clapton, too, basically just locked himself up in 1971-72. Dylan's existence, fortunately, was less drug-dependent, but somehow I think that these pauses were not entirely coincidental: both Bob and Eric represented the «Sixties' survivor» stereotype — «The Guy Who Could Have Been The Next Jimi Hendrix / Jim Morrison / Brian Jones», etc. — and, probably, both of them needed to take some time off, if only to shake off the ghosts of the past and clean themselves up, spiritually even more than physically, for what the future had in store.

That said, I must note that, had New Morning turned out to be Dylan's swan song for any reason, it would have enjoyed an even stronger reputation than it does today — I mean, a record that starts out with one of the man's sincerest, tenderest, simplest, catchiest love songs, and ends with an equally light, but moving take on a Jewish prayer? That certainly qualifies as some sort of Let It Be, if you ask me. And just imagine everyone salivating at the idea of the man being taken away from us just as he finally got to admit that "this must be the day that all of my dreams come true..." — can you not feel the Faustian grandeur already? Not even John Lennon and Double Fantasy would have anything on this. Anyway, thumbs up all the same — for all we know, Bob Dylan's talents may extend to the ability of terminating and resuscitating his own life at will, so he is entitled to at least nine proper swan songs, or something like that.

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Brenda Lee: The Versatile Brenda Lee

BRENDA LEE: THE VERSATILE BRENDA LEE (1965)

1) Yesterday's Gone; 2) Dear Heart; 3) I Still Miss Someone; 4) How Glad I Am; 5) Almost There; 6) Don't Blame Me; 7) Willow Weep For Me; 8) Truly Truly True; 9) Love Letters; 10) The Birds And The Bees; 11) La Vie En Rose; 12) Maybe.

And by «versatile», I presume, they mean «one that can perform everything, from lightweight pre-war popu­lar songs to profound contemporary material by our illustrious songwriters, like ʽThe Birds And The Beesʼ, for example». Well, truth be told, they may be right, if they are going not with the third meaning of the word in Webster's dictionary («turning with ease from one thing to another»), but with the first one — «capable of being turned round». It must have took quite a bit of turning round, I'd say, to end up with a cover of ʽLa Vie En Roseʼ on one's hands in the middle of 1965.

The album doth add insult to injury by opening in a dishonestly deceitful manner — ʽYesterday's Goneʼ, a fluke hit for the wimpy UK folk-rock duo Chad & Jeremy, is unexpectedly arranged in a rock'n'roll manner, with gruff electric guitars and a King Curtis-style saxophone solo. Not exactly «hard», but probably the toughest sound on a Brenda Lee album in about two years, making the listener salivate for more. But already track number two is ʽDear Heartʼ, a thick syrup concocted by Henry Mancini for Andy Williams, with backing vocals that you thought you'd heard the last of in Disney classics from the previous decade. And off we go...

In all honesty, the interpretation of ʽWillow Weep For Meʼ is extremely «versatile», not to men­tion powerful, and ʽHow Glad I Amʼ is quite competitive when it comes to comparison with the Nancy Wilson original — where Nancy has the upper hand in subtle modulation, Brenda fights back with sheer volume and determination. It is also interesting that her version of ʽLove Lettersʼ managed to predate Elvis' hit rendition by about a year — not that either of them matters all that much in the grand scheme of things.

But a thumbs down all the same, since everything else is (by now) traditionally rotten, including ʽThe Birds And The Beesʼ, which must be one of the worst love songs ever written in an upbeat pop manner (no wonder Jewel Akens never had another hit in his whole life). Bad songs, worse arrangements, formally impeccable, but fully predictable vocals, and, worst of all, the realization that this was all made in the summer of '65... well, couldn't they at least let her cover ʽAll I Really Want To Doʼ? Maybe we'd have no need for Cher then.

Beachwood Sparks: Once We Were Trees

BEACHWOOD SPARKS: ONCE WE WERE TREES (2001)

1) Germination; 2) Confusion Is Nothing New; 3) The Sun Surrounds Me; 4) You Take The Gold; 5) Hearts Mend; 6) Let It Run; 7) Old Manatee; 8) The Hustler; 9) Yer Selfish Ways; 10) By Your Side; 11) Close Your Eyes; 12) Banjo Press Conference; 13) Jugglers Revenge; 14) The Good Night Whistle; 15) Once We Were Trees.

Everything about the concept of this album suggests that, with a little luck, it could have been one of the greatest records of the new millennium. An established country-rock band with a penchant for old-style psychedelia. An «eco-conscious» overtone. A musical link between all the green things that grow and one's own existence, a pantheist's paradise expressed in modern sounds, but steeped in tradition. A suggestive album title, and a pretty album cover to go along with it, some­how reminiscent of Friends by The Beach Boys — another record that seemed bent on exploring man's relation with nature and the transcendence of things.

This is what makes the ultimate reaction so bitter. There is no way to ignore the ambitiousness of the goals — not with a thirty-second introductory track called ʽGerminationʼ — but there is no way, either, that one could admit the goals have been fulfilled. To do that, Beachwood Sparks de­cide to move even further away from the idea of writing sharp, memorable melodies, and replace them with «atmosphere», understood as «unbreakable tissues of repetitive guitar / keyboard pat­terns». Now maybe there is a philosophical idea behind that decision — as in, plant growth hap­pens on a steady, but quiet and inobtrusive basis, and so should the music. But at least that idea would have required better production than what we have here.

The album never really gets much better, or much worse, than its first real song, ʽConfusion Is Nothing Newʼ. Slow, echo-laden, with three or four guitars going off at the same time just mind­ing their business — four different trees growing in their own different ways... okay, time to dis­pense with these comparisons. The multi-tracked vocals that come in are almost totally devoid of expression: they hit the notes all right, but this ain't even Byrds level, let alone the Beach Boys. Is it pretty? By all means. Tasteful? No complaints about that. But does it make you feel small? Big? Happy? Sad? A part of Mother Fucking Nature? One with the universe? One against the universe? All I can say is that, perhaps, the song would stand a better chance if differently produced, so that the vocals, guitars, and keyboards wouldn't get all glued together.

Another observation is that the songs, in their desire to combine elements of «normal» country pop with elements of ambience, simply end up too limp and diluted to qualify as pop songs — and too poppy to qualify as true atmospheric panoramas to relax and meditate to. The band is at its best not when it tries to take the middle ground, but when they give it their all in one or the other direction. Thus, ʽYou Take The Goldʼ and ʽYer Selfish Waysʼ, two numbers that pick up the tempo, are moderately fun and catchy; and on the other side of the fence, ʽThe Good Night Whistleʼ, with its repetitive structure ("train's going to sleep tonight, train's going to sleep to­night...") and train-whistle-imitating harmonica, is as close to putting you in a specific old-timey mindset as they ever get here.

