Brand X: Moroccan Roll

BRAND X: MOROCCAN ROLL (1977)

1) Sun In The Night; 2) Why Should I Lend You Mine (When You've Broken Off Yours Already); 3) Maybe I'll Lend You Mine After All; 4) Hate Zone; 5) Collapsar; 6) Disco Suicide; 7) Orbits; 8) Malaga Virgen; 9) Macrocosm.

The title of the album is a pun that is somewhat misleading, because, while this album certainly contains a dose of rock and roll and shows some definite Moroccan (or North African / Near Eastern in general) influences, neither the first nor the second components are all that essential to its essence and success. Instead, what Moroccan Roll is really about is team playing: like most of the good fusion albums, what matters is how the musicians gather around the groove, regard­less of where the groove is coming from — jazz, blues, Malhun, Chaabi, or polka.

In fact, Eastern influences are mainly limited here to the first track, ʽSun In The Nightʼ, which is fairly atypical of the album as a whole — a slow, quasi-spiritual-meditative number with sitars, ethnic percussion (some or all of it contributed by new band member Morris Pert), and, most surprisingly, vocals from Phil Collins, singing in Sanskrit, no less. It's only a few lines, repeated several times, but still, somewhat of an achievement — too bad he didn't try that one again on No Jacket Required, it might have helped save his reputation with the progressively-minded. The results are amusing rather than enlightening — as, to tell you the truth, would seem to be the gene­ral case with jazz-blues-rock people straightforwardly appropriating Indian, Near, or Far Eastern motives for «deep-reaching spiritual purposes» — but the track does generate positive vibrations, and is almost guaranteed to make you smile.

Already on the second track, though, Moroccan Roll becomes More Unorthodox Behaviour: once more we enter the realm of funky beats, syncopated bass grooves, speedy guitar runs, and sci-fi era keyboards. The good news is that the band remains inspired and dedicated, and you can see that they are still having fun playing together. It does not always result in memorable music: the 11-minute long ʽWhy Should I Lend You Mineʼ gives the impression of being seriously im­provised, with the first part of the jam played at a steady mid-tempo, but never really going any­where in particular, and the second part slowing down to a crawl and attempting to generate a romantic, but maybe slightly dangerous nocturnal atmosphere. It is all too easy to dismiss it as a boring noodlefest — much less so if you approach it from a «free flight» angle, just watching all four (five?) players trying to stay coordinated with each other and yet take the groove in a slightly different direction every twenty seconds. Sure it's a typical thing with jazz/blues improvisation, but not everybody always sounds like a natural at this.

Amusingly, it is precisely this somewhat meandering jam that is credited in its entirety to Phil Collins — soon-to-become master of the concise (and much more annoying) pop hook. As we move on to tracks credited to Lumley, Goodsall, and Jones, we end up with tighter grooves and more distinctly expressed themes: ʽHate Zoneʼ has a lightly ominous descending riff whose final cadence leads us into a sort of «funky hell», punctuated by jerky bass and guitar figures; ʽDisco Suicideʼ has nothing whatsoever to do with disco (and, I would like to hope, with suicide), but is instead a moody, contemplative track for most of its duration, filled with romantic piano solos and even a brief chime-and-choral part at the end — celebrating the suicide of disco with bells and joyful da-da-da's? whatever. Finally, the mid-section of ʽMacrocosmʼ is the fastest bit on the entire album, with some amazing guitar/drum interplay, even if the track as a whole does not quite justify the ambitious title — these guys still have a long way to go if they want their music to reflect a Mahler-type vision or something like that.

Amusingly, I'd say that this is one Brand X album that probably has most in common with contemporary Genesis — its overall contemplative, but simultaneously fussy mood, mixed with an ounce of melancholy and gloom, a slightly autumnal atmosphere, would be quite compatible with Wind & Wuthering, and fairly representative of «the autumn of prog» in general. But then again, one shouldn't be reading too much into a rather light-hearted venture like this — just give it one more thumbs up and move on.

PS. And yes, apparently so it seems that the album was originally (mis)titled Morrocan Roll, but don't blame them record people too much for this. Everybody's entitled to a mispelleng every once in a while, and besides, it's sort of a relief to now that people were as bad with names of foreign countries in 1977 as they are now. 

The Box Tops: Tear Off!

THE BOX TOPS: TEAR OFF! (1998)

1) Flying Saucers Rock'n'Roll; 2) Wang Dang Doodle; 3) Ain't That A Lot Of Love; 4) It Tears Me Up; 5) Last Laugh; 6) Treat Her Right; 7) Soothe Me; 8) I'm In Love; 9) The Letter; 10) Trip To Bandstand; 11) Little Latin Lupe Lu; 12) Keep On Dancing; 13) Last Bouquet; 14) Big Bird.

I suppose that even fewer people are aware of this surprising Box Tops comeback than those that know about the Big Star comeback — then again, maybe not, since I really have no idea whether «old school power pop» still remains more popular among the knowledge-seeking youngsters today than «old school blue-eyed soul». Anyway, this particular comeback was actually quite a proper comeback, since it did reunite all the original band members from 1967, right down to the rhythm section (not that the rhythm section had much to play in 1967). The resulting album, how­ever, was downright odd.

I mean, you could rightfully expect the guys to go nostalgic, but Tear Off! goes way beyond simple nostalgia — it plays out like a consciously assembled encyclopaedia of pop music forms in the pre-Sgt. Pepper era. Putting together a jumbo-combo of golden oldies, forgotten oldies, and some pseudo-originals, these Elderly Box Tops begin with stereotypical rockabilly (ʽFlying Saucers Rock'n'Rollʼ), continue with some rockin' Chicago blues (ʽWang Dang Doodleʼ), follow that up with gritty R&B (ʽAin't That A Lot Of Loveʼ), throw in some torch ballads (ʽIt Tears Me Upʼ), heat it up with some hard rock (ʽTreat Her Rightʼ), mix it with pop-soul (ʽSoothe Meʼ), spice it up with late Fifties' novelty-comedy stylistics (ʽTrip To Bandstandʼ), bring on a bit of twistey innocence (ʽKeep On Dancingʼ), remind us how country music used to sound when Hank Williams was king (ʽLast Bouquetʼ), and finally, end things with a loud, overdriven garage-rock jam (ʽBig Birdʼ) that seems to suggest — «yes, boys and girls, and then, eventually, the angry, crazy, distorted rock guitars took over and swallowed them all, and they all lived happily ever after in the satiated belly of the heavy rock guitar».

Oh, I forgot: in the middle of it all comes a re-recording of ʽThe Letterʼ, because otherwise, I guess, the record label wouldn't let them release the package. Come on now — what good is a Box Tops album in 1998 if it doesn't have ʽThe Letterʼ? It's like a Sgt. Pepper with no ʽYes­terdayʼ on it!... oh, never mind. Anyway, this new version sounds almost like the original, except that Chilton's voice, retaining its gruffness, has lost much of its frailty and vulnerability, and that makes them sound like their own inferior tribute band.

Anyway, on the whole this is a totally harmless, perfectly fun, and completely useless record. Very cleanly and wholesomely produced, which is the only thing that betrays its date of origin (sort of like Clapton's From The Cradle), but little more than a respectable tribute to all those heroes of long ago — nobody is going to cherish this version of ʽWang Dang Doodleʼ over How­lin' Wolf or this version of ʽSoothe Meʼ over Sam Cooke. This is disappointing in that Chilton had gone a long, long way since the Box Tops last saw each other, and with their legacy that, after all, goes a little deeper than generic rockabilly and twist numbers, this may have been a more meaningful album. Instead, it's just like a gathering of old friends for old times' sake — stick around, have some drinks, play a couple songs we used to play when we were thirteen, except we do it like professionals now.

In the end, the lengthy ʽBig Birdʼ cover happens to be the only place where they seem like they're trying to do something — even if that something largely amounts to kicking up a ruckus, and is not very successful even as a ruckus (the exaggerated screaming is way too «acted»: all these "OH BIG BIRD!" and "TAKE THE BIG BIRD HOME!" and all the ooh-aahs seem sort of point­less). And everything else is just a nostalgic souvenir — and it's not even the kind of nostalgic souvenir you'd most likely expect from these former soulsters. But yeah, everything sounds kinda cool. If you were a directionless teen in 1998 and you saw this in a used bin and had your first acquaintance with ʽI'm In Loveʼ and ʽSoothe Meʼ by donating fifty cents, it would at least give you a fairly good understanding of the essence of Sam Cooke and Wilson Pickett. Wouldn't let you understand too much about Alex Chilton, though.

Booker T. & The M.G.'s: Union Extended

BOOKER T. & THE M.G.'s: UNION EXTENDED (1976)

1) Overton Park Sunrise; 2) Steve's Stroll; 3) Duck Walk; 4) Cotton Carnival; 5) Midnight On McLemore; 6) Union Extended; 7) Avalon; 8) Around Orange Mound; 9) National Jackson; 10) Beale Street Revival; 11) Saucy Pt. 2; 12) Booker's Theme.

Only nine days after Booker T. and the M.G.'s finally came together and agreed to give their romance one more chance, Al Jackson Jr. was murdered in his own home. Plans for a new album were temporarily scratched, but relationships between Booker T. and the remaining members of the band were somewhat remedied, and, as tribute to the dear departed, Stax put out this record of previously unreleased archive material — with a title that was thrice misleading: not only did Union Exten­ded contain no new recordings, but it wasn't even prophetic, since the extended union only lasted for less than two years, and the union had nothing to do with Stax.

Nevertheless, this here is a fine enough gathering of leftovers. It has never been issued on CD and is rather hard to come by in physical form these days, and the exact dates for the recordings are unknown, but judging by the overall stylistics and instrumentation, I'd probably put them around 1968-70. All the tracks are original instrumental compositions by the M.G.'s and are no better and no worse than their regular stuff — and commenting on them individually, for that reason, is tremendously hard, but here goes a feeble attempt.

ʽOverton Park Sunriseʼ is a fairly good title, since Jones and Cropper's playing on the track sounds «fresh», particularly Jones' «water-droplet» organ tone that sometimes throws on the hook from ʽSunnyʼ and Cropper's sunshine-poppy guitar riff — a dang good song to start off your day with if you're in need of a quick, painless shot of optimism. ʽCotton Carnivalʼ begins by sounding like ʽBorn Under A Bad Signʼ transposed to a major tonality, then, all of a sudden, shifts half of its riff to a quotation from ʽSunshine Of Your Loveʼ in the coda section — funny, and easy to miss, but it's there all right. ʽMidnight On McLemoreʼ may have been written and/or recorded around midnight in the studio, of course, but its musical skeleton is essentially a variation on ʽSummertimeʼ — then again, ʽSummertimeʼ has always had a nocturnal aura around it. Anyway, some nice, quietly haunting organ and guitar themes again.

The most haunting track, though, is arguably placed at the very end, where ʽBooker's Themeʼ, opening with the sound of sea waves and a romantic piano motif, quickly gets a string arrange­ment and becomes the perfect soundtrack for one of those ride-across-the-country, freedom-wind hippie movies of the late Sixties. Since the band almost never used the orchestra on its original tracks, this could have been a later overdub, but it works — in fact, it works in perfect contrast with the opening number: ʽOverton Park Sunriseʼ opened the day for us, and ʽBooker's Themeʼ is the ideal sundown-at-the-beach track, closing the day. Whoever assembled this stuff at Stax sure had a knack for conceptuality.