In a nutshell, Once We Were Trees is a classic example of setting your plank so impossibly high, all that remains is sit back and hope the audience will only stare in awe at how high the plank is, failing to notice that you have not the least chance of making it. Maybe if they had themselves a Lindsey Buckingham in the band, or any other such master with a gift for melody and playing technique and atmospheric production, things would have turned out differently. As it is, they should have stuck with ʽThe Calming Seasʼ paradigm — aiming for fairy-magical slide guitar melodies that are not impeded by lethargy, numbness, and a cloak of redundant overdubs for maximum effect. As a not-unpleasant, but still jarringly disappointing sequel to a promising de­but, Once We Were Trees (And We Still Play Like Ones) gets a thumbs down, I'm afraid.

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Beck: Mutations

BECK: MUTATIONS (1998)

1) Cold Brains; 2) Nobody's Fault But My Own; 3) Lazy Flies; 4) Canceled Check; 5) We Live Again; 6) Tropicalia; 7) Dead Melodies; 8) Bottle Of Blues; 9) O Maria; 10) Sing It Again; 11) Static; 12) Diamond Bollocks; 13) Runners Dial Zero.

This album marks a serious turning point. Before the rise to major superstardom, Beck would fluctuate between «lo-fi anti-folk» and «hi-fi sample madness», lending his post-modernist de­cons­truction talents to the idea of commercial success, and his depressed garbageman side to indie labels, so as not to lose his standing in the underground. Thus, for every Mellow Gold you had yourself a Golden Feelings, for every Odelay — a Foot In The Grave.

Mutations was originally thought of, I suppose, as more of a follow-up to the latter than the for­mer: the next installment in Beck's ongoing series of «reinventing the roots», but without the samples and hip-hop beats. To that end, Beck even had an agreement with Geffen that the record, as an experimental project with no commercial appeal, would be released on an indie label. How­ever, everything changed as Radiohead took the world by storm with OK Computer. Suddenly, post-modernistic irony was out of vogue again... suddenly, there was once more a certain demand on sullen, introspective singer-songwriters... and, suddenly, Beck found himself working with Nigel Godrich, Radiohead's producer — which, for better or worse, meant that coming up with another Golden Feelings was out of the question, unless the covert idea was to make Godrich die of a heart attack and quash the competition.

Whatever those circumstances were, the end result of this collaboration between the «intellectual garbageman» and the «master of technophilic melancholia» is an excellent album — and a great introduction to Beck for those who may be too put off by his experimental side to notice the true talent behind the «glitzy» and the «trashy» aspects of his work alike. Mutations is a very «nor-mal»-sounding, but a complex, diverse, intelligent, emotionally rich record — and, best of all, the actual songs are nowhere near as boring as that description might suggest. Just blame it on the inadequacy of the language, or the language user.

Predictably, Beck and Godrich still settle on old-timey blues/folk lamentation as the departing point — and even when the melodic backbone is more akin to post-war singer-songwriters than to pre-war blueswailers, Beck still finds the time to name the song ʽNobody's Fault But My Ownʼ, with a transparent throwback to Blind Willie Johnson (and not Led Zeppelin, of course). But now, other than being different through the application of Beck's lyrics and Beck's quite-modern per­sonality, they are also different through Godrich's atmospheric production ideas — and the man adds layers of surprising depth that was hitherto inaccessible for Mr. «Feel Like A Piece Of Shit» Hansen, but now somehow feels quite native to his vision.

The «Radiohead touch» is immediately observable from the first seconds of ʽCold Brainsʼ, a song that, with a little extra tweaking, could have easily fit on The Bends. Wobbly wah-wahs, sub­liminal distorted riffs, astral noises burbling in the background — without all these embellish­ments, the song would have been just another acoustic guitar / harmonica-driven folk meditation, a «poor man's Neil Young» offering. Instead, we get a sensory feast of a «space-folk» panorama that belies the song's lyrics: "Cold brains / Unmoved / Untouched / Unglued / Alone at last / No thoughts / No mind / To rot / Behind / A trail of disasters...", but, apparently, even in that un­moved, untouched, unglued state there is a hell of a lot of different stuff going on within those «cold brains» — if the song is not a melodic masterpiece, it should at least be the object of every producer's wet dream.

For ʽNobody's Fault But My Ownʼ, Godrich invites Warren Klein, who used to play for the Stoo­ges in the early 1970s and then moved on to studying Indian music, to contribute sitar overdubs — and, once more, turns a potentially pedestrian composition into a psychedelic «sea of droning» that illustrates the protagonist's «floating» state of mind so much more vividly than it would have with just an acoustic guitar and Beck's tired, reprehensive vocals. ʽLazy Fliesʼ takes the idea of an «intellectual country waltz» and throws so much in the pot — big bass drums, harpsichords, wah-wahs, Theremin imitations, fuzzy leads, whatever — that by the time you get down to the actual chords and find out that they are quite easy, you will have already gained enough respect for the song to be properly disappointed.

And so on, and on — this Godrich touch ensures that something at least can be said about each song regardless of whether it strikes you on a personal level or not: a classic bait for critical praise (and the critics did not disappoint). So as not to fall in this trap of spending too much time on an album that, after all, may not quite deserve it, I will limit myself to just a small handful of additional mentions: ʽTropicaliaʼ is a terrific mix of Latin rhythms and ominous jazz chords (al­though most people will probably remember it for the sneering grin of the cuíca, tortured by per­cussionist Smokey Hormel); ʽO Mariaʼ would have been perfectly at home as part of a sound­track where a grizzled Beck is playing honky tonk piano in a smoky intergalactic space bar; and ʽDiamond Bollocksʼ (included as a hidden track on some of the album's editions) is Mutations' blistering nod to hip-cool mid-1960s Revolver-ish rock'n'roll, but only as if Syd Barrett came to guest star on one of the tracks.

These are just a few examples, but even though some of the songs take a little more time to get into than others, I can find no serious individual flaws — nor do I have any problems with the concept of the album in general. Of course, Beck never took himself as seriously as Thom Yorke, so there was no chance that Mutations could ever be hailed as «the Album of its generation», but on the positive side, Mutations, unlike Radiohead, does have a sense of humor. But above and beyond everything else, this is one of Nigel's finest hours — his work on Mutations really goes to show that a truly great producer is always a great producer, no matter what sort of artist he works with (as long as the artist is generally talented, of course). Despite living in the same age, Beck and Radiohead are very different — yet Godrich was able to adapt essentially the same style of production to the essence of each of them without running into serious problems. (Seven years later, he would once again work a similar, but different kind of magic on Paul McCartney's Chaos And Creation In The Backyard).