Anyway, a solid thumbs up here: it is certainly telling that an album of outtakes released in 1976 would be more satisfactory than the band's contemporary output — if anything, playing Union Extended in its little time machine pod back-to-back with the modernized Universal Language gives an ample demonstration of how much the ideology had changed in about six or seven years' time. Not for the better, of course — you knew I'd say that, didn't you?

Brenda Holloway: The Early Years

BRENDA HOLLOWAY: THE EARLY YEARS (1962-1964/2009)

1) Constant Love; 2) Suddenly; 3) The Game Of Love; 4) Hey Fool; 5) I Never Knew You Looked So Good Until I Quit You; 6) I Want A Boyfriend (Girlfriend); 7) I'll Give My Life; 8) I Ain't Gonna Take You Back; 9) Gonna Make You Mine; 10) Unless I Have You; 11) Candy; 12) Echo; 13) I Get A Feeling; 14) It's You; 15) He's Gone; 16) The Nursery; 17) Will You Be My Love; 18) I Told You Baby; 19) I'll Find Myself A Guy; 20) Do The Del Viking, Pt. 1; 21) You're My Only Love; 22) Every Little Bit Hurts (demo).

Few people know that Brenda Holloway actually had a recording career prior to her Motown engagement — and probably even fewer give a damn about that. Big frickin' mistake, as it turns out, now that we have this wonderful, carefully assembled collection of the various tracks that she recorded either as a solo artist, or as part of a duo or a vocal band from 1962 to early 1964. This compilation, as inauspicious as it is on the surface, is actually a fun-filled, representative slice of, let's say so, «Afro-American bubble-gum pop» in the pre-British Invasion era, and is not to be missed by any nostalgic fan of those young and innocent days.

First of all, it is interesting that very little here, if anything at all, actually sounds like ʽEvery Little Bit Hurtsʼ (for some strange reason, her original recording of it from 1962 is omitted here in favor of a new demo version from 1964, for Motown already — with strings instead of key­boards). Instead of being slow, regal, and tragic, she comes across as upbeat, energetic, loud, sometimes even abrasive — and occasionally screeching her head off with even more reckless­ness than Aretha in those same years. Of course, this is all basically «teen pop» without much pretense at depth of any sort, but it does raise the issue of pigeonholing: here, she is all over the place, and then, in one year's time, she'd become a prisoner of her biggest hit. Was that voluntary, or the result of Motown's forceful image-making? Just three or four of these songs, had they been included on her first LP, would have made it far less formulaic and far more exciting.

For instance, here is her first single, ʽHey Foolʼ, credited to Jesse James and released on the small Donna label — a gritty blues-rocker with a scorching electric guitar solo played by God knows who, but with a fierce, piercing tone that reminds one of Freddie King (and, subsequently, early Yardbirds-era Clapton). The rhythm section is a bit wobbly, but guitar and vocals are impeccable. And the B-side is ʽEchoʼ, co-credited to Brenda and her sister Patrice — a slow, waltzing ballad this time, but with an imaginative gimmick as Brenda and Patrice bounce their "there's an echo... echo... echo..." off each other in a unique combination (they have slightly different ranges whose interference produces an almost psychedelic effect). Both these songs are better than just about anything on her Motown debut, bar the big hit single, of course.

Several of the songs are exciting and hilarious duets with male singers: on ʽI Never Knew You Looked So Good Until I Quit Youʼ and ʽGonna Make You Mineʼ, she is downright nasty and raunchy, roughing up her vocal cords while Jess Harris is playing the part of the dumb, but weirdly seductive, baritone — and on ʽI Want A Boyfriendʼ, recorded with Robert Jackson, they put a sharp echo effect on her already hysterical "I want a, I want a, I want a boyfriend!" intro that is guaranteed to glue your attention: there was not a single song in her Motown catalog where she would sound that fiery and insistent. And in each and every one of these vocal battles, she always makes it clear who's on top and who's really in the background.

One has to be careful, though, because not every one of these tracks has Brenda as lead vocalist: for instance, the one single included here under the name of ʽThe Four J'sʼ (appropriately recor­ded for the 4J label) features two other ladies, while Holloway is dismissed to the position of background singer; and the joke number ʽDo The Del Viking, Pt. 1ʼ was released under the name of Patricia Holloway, so I suppose that once again, Brenda is just singing backup here. But that's not a big problem, because, like I said, the collection works as a «wholistic» package — sort of «the early life and times of Brenda Holloway», a little bit of a working Odyssey as she goes through label after label, team after team, style after style, carefully building up an original pedi­gree that would eventually assure her a place in the big leagues (and not a very respectable place at that — this compilation definitely shows that she deserved a lot better).

Discussing the other songs would not be very helpful, because composition and arrangements are predictably not the strongest elements here: most of the chord sequences, lyrics, and sentiments are totally in line with the formulae of the day. And this is the mistake which most people who have reviewed this package seem to have made — for some reason, they tended to focus on the songs, when in reality you have to focus on the delivery of the songs, on the character behind the songs, and on the difference between this character and Brenda's subsequent Motown image. Just put on ʽI Never Knew You Looked So Goodʼ and then go listen to some of her Motown dirges, and it's like two different singers, and it's, like, a transition that took place in between when she was fifteen years of age and seventeen years of age. Reason enough to be at least slightly amazed, not to mention seriously amused, and to issue a surefire thumbs up and a strong recommendation, provided the package is still circulating somewhere out there.

Björk: Voltaïc

BJÖRK: VOLTAÏC (2009)

CD I: 1) Wanderlust; 2) Hunter; 3) Pleasure Is All Mine; 4) Innocence; 5) Army Of Me; 6) I Miss You; 7) Earth Intruders; 8) All Is Full Of Love; 9) Pagan Poetry; 10) Vertebrae By Vertebrae; 11) Declare Independence.

CD II: 1) Earth Intruders (XXXChange Remix); 2) Innocence (Simian Mobile Disco Remix); 3) Declare Indepen­dence (Matthew Herbert Remix); 4) Wanderlust (Ratatat Remix); 5) The Dull Flame Of Desire (Modeselektor Remix for Girls); 6) Earth Intruders (Lexx Remix); 7) Innocence (Graeme Sinden Remix); 8) Declare Independence (Ghostigital Remix); 9) The Dull Flame Of Desire (Modeselektor Remix for Boys); 10) Innocence (Alva Noto Unitxt Remodel); 11) Declare Independence (Black Pus Remix); 12) Innocence (Simian Mobile Disco Dub Remix).

I would not bother with this one, honestly. Volta was not Björk at her very best, and neither is this accompanying piece, or, rather, multi-set of accompanying pieces. In its shortest incarnation, Voltaïc is just one CD, capturing a live performance recorded without a live audience at the Olympic Studios. In its longest incarnation, the set also includes a live DVD (recorded with live audiences in Paris and Reykjavik), a DVD of musical videos, and a separate CD of multiple re­mixes of Volta songs, similarly to the Telegram album but perhaps a little less conceptual and autonomous in execution. Plus artwork, of course, and all sorts of various goodies for people to argue about (crass commercialism or heartfelt gift for the fans?).

This brief and somewhat displeased review will discuss only the CDs. The first one, of all the wealth of live material released by the singer, is probably the least useful. It sounds like an expe­riment — would it be possible to completely trick the listener into thinking that he is dealing with a polished studio re-recording rather than a «spontaneous» live performance? Yes, it would. Now what? The Volta songs all sound almost exactly the same as their studio counterparts, and the others, even if they do modify the arrangements (for instance, using horns instead of strings on ʽHunterʼ and ʽAll Is Full Of Loveʼ), still allow for no real spontaneity. Of interest only for hard­core fans who thrive on each and every nuance.

The second CD, the remixes, is at least formally much more creative than the first one, but still, it ain't no Telegram. Because Telegram was an artsy experience — all sorts of people who were, you could say, on the cutting edge of «technological art» back then, gathered together to pool their vision with Björk's in a variegated and stimulating mind meld. The Volta Mixes, on the other hand, seem to pursue a much more pragmatic goal — this is a strictly club-oriented dance album, going along well with some MDMA, a light show, and a vague realization that you are being stimulated by a 44-year old pretender and you don't bloody care.

Most of the remixes belong to fashionable DJs (XXXChange) or electronic experimentators (Matthew Herbert) or other people, information on whom is not even available on Wikipedia, but the results are always the same — psychedelic body muzak with chopped-up, spliced and treated fragments of Björk's spirit floating in and out more like a symbolic guide-and-protector than with any serious purpose. Honestly, it would make more sense to write about all these artists than pretend that The Volta Mixes represent different views on how to show Björk songs from some unexpected side. I am not saying that the mixes «suck» — they're fairly imaginative, and diffe­rent versions of the same song often sound nothing alike — but where Telegram was like a long line of fashion designers, each dressing the girl in his/her own haute couture, The Volta Mixes produces no such impression. All they do is just sample the tracks to fit their own visions, which often have nothing whatsoever to do with the Volta vision.

For fairness' sake, I must say that the live DVD, of which I have caught some glimpses, is far more entertaining than the rest of this stuff — the Paris show is particularly crazy, colorful, and energetic, even if it often comes close to vulgar kitsch (not something I could ever say of the Vespertine shows). But whether you will want to splurge on the whole package will ultimately depend on whether you agree with me that post-Vespertine Björk is a messy, confused, and generally dissatisfactory experience, or prefer to think that the lady has simply become «diffe­rent», but her music still makes sense, shows depth, and/or sets trends. As far as my opinion is concerned, Voltaïc is simply the perfectly adequate companion to Volta — mediocre (downright bad in places) album, suitably mediocre paraphernalia. No big surprise there.

The Breeders: Pod

THE BREEDERS: POD (1990)

1) Glorious; 2) Doe; 3) Happiness Is A Warm Gun; 4) Oh!; 5) Hellbound; 6) When I Was A Painter; 7) Fortunately Gone; 8) Iris; 9) Opened; 10) Only In 3's; 11) Lime House; 12) Metal Man.

You know, there might actually be a good reason why Black Francis rarely, if ever, let Kim Deal contribute her own tunes to Pixies' albums — she just ain't that good a songwriter. Perfect bass playing for that band, awesome vocal sidekick to Frank, charismatic personage all around, but no matter how much I listen to Pod, I just can't remember any of the goddamn songs. They sound totally awesome, for sure, but that's not really «songwriting», the way I see it, it's more like... like... like sleepwalking with a well-tuned bass in one's hands.

But yeah, songwriting ain't everything, and I guess an album like Pod just had to be made, be­cause it's not just «Pixies without the hooks». It's more like The Breeders were a younger brother of The Pixies — you know, the kind of small kid who has not yet had any time to match the achievements of his successful elder brother, but has that ring of endearing promising charm around him. Except that Kim Deal seems to go backwards rather than forward from the Pixies: there is a certain narrowing down of the vision here, a certain amount of deconstruction and focus on the backbone, which, I guess, is sort of natural to expect from a bass player — even if Kim actually doesn't play much bass on this album, so it seems.

Anyway, in 1990, The Breeders, in addition to Kim, were: Tanya Donelly, formerly of Throwing Muses, on guitar and vocals; Josephine Wiggs, on bass and vocals; Britt Walford of Slint on drums, recording under the pseudonym of Shannon Doughton; and Carrie Bradley on violin. Steve Albini, who had already produced Surfer Rosa for Pixies, was brought in to lend his usual stern helping hand — and indeed, Pod sounds closer in style to Surfer Rosa than to Doolittle, because Albini does not like a lot of overdubs, and the ones he does like are either brutally sharp or even more brutally noisy. Here, there is definitely more sharpness than noise.