Do keep in mind that the «Beck/Godrich» way of working is very different from the «Beck/Dust Brothers» way of working — for practical purposes, these are almost two different Becks, where it is fairly easy to rave over one and get bored with the other, or to be enchanted by the latter and disgusted by the former, depending on whether you came here from Beastie Boys Wasteland or Radio­head Sanitarium. Then again, whatever be the situation, there is always a Blind Willie John­son, blindly peeking out from behind the backs of both — and a dark alley with a smelly garbage can. This one, however, is located somewhere on Aldebaran, which is all the more reason to give it a thumbs up, and hope someone out there has a telescope capable of detecting it.

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The Bats: Couchmaster

THE BATS: COUCHMASTER (1995)

1) Outside; 2) Afternoon In Bed; 3) Around You Like Snow; 4) Work It Out; 5) Train; 6) Land 'O' Lakes; 7) Chain Home Low; 8) Supernova; 9) Shoeshine; 10) Crow Song; 11) Smorgasboard; 12) Knowledge Is Power; 13) It's Hap­pening To You; 14) Lost Weekend; 15) For The Ride; 16) Out Of Bounds; 17) Down To Me.

Do not let yourself be scared by the huge number of individual tracks — several represent brief instrumental interludes, consisting either of atmospheric noise (ʽOutsideʼ) or simple rhythmic drones (ʽSmorgasboardʼ), inserted for the sake of... God only knows what. If you ask me, the idea of inserting little fluffy «links» in between The Bats' songs, many, if not most, of which are fairly little and perfectly fluffy themselves, is odd. Then again, odd ideas on Bats' albums are so rare anyway that this one at least makes Couchmaster stand out in some way.

Actually, there is a better way. The relative quality of a Bats album is practically always measu­rable by counting out how many memorable / evocative guitar lines and catchy singalong vocal hooks they offer the listener, and on that scale Couchmaster registers impressively high; at least, my gut feeling tells me that it is an improvement over Silverbeet. Brief isolated impressions of some of the better songs are as follows:

ʽAfternoon In Bedʼ — nice «murmured» guitar line, quite adaptable to the idea of spending an afternoon in bed. Not exactly ʽI'm Only Sleepingʼ-quality (too fluffy and friendly, almost invi­ting, and who the heck would really invite anybody else to their bed in the afternoon?). ʽWork It Outʼ — another fine line, either «weeping» or buzzing around you like a harmless mosquito; leave it to The Bats to synthesize that «sadness-lite» flavor, not strong enough to kill yourself but long enough to guzzle a pint. ʽLand O' Lakesʼ — no particularly strong guitar parts, but one of those clever choruses that are at once singalong-style / anthemic and dreamy / personal. ʽShoeshineʼ — subtly engineered piece of melancholic dream-pop; excellent idea to put Kaye Woodward on vocals, and an exquisite swirling guitar flourish on top of everything. ʽIt's Happening To Youʼ — from somewhere deep in the woods, comes a lilting guitar tone of sheer utmost beauty; if only its voice were a little louder and cleaner! ʽFor The Rideʼ — a little faster and angrier than everything else, with a phased / wah-wah guitar accompaniment that puts «psychedelia» ahead of «folk» for the first time in this band's career, so it seems. ʽOut Of Boundsʼ — best guitar melody on the al­bum, no doubt about it; this one just seems specifically designed for situations when you are alone, depressed, and are in special need of that one friendly pat on the shoulder to chuck you out of that needless silly state.

I think this is pretty much all that is necessary to convince myself that they took a little extra care this time around in the songwriting department, and came out with probably the best swan song they could have theoretically come up with. Swan song, that is, because Couchmaster turned out to be the last Bats album in a decade, after which they all went their separate ways to raise their separate families — but not before offering this very fair deal for their fans, because the overall quantity of pleasant melodic ideas captured here is, I think, several times as high as on The Law Of Things; and offering one tightly-packed album in ten years is certainly preferable to offering five with one memorable spot per record. Hence, a grateful thumbs up for a particularly moody way of saying goodbye.

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Be-Bop Deluxe: Futurama

BE-BOP DELUXE: FUTURAMA (1975)

1) Stage Whispers; 2) Love With The Madman; 3) Maid In Heaven; 4) Sister Seagull; 5) Sound Track; 6) Music In Dreamland; 7) Jean Cocteau; 8) Between The Worlds; 9) Swan Song.

This stylistically similar follow-up to Axe Victim sounds somewhat inferior to me: the novelty of approach is gone, the hooks do not seem to be quickly hurrying to the rescue, and the slight toning down of «glam» elements results in the whole thing looking more sullen, solemn, and serious in form, but not necessarily in substance — at the same time sacrificing some of the hu­mor and irony of Axe Victim.

The band itself is completely different: this time, we have a trio, with Charlie Tu­mahai (originally from New Zealand, no less) on bass and Simon Fox on drums — and the music produced by Roy Thomas Baker, who had earlier worked with Queen and Hawkwind, among others. However, the show is still completely run by Nelson, now overdubbing his own rhythm, lead, and keyboard playing — so that only a highly perceptive ear will notice the subtle changes from Axe Victim, at least, the ones that do not directly deal with Nelson's own artistic evolution.

The subtlest change, perhaps, is that there are no more songs like ʽJet Silver And The Dollsʼ: that strain of ceremonial-idealistic space anthem songwriting has been eliminated in favor of sharper, sneerier compositions that look more and more like free-form post-Shakesperian monologs. An example is ʽBetween The Worldsʼ, released as the first single from the album but withdrawn after just one day of (non-)sales — a stormy, theatrical performance that gets by on the strength of Nelson's passionate guitar parts and Hammill-esque vocals, but little else. It was then quickly re­placed on the shelves with ʽMaid In Heavenʼ, a shorter, more heavy riff-based power anthem that could, perhaps, be described as «Boston covering Hunky Dory-era Bowie»: emotionally un­in­volving music, redeemed by the frontman's personality and then, for some reason, provided with an extra level of thick distortion, phasing, background vocals, etc., as if putting on all this make­up might be enough to finally make our heads spin. No, I don't think it really works.

Sometimes it does — when the frontman manages to come up with a truly impressive musical or «sonic» solution. ʽSister Seagullʼ, for instance, has a two-part heavy / high-pitched riff that re­gisters well in the head, and the «seagull» motif is featured very consistently in Nelson's playing, nowhere more so than in the directly birdcry-imitating outro. ʽStage Whispersʼ opens the album with a barnstorm of crazy licks, promising to be even more of a gas than ʽAxe Victimʼ — but then it ultimately fails to deliver on that promise. Everybody can produce that sort of gallop; not everybody can make it stand out, and this time, even Nelson's technique does not help.

I give the album a thumbs down. It was a tough decision to make: the frontman has lost none of the conviction, energy, or technique, and I have no reason to doubt that this boldly anti-commer­cial music (although one could probably list Nelson's kick-ass guitar-hero playing style as a com­mercial element all the same) truly comes «from the heart». But I was not able to get into almost any of these songs, with the exception of ʽSister Seagullʼ; even the music-hall and pastoralist elements in the Brit-pop-influenced ʽMusic In Dreamlandʼ never seem to gel together into any­thing genuinely meaningful, or at least «probing». On the whole, this just looks like one of those «sophomore slumps» — the best ideas having all been used up for Axe Victim, Futurama is just scraping the bottom of the original proverbial barrel.

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Blood, Sweat & Tears: New City

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: NEW CITY (1975)

1) Ride Captain Ride; 2) Life; 3) No Show; 4) I Was A Witness To War; 5) One Room Country Shack; 6) Applause; 7) Yesterdays Music; 8) Naked Man; 9) Got To Get You Into My Life; 10) Takin' It Home.

The attempt to re-model BS&T as a funky dance-pop band having miserably failed, both critical­ly and commercially, it was officially decided that the group had lost its way, and needed to re­trace its steps back to the point at which they seemed more generally accepted. To that end, Jerry Fisher amicably left the band, taking most of the Mirror Image-era extras (like Jerry LaCroix, etc.) with him — and David Clayton-Thomas was welcomed back into the fold.

The result is an album that is at least «on the level» with the band's output circa 1970-71: the kind of sound they had back there had not yet become «dated» circa 1975, and the restructuring pro­bably injected a few extra drops of adrenaline into the outfit — and although I have never been a big fan of Clayton-Thomas, I have to admit that, next to the absolute non-remarkability of Fisher, he sounds like The Supreme God Of Vocal Expression by comparison, so that alone is a big step up from the passable, but colorless years of Fisher rule.

To herald the «comeback», BS&T tried out a move that, in retrospect, seems so utterly obvious that it only makes one wonder how they managed to hold out on it for so long — then again, per­haps they were saving it up for the rainiest day in their history, and it was getting pretty cloudy in 1975. I am talking, of course, of the release of the Beatles' ʽGot To Get You Into My Lifeʼ as the lead single from the album — that particular song that is referenced, in so many textbooks, as the song that gave life to the «jazz-pop» brand of BS&T and Chicago, much like ʽI Am The Walrusʼ gave life to the «strings-pop» brand of the Electric Light Orchestra.

Curiously, the band's version is actually much more guitar-heavy than the original — it is almost as if they were returning the Beatles a favor, with the «original brass band» paying homage to the «original guitar band» by reinterpreting the original guitar band's brass-led number as the ori­ginal brass band's guitar-led number. That said, unlike the Beatles, BS&T forgot to shape their guitar parts into any memorable riffs — the result is a slippery, mushy style of production that preserves the vocal melody but cheapens the song instrumentally. Despite that, the single still managed to chart: a Beatles song is a Beatles song, after all, it's fairly hard to spoil it to the ground.

But there are plenty of more adequate covers on New City as well. ʽRide Captain Rideʼ, the only hit by the little-known band Blues Image, originally recorded in 1970, is here given the proper BS&T treatment, including a lengthy cool-jazz keyboard solo, and Clayton-Thomas gives an in­spired performance — the original had a more exquisite guitar part (courtesy of Mike Pinera, who would later play with Iron Butterfly and Alice Cooper), but, overall, a thinner, less overtly kick-ass sound (and it also features here one of Ron McClure's toughest basslines, good enough to rival some of Fielder's), so count me happy.

The band also sounds revitalized on such party-oriented stuff as Allen Toussaint's ʽLifeʼ (similar in style to David Bowie's ʽFameʼ — coincidence? technically, yes, since Young Americans was released only a month prior to New City, but in general, no, since both songs reflected the same musical tendencies of the epoch); and Randy Newman's circus number ʽNaked Manʼ, introduced with a little bit of popular Mozart, but played out in «mock-silly» rather than «unintentionally-corny» style. And, just for diversity's sake, Laura Nyro as the band's resident «semi-popular in­tellectual singer-songwriter with musical pretense» is now replaced by Janis Ian, whose ʽAp­plauseʼ is extended by an extra three minutes of jazz-fusion and classical-fusion travels — no­thing too awesome, but at least they are trying something out, and this is the kind of something that their reputation was built upon in the first place.

Of the original numbers, Clayton-Thomas' ʽYesterdays Musicʼ is a dang good soul-pop song, simple, but with a subtle build-up and an elegant melodic wrap-up at the end of each verse. The ballad ʽI Was A Witness To Warʼ is not as good — too much vocal pathos, too little in the way of discernible melody — and McClure's instrumental ʽNo Showʼ is equally mushy for the first half of its duration, before a nicely placed twist pushes it over into upbeat rhythmic territory, where it becomes another passable, but forgettable, fusion piece.

Still, I have nothing against awarding the album an overall thumbs up. It is musically competent, mildly adventurous, gives us back a singer that is above average (no matter what I might hold in general against this particular type of singing), and, unlike its immediate predecessors, does not try to blindly compete against prevailing fads and trends, but rather just goes on to quietly pursue its own business. The very fact alone that they were able to put that blundering train back upon a crude, but functional railtrack deserves recognition.

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Bob Dylan: Self Portrait

BOB DYLAN: SELF PORTRAIT (1970)

1) All The Tired Horses; 2) Alberta #4; 3) I Forgot More Than You'll Ever Know; 4) Days Of '49; 5) Early Mornin' Rain; 6) In Search Of Little Sadie; 7) Let It Be Me; 8) Little Sadie; 9) Woogie Boogie; 10) Belle Isle; 11) Living The Blues; 12) Like A Rolling Stone; 13) Copper Kettle; 14) Gotta Travel On; 15) Blue Moon; 16) The Boxer; 17) Quinn The Eskimo (The Mighty Quinn); 18) Take Me As I Am; 19) Take A Message To Mary; 20) It Hurts Me Too; 21) Minstrel Boy; 22) She Belongs To Me; 23) Wigwam; 24) Alberta #2.