As you know, the Beatles have a symbolic song for everybody, and the Breeders are no exception: the sole lonesome cover here is Lennon's ʽHappiness Is A Warm Gunʼ, because it symbolizes Kim's major preferences: (a) nonsensical, but evocative (under pressure) lyrics; (b) indifference towards the usual verse-chorus approach to a pop song; (c) gloomy minor keys that may or may not make the jump to major, depending on how pissed you are; (d) an overall impression of stark psychological depth though you have no way whatsoever to explain what exactly is so deep about chanting "Mother Superior jump the gun" like a mantra. Anyway, with Albini onboard this sounds all too much like a Big Black interpretation of the Beatles, and they kind of lop off and subjugate the «optimistic» conclusion of the song, stripped all the way down to broken shards of guitar, among which Kim Deal is absentmindedly strolling barefoot, humming "happiness is a warm gun" like a recently shell-shocked individual. Hmm.

Now, about Kim's own songs... well, Kurt Cobain apparently found them a great inspiration, but unlike Kurt, Kim Deal is not prone to uncontrollable fits of anger or self-pitying with which it would be so easy for the average record-buying teen to associate. Instead, Kim just creates herself a droning wave, straddles it and rides it anywhere it turns out to take her: ʽGloriousʼ, opening the album, sets its general tone fairly well. You get your chug-chug-chugging bass, your one- or two-chord guitar riff, a noisy lead drone, and these weird «stuck-in-adolescence» vocals whose pro­genitor was Maureen Tucker of The Velvet Underground — one of the first ladies of rock who turned the skill of not knowing how to sing into a form of high art.

Of course, the Breeders have much more in common with the Velvets than just the voice: their propensity for droning, their ability to induce a state of «optimistic depression» without spending too much effort, or even Bradley's John Cale-imitating violin passages on ʽOh!ʼ. In terms of repetitiveness, they sometimes go beyond their mentors — for instance, having fallen upon a really cool-sounding bassline at the end of the upbeat ʽWhen I Was A Painterʼ, instead of trying to build up, they build down: first, there's a fuzzy guitar riff going along, then the guitar just disappears and we get fourty seconds of pure bass-drums groove. Somebody else would have employed that as an intro for a gritty rocker — they have it as an outro, because expectations are to be challenged and interpretations are to be sought after.

Then somewhere in the middle of all this befuddlement comes ʽFortunately Goneʼ, the closest thing they have here to a sweet, innocent twee-pop song — probably mighty influential, too, since you could think of it as the blueprint for all these intelligent girl-led pop bands like Allo Darlin'. It also gives away the whole concept of the album, perhaps, with its first line: "I wait for you in heaven / On this perfect string of love". Everything else makes no sense, but this "wait for you in heaven" is quite telling — you see, Kim Deal really plays this part of disembodied spirit, a solitary ghost accidentally lost somewhere in the back alleys of heavenly space, and this explains why commonplace layman emotions like «love», «anger», «sadness», or «happiness» do not really belong with The Breeders. (Nor did they belong with the Pixies, for that matter, but the Pixies were still far more «grounded» than this band.)

Actually, some of the common interpretations for their songs imply that there are fairly mundane subjects covered here, including some rather horrendous ones — ʽHellboundʼ is frequently re­ferred to as a song about a living abortion, allegedly acknowledged as such by Kim herself, but you would never know that without the commentary, and every time I hear that song, I prefer to interpret the "it" that "lives in folds of red and steamy air" not as an undelivered foetus but rather as... well... IT. IT lives, and IT is hellbound. To the grittiest and gloomiest guitar melody on the entire album, though even that one is not too gritty or gloomy. As the girls roll their eyes and go "hellbound hellbound hellbound hellbound hellbound", all you get is the inescapability of hell, but whether hell is such a bad place to be — well, ever since Bon Scott the question remains debatable, and one thing you are not ever going to get from the Breeders is answers. Answers are traps set by real artists for losers.

Although I have to confess from the start that I find myself much more personally attracted to the band's second album than their first one, its overall sound alone, just the way all the ingredients are combined and processed, guarantees a thumbs up from me. It also helps that it is merely thirty minutes long and that all the songs are so short — any more pretense and it would be in danger of becoming a Sonic Youth rip-off with sparser production and poorer playing.

Boris: Dronevil

BORIS: DRONEVIL (2005)

1) Giddiness Throne; 2) Interference Demon; 3) Evil Wave Form; 4) The Evil One Which Sobs.

Okay, so apparently this is one of those fairly rare Zaireeka-type albums where you are supposed to plop in two CDs at a time and listen to them interfere. Sounds logical, since the first one is all «drone» and the second one is all «evil», er, «sludge», really. ʽGiddiness Throneʼ constructs a background that sounds like twenty minutes of deep cavernous echo; ʽInterference Demonʼ gives you twenty minutes of what sounds like an annoying siren hacked at mid-point and stuck in a single, barely changing tone; ʽEvil Wave Formʼ offers some dynamics in totally familiar shape, with Wata's usual monster guitar tones interrupted for a few minutes with calm, echoey ambience; and ʽThe Evil One Which Sobsʼ is sixteen more minutes of the same.

I have to confess that I have not tried juxtaposing the two, and am therefore not qualified to make opinions about the resulting sound. I freely admit that it would not have been difficult, even on a computer — just stash two media players on top of each other — but something inside me just told me no. In the back of my mind, I can see where the combination of the deep rumble of ʽGid­diness Throneʼ and the gigantic metal waves of ʽEvil Wave Formʼ would certainly make far more sense than listening to them separately, but I have no desire to waste my time on that.