«All the tired horses in the sun, how'm I s'posed to get any writing done?» God bless you, Bob Dylan, for always finding a way to make good use of those uncomfortable phonetic mergers in the English language. He was joking, of course, but this time around, people were not amused. They would tolerate an electric Dylan, a psychedelic Dylan, a locked-up recuperating Dylan, a mystical rootsy Dylan, even Dylan the country gentleman — but their patience exploded when they got the evilest of 'em all: a singing, but not songwriting Dylan.

Years later, Bob himself would cautiously «disown» the record, saying that this was simply his most successful attempt at fan alienation — surely, if ʽJohn Wesley Hardingʼ could not stop people from regarding him as the Messiah, and if even ʽCountry Pieʼ was not enough, then at least ʽBlue Moonʼ and a Gordon Lightfoot tribute would do the trick. But this is not highly likely: Dylan was so well used to each of his unpredictable moves perceived as yet another display of his eccentric brilliance that he must have expected a warm reception for Self Portrait as well; other­wise, if he really got what he wanted with all that backlash, why all the fuss to remedy the situa­tion as quickly as possible by releasing the self-penned New Morning just a few months later, without letting all that disgust and disillusionment «sink in» more properly?

I was fortunate enough to sit through my first Self Portrait experience with the Iron Curtain still largely in place — open enough to let me hear the music, but filtering out its Western reputation, so I had absolutely no idea of how much the critical world, spearheaded by Greil Marcus, had set the people against it; and even though I was probably about thirteen years old at the time, I could detect nothing «fake» about it, even though, naturally, there seemed to be plenty of humor and light-heartedness, which was A-OK by me — and, actually, provided a bit of a relief after the «brain-heavy» stuff of the golden years. And now, I'm happy to say, after all those years of put­ting Self Portrait in its proper perspective, very little has changed. It is not a great Dylan album, but it... wait, who am I actually kidding? It is a fairly great Dylan album, albeit in an entirely dif­ferent way from the «classics».

Of course, Self Portrait is a mess: most good Dylan albums are. Recorded over a longer period than usual, and, on the whole of it, probably involving more session musicians than the entire number of all session musicians collected from all of Dylan's previous sessions, it features only a tiny handful of original songs (some of them formal «throwaways», like the one-line repetition of ʽAll The Tired Horsesʼ or the two instrumental numbers — expanding the tradition launched with 'Nashville Skyline Rag' the previous year), mixed with four tracks culled from the man's 1969 live appearance on the Isle of Wight and tons and tons of «Americana» covers: some folk, some blues, some country, some adult pop, some light jazz, and some Simon & Garfunkel. Bob's own Pin Ups, three years before Bowie came out with his idea of this kind of tribute album (and was also panned, though, as far as I remember, not nearly as badly).

Everything works: despite the 24-track sprawl, there is not a single misstep. Bob's vocal variety on the album is arguably larger than anywhere else: some of the songs are delivered in his new-fangled «croon», others give us back a more traditional Dylan, and, in a hilarious move, both are overdubbed on Bob's cover of ʽThe Boxerʼ — the «croon», I presume, homaging Art and the «rasp» correlated with Paul, in what becomes a touching tribute and a clever parody at the exact same time (well, depending on how well you know the original). His phrasing is under perfect control — listen to all the subtle out-of-tempo moves made on ʽDays Of '49ʼ that seem like mis­takes at first, but are eventually revealed as Bob's usual means of livelying up the effect. The arrangements may occasionally be thrown off balance with some excessive orchestration (e. g. the mock-Tchaikovsky grandeur on ʽBelle Isleʼ), but more often than not, they are tasteful and inventive. And the choice of covers?..

Just a few examples will suffice. ʽTake A Message To Maryʼ was never among my favorites from the Everly Brothers — too much pathos, too much inadequacy between the lyrics (which, after all, tell a rather gruesome tale of manslaughter and imprisonment) and the delivery (which is more of a moonlight serenade than a jail song). Dylan uses his croon, not his rasp, for the song, but even his croon is twenty times «earthier» and more believable than Phil and Don's cooing — and he also has the bright idea to spice the song up with a gritty electric blues-rock line: no doubt, every connoisseur of the original must have been a little bit shocked back in 1970, hearing that electric guitar grumble its way in after the predictable «sissy acoustic» intro at 0:15 into the song. Are the final results «great»? Well, as far as I am concerned, what the man did here was take a well-writ­ten, but inadequately performed, folk-pop tune and correct its errors — I find no flaws in this performance. But yes, it's no ʽBallad Of A Thin Manʼ, if that is what Greil Marcus wants to hear from me. It doesn't bother me, either.

Lightfoot's ʽEarly Mornin' Rainʼ, on the other hand, is deconstructed almost à la Leon Redbone (speaking of which, Bob later became a Redbone fan himself) — all the overt emotion and aching pathos taken out of the original and replaced with a quiet, untroubled acceptance of one's fate, making the title character more intriguing and thought-provoking: the song, in my opinion, works better in this interpretation than when one is openly wearing one's heart on one's sleeve.

The old folk standard ʽCopper Kettleʼ, which Bob used to sing with Joan Baez in his younger days at the Village, is remade here with a lush arrangement — strings, keyboards, backup vocals, the works — yet somehow, in the end, feels more intimate and ascetic than in Joan's version. Maybe it has something to do with the backups: Bob has the girls doing this little series of quick one-note "aah"s and "ooh"s, crystal clear to the point of sounding like water droplets plun­ging into little mountain pools — enhancing the «naturalistic» aura of the song. Throwaway? Exercise in alienation? Not with all this obvious care for detail, it isn't.

The Isle of Wight tracks were most likely the catalysts: «disinterested» versions of ʽLike A Rol­ling Stoneʼ and ʽShe Belongs To Meʼ, with even The Band, standing at Bob's side, unable to rec­tify the situation, must have pissed the fans off more than anything. And it is true: it takes a mon­ster effort to take this whiny, powerless, poor sound quality version of ʽStoneʼ seriously after either the studio original or any inspired performance from the «Judas» era of 1966. It is probable that Bob only sang some of his 1965-66 classics with reluctance at the event, being more interes­ted in his «rootsy» avatar at the time — but even so, the performance is notable for curiosity rea­sons (for instance, all the crazy phrasing decisions). And, in stark contrast, the band's perfor­mance of ʽQuinn The Eskimoʼ, sound quality issues aside, is ripping — this is where Bob totally launches into action, and Robbie lends him a good hand, too, with arguably the fiercest guitar solo he'd had a chance to play in 1969.