Allegedly, as claimed by some adepts of this album, quite a bit of work did go into the synchro­nizing of the tracks, so that the «lows» and the «highs» of individual tracks correlate with each other, but you will just have to check it for yourself — a lot of one's opinions on Boris actually depends on one's preconceptions of Boris. I am afraid, though, that since ʽEvil Wave Formʼ does nothing for me on its own, it will probably not do much more when nutritioned further by the «deep», but simplistic texture of the «drone-ambient» track. It's all just a lot of boring sludgy bullshit, and clearly, the «success» of Dronevil depends on nothing but the gimmick. Give it a chance if you want, spare me the trouble — if I am really in the mood for modern day doom metal (which is rare), I'll go get me some Agalloch instead.

Brand X: Unorthodox Behaviour

BRAND X: UNORTHODOX BEHAVIOUR (1976)

1) Nuclear Burn; 2) Euthanasia Waltz; 3) Born Ugly; 4) Smacks Of Euphoric Hysteria; 5) Unorthodox Behaviour; 6) Running On Three; 7) Touch Wood.

I kind of like that album cover, you know. Oh man, that look, that priceless look in the guy's sole discernible eye peeking out at you from behind the blinds, as if saying: «Yeah, hi everybody, it's me, your old friend Phil from Genesis, but shh, don't tell anybody I'm playing in this fusion band, see, they'll sort of beat me up if they find out, they'll maybe even do bad things to my contract, and then I won't be able to write ʽFollow You Follow Meʼ and change the face of the music busi­ness, but you know, they're telling all sorts of bad things about me now, but what I really like to do most of all is just drum like crazy in a fusion band, see, and we got this new fusion team all lined up for you to hear just how cool I can be behind the drumset, because those frickin' buddies of mine out there in Genesis, they're all these folk-and-classical nutsos, they have no idea how to syncopate, and I'm a major Buddy Rich fan and all, and... uh... d'you think I'm letting too much sun inside this place?..»

Okay, fun's over. In reality, the album sleeve was designed by the mighty Storm Thorgerson of Hipgnosis fame, and the partial face staring at you from behind the blinds most likely has nothing to do with either Phil Collins or any other member of the band. It is just an artistic trick, really, that would make you think that something creepy, weird, and maybe even illegal, or at least per­verted, is going on — especially when taken in combo with the album title. So, like any normal person, you rush out to immediately buy it... only to discover that the music behind it is rather standard fare jazz-fusion, without any such deeply questionable connotations. Still, the illusion, once generated, does not go away so quickly. There's a sick mystery tied in to the album cover, so eventually you will still be trying to pick up on it in different corners. Besides, one of the tracks is called ʽEuthanasia Waltzʼ. I mean, how sick is that?..

Not particularly sick. The band, which was really started off almost by accident, through some executive fancy at Island Records, consisted of «core» members John Goodsall on guitar (pre­viously only known from a brief stint in Atomic Rooster), Percy Jones on bass (previously not known at all), and Robin Lumley on keyboards (likewise) — and Phil Collins just happened to be walking by as they began thinking about growing up from a meandering «jam band» into some­thing more serious and equipped with a recording contract. Phil, having just ascertained his future as lead singer in Genesis with the success of A Trick Of The Tail, probably felt himself ready to tackle two completely different projects at the same time — especially since the Genesis project never really allowed him to show off everything that he could do with his kit.

Now, as far as I can tell, «fusion» is generally allowed a rather low quota in public memory — despite the enormous wealth of fusion-style material to come out of the Seventies, most people only remember two or three figures, maybe John McLaughlin, Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea... some might come up with Weather Report or mention the brief «fusion period» of Jeff Beck, and the rest is really mostly for connoisseurs.The reasons are simple enough — the marriage between jazz and rock was not all that warmly embraced by fans on either side, with jazzmen thinking that it was a sellout and rockers thinking that it was a wankfest. And indeed, even to my ears a lot of fusion sounds like both things at the same time. But there are exceptions, even credited to names that are not as big as Chick Corea, and I think Unorthodox Behaviour is an excellent record that belongs in that category.

First, the album hits a very decent balance between «meaningful composition» and «technical proficiency». These players are all undeniable professionals with impressive technique, but they rarely, if ever, strive to amaze the player with million-notes-per-second, flight-of-the-bumblebee-in-under-one-minute runthroughs and the like — heck, there's not even a single drum solo any­where in sight. The emphasis is often on groove and sometimes on improvisation, but most often it is on perfectly stating a theme, developing it and carrying it to a logical conclusion: Brand X really compose, they do not merely rely on the Great Sonic Spirit to take them into the strato­sphere and drag them through an endless chain of space bars and galactic hangouts.

Second, some of the themes are really quite engaging. ʽNuclear Burnʼ, for instance, takes about a minute and a half for the players to «gather themselves», warm up and tone their muscles around a collected groove, and then to launch into the slightly Spanish-influenced Goodsall guitar theme, aggressive and melancholic at the same time, fast, complex, and yet totally memorable, especially when it is echoed to a tee by Phil's drumming patterns. ʽBorn Uglyʼ starts out as something hot and funky, with a groove not unlike any given James Brown number, but soon makes it known that its main hook will not be the funky guitar, but a series of three-chord sequences played by Lumley that sound as if they'd rather belong in a pop song — and so, what's a nice piano chord like you doing in a funky groove like this? Well, don't ask me, really, but I find the contrast hila­rious, and its establishment at the beginning of the tune makes it easier to sit through the entire eight minutes, even if later on it does tend to meander and sometimes degenerate into empty finger-flashing (for very brief periods of time, though).

It is not every day, indeed, that you find good strong riffs in fusion, but Goodsall comes up with a riff that is most certainly good and strong in ʽSmacks Of Euphoric Hysteriaʼ — maybe not the best title for a track that rather resembles the triumphant dance of a belligerent tribe on the eve of their first major military victory, euphoric, perhaps, but not particularly hysterical. It is also not every day that you find fusioneers influenced by Brian Eno, but the title track here is indeed based on Eno's ʽOver Fire Islandʼ, borrowing its rhythmic pattern and bass line and extending the formerly spooky two-minute piece of incidental music into an eight-minute long exploration of «musical jungle», as guitars, keyboards, and chimes engage in dialogs, trialogs, and polylogs like birds and beasts in the trees, while the bass melody ties them all together like The Force. Kudos to Lumley for all the hilarious bells-and-whistles from his keyboards — they make it all sound really, really cool, and Phil provides a suitably convincing tribalistic backing.

Most of all, Unorthodox Behaviour is just fun. All you have to do is to let it through the proper gate in your mind, and a record that might seem dull and generic under different conditions will suddenly appear as sprightly, colorful, and amusing, completely free from both the annoying pedantism and the murky pessimism that often make fusion hard to stand. These gents here are not really trying to show you how great they are (well, perhaps Phil is trying, just a little, but cut the guy some slack — after five years spent sitting in the dark behind some guy in flower costumes and fox masks, you'd probably want to show off, too), nor are they trying to prepare you for the end of the world or even to crack open your overwhelmed and superawed mind. They're just sharing some light, harmless, positive fun with you. I'd say, for one, that that is pretty unorthodox behaviour, wouldn't you agree? Thumbs up, of course.

The Box Tops: Dimensions

THE BOX TOPS: DIMENSIONS (1969)

1) Soul Deep; 2) I Shall Be Released; 3) Midnight Angel; 4) Together; 5) I'll Hold Out My Hand; 6) I Must Be The Devil; 7) Sweet Cream Ladies, Forward March; 8) The Happy Song; 9) Ain't No Way; 10) Rock Me Baby.

The final album by The Box Tops does not have all that much to recommend it. It is formally notable by featuring no less than three Alex Chilton originals — none of which is particularly im­pressive on its own, but collectively they show that the man is trying his hand at several different directions at once: ʽTogetherʼ is blue-eyed soul in the same vein as all those hits that Penn, Old­ham, and Thompson were writing for the band, ʽI Must Be The Devilʼ is dark piano blues remi­niscent of early Animals, and ʽThe Happy Songʼ is a short, fast, upbeat country-rocker. Of these, ʽDevilʼ is the only song that gets occasionally remembered, though, and only because its doom-laden lyrics always bring on associations with Chilton's ill-fated life and career — but in 1969, he probably just wrote all these "I can't bear to see my face, wrong's done I can erase" lines because, well, that's sort of how blues stuff usually gets written, you know.

The primary album single was ʽSoul Deepʼ, another Thompson contribution that earned them the last bit of chart success, but with Van Morrison's Astral Weeks having rewritten the rules on «blue-eyed soul» a few months earlier, you could tell that anything like ʽSoul Deepʼ already sounded a bit behind the times in 1969 — indeed, no melodic or «semantic» progress here, just two and a half minutes more of catchy soulful pop, and furthermore, the song is jubilant rather than mournful, which is not a very good thing for Chilton, to whom «sad» always seemed to come more naturally than «happy» (for that matter, ʽThe Happy Songʼ, despite the title and the lyrics, ends up sounding bitterly ironic the way he does it).

More interesting, if not necessarily better written, is another single, ʽSweet Cream Ladies, For­ward Marchʼ, which has nothing to do with the recently deceased Cream, but is instead a Brit­poppy march (proper brass backing included) dedicated to lovely ladies of the night and the use­ful services they provide to society. It's... uh... ironic, I guess, but I am not sure Chilton himself understood all that well whether it should have been sung with more sneer/irony or more em­pathy/compassion, and his delivery is kinda bland — somebody like Ray Davies, perhaps, would have been able to turn it into one more of his lovable social portraits, but here it just sounds like a novelty number.

In addition to other minor disappointments (such as a completely pointless cover of ʽI Shall Be Releasedʼ, following The Band's arrangement but smoothing out all the pain-stuffed edges that Richard Manuel brought to our attention so expressively), it is clear that the band did not have enough material — so, to bring the record to a proper conclusion, they recorded ʽRock Me Babyʼ once again, this time in a nine-minute (!) version taken at two different tempos (mid- and slow) and featuring extended guitar and piano solos that must have sounded totally amateurish by this time in rock's instrumental journey. For a band that began its career by having session musicians play most of the instruments, this was a rather ironic way to end that career. (Not that it's a bad sound or anything, and I know Gary Talley has a rather high reputation in some circles, but there is nothing in this playing that would strike me as specifically individualistic).

On the whole, though, the worst thing about Dimensions is that, if you play it back to back with the band's debut, you won't hear any significant difference — and no band that sounded the same way in 1969 as it sounded in 1967 was deemed worth to live, or at least to thrive, at the time. So, naturally, as Jesus Christ said, «to conquer death, The Box Tops only had to die», and so The Box Tops went ahead and did the right thing to do, upon which Chilton could finally reboot his career, shake off the «young promising blue-eyed soulman» tag, and put his talents to more efficient use.

The M.G.'s: The M.G.'s

THE M.G.'s: THE M.G.'s (1973)

1) Sugar Cane; 2) Neck Bone; 3) Spare Change; 4) Leaving The Past; 5) Left Overs (Bucaramanga); 6) Black Side; 7) One Of A Kind (Love Affair); 8) Frustration.

Yes, technically this album belongs in its own section or at least in the «special addenda» corner, but we will make a logistic exception and treat it as a regular part of the discography just for the sake of continuity. Not long after the release of Melting Pot, the two main creative guys in the band — Booker T. himself and Steve Cropper — ever more unhappy about being tied up by the new rules at Stax, decided to break the chain and move on to an uncertain, but seemingly more exciting (as it looked to them at the time) future.