Fortunately, time has been kind to Self Portrait. As the «contextual» mist slowly dissipated, as, later on, Bob would start releasing albums that were occasionally blatantly worse than Self Portrait (Knocked Out Loaded, anyone?), as people's feelings towards new Dylan albums gra­dually became less sharp and demanding, the tide seems to have finally turned — these days, you can find more and more people digging into the past and taking the album for what it is: a sincere, diverse, light-heartedly charming experience at worst, and at best, a little infusion of classic Dy­lan magic into a set of simple songs. (For what it's worth, ʽLet It Be Meʼ and ʽBlue Moonʼ, the way they are captured here, are among my favorite versions of these songs — I'll give Billie Holiday the edge on ʽBlue Moonʼ for fear of being crucified for tastelessness, but that fiddle solo in the middle is totally awesome anyway).

I am not even appalled by the album's length — on the contrary, expanding the selection to 24 tracks, in a special way, makes Self Portrait reminiscent of The White Album as an unpredic­table journey through styles, forms, and moods, where no two tracks standing next to each other are truly alike. «Great» or not, they still show a unique brain shooting off miriads of impulses per second, a mind that shows not the least signs of staleness or tiredness. This is the work of a per­son who, still at the peak of his abilities, intentionally chose to limit these abilities to «atypical» and, admittedly, «inferior» material — but I'd always take a Dylan at the peak of his powers, fussing around with ʽBlue Moonʼ and old Skeeter Davis tunes, over 90% of other artists at the peak of their powers, trying to come out with something bloody original and world-shaking.

In short, this is clearly a thumbs up, and I insist that it belongs in the catalog of everybody with more than just a passing interest in the Bobster. These days, you actually have an alternative: Another Self Portrait, released as the 10th installation in «The Bootleg Series», offers us an al­ternate series of outtakes, demos, and early mixes from the 1969-70 sessions, often removing the orchestral and brass overdubs from the finished versions (think Let It Be Naked? but, of course, the analogy would not be complete because the original overdubs were all made under Bob's own supervision and reflect his original ideas). For that matter, did the critics pan it this time? Hate it? Spit on it? Nope — they gave the release glowing reviews and even dragged out old Greil Mar­cus' bones to offer a semi-apology for the original «What Is This Shit?...» review. Well, from a certain perspective, come to think of it, shit is good — helps plants grow and everything. Anyway, another thumbs up here for fair justice, sweet revenge, and the wonders of time, but more on that later, in the addenda section.

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Brenda Lee: Sings Top Teen Hits

BRENDA LEE: SINGS TOP TEEN HITS (1965)

1) Dancing In The Streets; 2) The Crying Game; 3) Thanks A Lot; 4) Let It Be Me; 5) He Loves You; 6) Snap Your Fingers; 7) Wishin' & Hopin'; 8) Funny How Time Slips Away; 9) Is It True; 10) Can't Buy Me Love; 11) Always Something There To Remind Me; 12) When You Loved Me.

The most insulting thing about this album is its title. Granted, in February 1965 the world was still a few months away from ʽLike A Rolling Stoneʼ and ʽSatisfactionʼ, so Decca Records could still be somewhat justified in «wishin' & hopin'» that this new wave of rock'n'roll craziness would be over them as soon as this next bunch of teenagers starts getting serious about life. But the title is still condescending — as in, well, you know, our little lady usually sings mature, responsible material that treats human relationships from a healthy, adult perspective ("Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love!"), but sure, we understand the need to cater to this newfangled teen market as well, and we don't really want to let those silly kids feel too left out, so here, as an experiment, is Ms. Brenda Lee doing a couple of those weird «Beetles» songs for our dear, if a little misguided, offspring. Now run along, little boys and girls, and make way for some serious musicians that your parents endorse — like Tony Bennett.

Actually, both of the Beatles covers are among the highlights here — Brenda had not yet com­pletely forgotten what the rock'n'roll spirit was all about, and she nails the vocals on both with the good old abandon. Funny tidbit: even though the song is officially listed as ʽHe Loves Youʼ, Brenda sings the original lyrics without changing the pronoun — and understandably so, because the idiots at Decca failed to realize that the song involves three rather than two characters, and that turning it into ʽhe loves youʼ could have easily made the song into a gay rights anthem. Oh well, at least they bothered to preserve the electric guitar solo on ʽCan't Buy Me Loveʼ.

Most of the other songs, though... well, they were certainly hits, but it is somewhat questionable whether all of them were truly «teen» hits. ʽLet It Be Meʼ was covered by the Everleys, it is true, and there is plenty of Brill Building and Motown material on here, but the accent is very rarely on rock'n'roll even in its lightest form — most of the covers are lush ballads, soft-pop, or country with «crossover» appeal, and there is a nasty tendency to butcher some of the songs (for instance, ʽThe Crying Gameʼ was a very interesting song when recorded by Dave Berry, mainly due to Big Jim Sullivan's pioneering use of the wah-wah — here it is all replaced by the usual mushy strings). The Beatles covers are fun to hear, as is ʽDancing In The Streetsʼ — a song ideally sui­ted for all the raunch and fire that Brenda's voice can generate — and, at the very least, the con­cept allows her to devote some space to fluffy, but upbeat material like ʽSnap Your Fingersʼ and ʽThanks A Lotʼ: these aren't great songs, but in between all of them, they make Brenda Lee Sings Some Decca Executives Favorites They're Too Ashamed To Admit, So They Pose As Teens vastly preferable to Brenda Lee, By Request Of Some Other Decca Executives Who Do Not Pose As Teens But It's Not As If We Have To Respect Them For That.

The corniest moment on the record is saved for last: a teen idol-type candy piece called ʽWhen You Loved Meʼ, whose first verse goes "When you loved me / You took the stars / Down from the skies / Then you put them in my eyes" — I don't know about you, but my first reaction was "Oh man, that must have really hurt!" But this is actually a good sign, a crystal clear message from the industry that nothing has changed in a profound manner: the Beatles will come and go just the same way as Martha & The Vandellas or Dave Berry or Dusty Springfield, but Serious Good Taste by Responsible Adults will always prevail in the end. And it's always useful to be in the know, regardless of whether the news is pleasant or disappointing.

Beachwood Sparks: Beachwood Sparks

BEACHWOOD SPARKS: BEACHWOOD SPARKS (2000)

1) Desert Skies; 2) Ballad Of Never Rider; 3) Silver Morning After; 4) Singing Butterfly; 5) Sister Rose; 6) This Is What It Feels Like; 7) Canyon Ride; 8) The Reminder; 9) The Calming Seas; 10) New Country; 11) Something I Don't Recognize; 12) Old Sea Miner; 13) See, Oh Three; 14) Sleeping Butterfly.

It is said that the name «Beachwood Sparks» was coined together by the band's original drummer, Jimi Hey, out of the names of two adjacent streets in Burbank, California, native to the band's founding father and bass player Brent Rademaker. Whatever be the circumstances, the choice is brilliant. «Sparks», of course, suggests a psychedelic orientation, something along the lines of Tommy-style noise freakouts, which these guys certainly have a penchant for; but choosing «Beachwood» as a title modifier suggests something earthy, rootsy, and eco-clean — and is, con­sequently, in perfect agreement with the band's country-rock orientation.

The roots of this band reach all the way up to the «space cowboy» era of The Notorious Byrd Brothers, Easy Rider, and such — in fact, this categorization is so obvious that it gets verbally rehashed in just about any text that has to do with Beachwood Sparks. It is hard for me to judge in which particular location on the long line of evolution of that genre they happen to stand, since I am no big fan of country, be it «authentic» or «astral». However, they have such a good sense of balance that it is illegitimate to brand them as «country» — being no foes to distorted riffs, deep folk, sunny martial pop, or noisy interludes. Steel and slide guitar melodies lie at the core of their sound, but they have a pretty impressive «sonic periphery» as well.

This pretty little self-titled debut is fairly charming, if not altogether memorable. The band's weakest point is interesting songwriting — pretty much the bane of all country-based music, I guess — but they try, and, every once in a while, come out with a winner: my personal favorite is ʽThe Calming Seasʼ, with a pedal steel part from Dave Scher that's just as pretty as a songbird, but way catchier. On the rockier side, there is ʽSister Roseʼ, steadily galloping along on a light­hearted merry note, then gradually melting away in a sea of noise before, right at the very end, emerging once again to a steady country-rock mode of operation. (It actually seems to be a rip-off of some old Flying Burrito Brothers tune, but nothing exact pops to mind).

The album wins over through its complete lack of «pretense» — even the loud tunes are really quite quiet, including the band's two-part and three-part vocals, harmonizing together in a soft, high-pitched, semi-whispered manner. The arrangements, which may spill over into the noisy / trippy without a single warning and just as easily snap out of that state, are only as much experi­mental as they can allow themselves without breaking up with old-timey traditions of melody and harmony — and the basic idea of the album is a good old-fashioned celebration of peace, beauty, and idealism, without any excesses or overplaying.

Almost inevitably, the album tends to drag a bit, particularly in its slower parts. When they really put their backs to it, the band members are capable of generating a convincing atmosphere — for instance, on the brief instrumental interludes ʽSinging Butterflyʼ and ʽSleeping Butterflyʼ (despite the titles, there is not much difference between the two) where minimalistic steel guitar and keyboard parts merge together in a dreamy, otherworldly landscape populated with alien crea­tures making odd sounds («butterflies» don't really cut it, or maybe they're giant prehistoric but­terflies equipped with powerful sonic generators). But just as often, they don't put their backs to it — ʽThe Reminderʼ and ʽNew Countryʼ are downright boring, with the latter of the two realizing this way too late, when, for its last thirty seconds, it launches into a fast country groove.

Nevertheless, on the whole this is a positive experience, heartily recommended to all the fans of a good, not too professional, but inventive, steel guitar sound, and to all those who like their «Ame­ricana» a little less self-conscious and a little more experimental than we usually see it. Maybe the idea of a band like Beachwood Sparks sounds more exciting than the actual band turns out to be, but that does not preclude ʽThe Calming Seasʼ from being one of the prettiest soft-rock num­bers of the year 2000, so I would like to present the record with a modest thumbs up. Sure they aren't Wilco-level, but there is something to be said about the humble guy who doesn't like taking too many risks along the way.

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Beck: Odelay

BECK: ODELAY (1996)

1) Devil's Haircut; 2) Hotwax; 3) Lord Only Knows; 4) The New Pollution; 5) Derelict; 6) Novacane; 7) Jack-Ass; 8) Where It's At; 9) Minus; 10) Sissyneck; 11) Readymade; 12) High 5 (Rock The Catskills); 13) Ramshackle; 14*) Computer Rock.

Looking back on the huge amount of lavish praise that Odelay had garnered upon release — for many a critic, the album was almost like a super-symbol of the mid-1990s — the record seems to have taken more of a beating recently, still standing the test of time, but not without bloodstains and lacerations. Judging by various «amateur» opinions on the Web, what seemed trendy, auda­cious, boundary-melting, and just plain «hip» at the time slowly comes to be regarded as a tempo­rary, and somewhat silly, triumph of cool form over thin substance. As a new wave of artists, inspired by Beck's genre mish-mashing, made people get over the initial excitement, more and more of them began to realize that... yeah, cool is cool, but does Odelay really have all that re­play value? Is there, like, a message in there? How has it really enriched humanity and all?

Admittedly, there is nothing shameful or unethical in the want to take Odelay down a peg or two. It captured one of those rogue «Zeitgeists» which one never really knows how to treat properly — by appeasing them or flogging them away — but it does not really have the kind of emotional depth that is usually required for a de-luxe pedestal: if there ever was the slightest chance of Beck wearing the «Most Important Artist of the Decade» crown, the release of OK Computer the next year would bury it forever, branding him as one of the industry's leading tricksters instead. And now, way too often, the actual tricks seem dated and not even particularly curious.

But it is also unwise to go all the way to the other side of the pole — whatever be the case, Ode­lay is not just an experimental hackjob carried out by a no-goodnik with too much free time on his hands. It is a logical follow-up to Mellow Gold, carrying Beck's penchant for genre-fusing to its culmination, and it certainly does not lack emotional content — it merely conceals the troub­led singer-songwriter behind a thick wall of overdubs, and it may be a little difficult to ex­tract him from behind that wall if one is not familiar with Beck's history of trouble and toil. If anything, this is the proper use of Beck's early indie albums: they may be technically flawed on their own level, but simply being aware of them helps gain a deeper affection for Odelay.

And beyond all that bullshit, the album is just a fairly solid collection of inventive songs. Already ʽDevil's Haircutʼ establishes the basic standard — take an old songwriting technique, merge it with a modern beat and sampling style, throw in a pinch of Beck's own «murderous depression» image, and you got yourself a readymade contemporary classic. It does not matter that the song is way too repetitive (you don't usually put it to all those hip-hop tunes that Beck draws his influen­ces from, so how could he be guilty?) — all it takes is a jarring fuzz riff, some haughty, mur­mured vocals transplanted all the way from psychedelic 1967, and a final surprising touch of swampy harmonica. Or perhaps the final touch are the lyrics. "Everywhere I look there's a dead end waiting" — if this were Robert Smith, the accompanying music would be suicidal, but Beck is simply way too cool, calm, and collected to let his music lead you into depression. ʽDevil's Haircutʼ is loud, noisy, screamy, and impossibly urbanistic — the accompanying video, with Beck strolling through various locations in NYC with a boombox under his arm, matches the atmosphere of the tune to perfection.

What gradually emerges from the next few songs is... well, I'd say, a brave stab at a «new Dylan» for his generation. ʽLord Only Knowsʼ, whose mysterious final chant gave the album its title, starts off with a hoarse scream, some feedback, a false start (already a bit of Dylanish noncha­lance), then turns into upbeat country-rock, set to some angry, accusing, but generally meaning­less lyrics directed at everyone in general and no one in particular. Unfortunately, Beck is no­where near Dylan in terms of vocal performance — most of his deliveries are fairly monotonous and by-the-book, as he treats each following word exactly like the one that preceded it. Most of the work is going into spicing things up — for instance, with a little bit of Steve Vai-style guitar arpeggios instead of a «normal» bridge, and suchlike. It's unpredictable enough to keep your attention in a steady hold, but for the first listen only: later on, there is a chance that many of the «intrusions» will become obnoxious, being so out of place and all.

Still, the basic structures are consistently fun, no matter how derivative they are — ʽThe New Polutionʼ revives the old ʽTaxmanʼ / ʽStart!ʼ progression with an added «astral» flavor (Eastern organ, Mellotron, acid sax licks, you name it); ʽDerelictʼ is like a flat-out musical opium den, with smelly smoke rising from the speakers; ʽJack-Assʼ begins as a tough'n'tender ballad in Lou Reed style, then ends with some atonal guitar and genuine jackass noises; ʽSissyneckʼ is just simple, catchy country-rock with a hyperdriven rhythm section and a pop chorus that is every bit as unforgettable as it is bizarre ("I'm writing my will on a three dollar bill in the evening time"? he must know that a "three dollar bill" is, among other things, a euphemism for a flaming homo­sexual, right?); and so on.

I do not find as much joy in the more openly hip-hoppish numbers on the album — ʽHigh 5 (Rock The Catskills)ʼ and ʽWhere It's Atʼ, both of them surprisingly «normal» celebratory odes to the joys of DJing, might appeal to Beastie Boy fans, but on the whole, they seem to have more to do with The Dust Brothers (who co-produced the album with Beck) than with the musical and atmospheric personality of Mr. Hansen. I certainly prefer him when his passion for beats, samples, and rapping plays second fiddle to his passion for «Ye Olde Urbana Americana», rather than when it is thrown into the limelight — and it isn't even my anti-hip-hop bias speaking, it's just that ʽSissyneckʼ and ʽWhere It's Atʼ aren't really destined for necking on the same album.

But this is just a minor personal quibble, which can be easily disregarded. The major quibble is that Odelay may not be one of the greatest albums ever made — which is a quibble with the cri­tical world rather than Beck himself, who cannot be blamed for the headlines. It's just high qua­lity hipster music that will be forever representative of its own time and space: which wasn't the best of times and spaces, perhaps, but definitely not the worst, either. It may not deserve all of its reputation, but it certainly deserves its thumbs up, no reservations applied.

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The Bats: Silverbeet

THE BATS: SILVERBEET (1991)

1) Courage; 2) Sighting The Sound; 3) Too Much; 4) Slow Alight; 5) Valley Floor; 6) Love Floats Two; 7) Green; 8) No Time For Your Kind; 9) Straight On Home; 10) Before The Day; 11) Stay Away; 12) Drive Me Some Boars; 13) Half Way To Nowhere.

The title is probably a pun on the Silver Beetles — but if this means that, in some way, The Bats are really trying to compare themselves to this early stage in the Fab Four's career, they are totally off the mark. Most likely, it just seemed like a funny wordgame to somebody, funny enough to be commemorated with an LP title.

And the LP itself is basically Fear Of God, Vol. 2: the same brand of «tough» folk-rock, played in a tight, disciplined manner, crisp-clearly produced, with a slightly ominous tinge and a small touch of «social consciousness» to some of the songs (ʽGreenʼ, for instance, is a commemoration of the Rainbow Warrior incident from 1985 — more firmly embedded in the minds of New Zea­landers than anyone else, since the bombing took place in their waters, but well worth remember­ing for everyone, including Bats fans around the globe). But just as The Law Of Things was a slightly less interesting minor brother of Daddy's Highway, so is Silverbeet, on the whole, a little more stale than the freshened up Fear Of God.

As usual, everybody here will have one's own favorites. ʽCourageʼ is often singled out because it opens the album and was its lead single as well, but I find it too repetitive (the song hangs on one simple guitar line from first to last second) and lacking a vocal hook. On the other hand, people rarely talk about ʽLove Floats Twoʼ, which I find to be one of their best love songs — guitars, lead and backing vocals all conspire to make the "you know love floats two, and there's room enough for you" chorus sound a little creepy, as if the boat in question were really floating out towards the world's end. Nor do I hear much mention of ʽNo Time For Your Kindʼ, featuring the album's most impressive chord change from verse to chorus — the lyrics are a little muddy, so it is hard to ascertain what exactly is troubling Scott on this particular occasion, but at least the main hook, a.k.a. the song title, is delivered to stern prohibitive perfection.

Some of the other songs place their trust in near-subliminal guitar lines, like the psychedelic elec­tric wail that appears in between the verses of ʽToo Muchʼ, or the even more desperate howling backing Scott on ʽStay Awayʼ — on the whole, the band's drift towards more and more somber melancholia, as compared to the easier-flowing, lighter-colored days of Daddy's Highway is be­coming more pronounced. But this change is neither for the good nor the bad — because Scott and Co.'s skills at writing melodies and dressing them up steadily remain at the exact same level of competence. Since the sound is unshakeably pleasant, and the humble hooks are as well hid as always, and ʽLove Floats Twoʼ is a kicker and all, Silverbeet gets another thumbs up — albeit with an ever so slowly decreasing level of enthusiasm.

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