The rhythm section, however, as is often the case with rhythm sections around the world, felt that the name of «M.G.'s» was everything they had left in this world, and ultimately they decided to stick to it. After a few tentative detours, Dunn and Jackson teamed up with Stax session guitarist Bobby Manuel and newly-emerged organ sensation Carson Whitsett — and now that once again there were four of them, they thought it sensible to just lop off the «Booker T.» part and bill themselves as «The M.G.'s» for their next record.

Now obviously, one's first basic instinct would be to dismiss the album without giving it a chance: after all, as reliable as the band's rhythm section had always been, most of the time we were really coming back to their tunes in order to hear some classic guitar/organ interplay. And indeed, when you listen to The M.G.'s right after Melting Pot, the initial feeling is almost guaranteed to be underwhelming. The funky backbone is all but gone, not a single song is as catchy as ʽFuquawiʼ, and the whole album seems to be very low-key, almost begging you to accept it as unremarkable background music while you're busy doing your typical 1973-style chores.

However, it is also immediately noticeable that the new band is trying — not merely coasting on the strength of their reputation. Most of the compositions are self-written (with just a couple taken from rather obscure sources), the arrangements and moods are relatively diverse, and there are some relatively long and complex tunes that show a mildly «progressive» spirit. This alone should guarantee a few extra listens, and eventually you might come to realize that the record is not all bad — its biggest disadvantage, perhaps, is that it is really so quiet. Unlike Booker T. and Cropper, the new guitarist and organist sometimes give the odd impression of competing in who of the two can «out-hush» the other one. Yet they are doing it in good taste.

Perhaps the single finest example of this competition comes on the seven-minute long ʽLeaving The Pastʼ, largely an acoustic number with several sections that smoothly flow from simple folk to more «baroque» textures, then eventually make the transition into jazzy and then bluesy terri­tory. Everything is done so quietly that your attention may easily drift away, and yet it is probably the single most complex composition up that was up to that point credited to the name of The M.G.'s. And it is quite likeable — the first half being elegantly romantic and the second more self-consciously «cool», as Manuel's acoustic guitar really roots all of these parts in the «past» (no clear signs of anybody «leaving» it, though). Nobody is going to remember it all that much, no, but accidentally falling upon it somewhere in your collection can trigger some good emotions every once in a while.

Most of the other tracks, while technically «louder», are just as inobtrusive. Typically, they will feature a soft, tasteful, friendly organ melody from Whitsett (ʽSugar Caneʼ, ʽOne Of A Kindʼ), set to a funky rhythm pattern that is so frail and delicate, hearing this kind of take on funk would be like watching Audrey Hepburn in a boxing ring — well, maybe not as gimmicky, but a pretty solid analogy all the same. Very rarely the music packs a bit more muscle, when Al Jackson agrees to pummel rather than caress his skins and Whitsett includes some bombastic honky-tonk piano playing (ʽSpare Changeʼ), or when Duck Dunn decides to play a «threatening» bass line (ʽLeft Oversʼ), but even a track called ʽFrustrationʼ, where you could theoretically expect them to auto-destruct their equipment in the studio or something, is really just one more low-key piece of clean, soft, smooth fusion with perhaps a tiny pinch of psychedelia, provided by the trebley guitar tone and a mind-manipulative overdub strategy.

But give this stuff time, and The M.G.'s might just turn out to be one of those barely noticeable, non-flashy, self-reserved albums that show how good music can be made without pulling rock'n'­roll faces — all the more amusing that it was released at the height of the glam era, when Keith Emerson and Mick Ronson ruled the day and hiding in the shadow to play your instrument was a surefire commercial suicide. And, of course, The M.G.'s was a commercial suicide — none of its singles charted, much less the album itself. It still got some good reviews, though, and continues to be warmly treated even today, but you do have to warm up to it. An outstanding non-triumph of being utterly non-outstanding, it deserves all the thumbs up it can get without getting your hands out of your trouser pockets.

Brenda Holloway: The Artistry Of Brenda Holloway

BRENDA HOLLOWAY: THE ARTISTRY OF BRENDA HOLLOWAY (1968)

1) Together 'Til The End Of Time; 2) Every Little Bit Hurts; 3) Where Were You; 4) I've Got To Find It; 5) Un­chained Melody; 6) Hurt A Little Every Day; 7) I'll Be Available; 8) You've Made Me So Very Happy; 9) I've Been Good To You; 10) Too Proud To Cry; 11) I'll Always Love You; 12) Operator; 13) When I'm Gone; 14) You Can Cry On My Shoulder; 15) Just Look What You've Done; 16) Starting The Hurt All Over Again; 17*) Mr Lifeguard (Come And Rescue Me); 18*) My Smile Is Just A Frown Turned Upside Down; 19*) After All That You've Done; 20*) The Love Line; 21*) Can't We Be Strangers Again; 22*) Just Another Lonely Night; 23*) Where There's A Will There's A Way; 24*) It's Love I Need.

As I said, Brenda Holloway's discography is so messy and confused that you will find quite a few sources repeating that The Artistry Of Brenda Holloway was her second and last «regular» LP on the Motown label. That is, however, only true to a certain degree. First, it seems to have had a very limited release — restricted to the UK, for some reason (apparently, somebody calculated that Brenda Holloway was more popular among the British; might that have anything to do with young Stevie Winwood covering ʽEvery Little Bit Hurtsʼ?). Second, in reality it was a compila­tion — singles, B-sides, album tracks, some stuff from the shelved Hurtin' And Cryin', and just three or four songs from the vaults. Not much to write home about.

Now, fourty-five years later, the album unexpectedly gets remembered and re-released by Ace Records — with a whoppin' eight bonus tracks, also culled from the vaults and unavailable else­where, not even on the comprehensive 2-CD Motown Anthology from 2005. Any reason to be interested? Yes. For serious lovers of Motown, these extra tracks, combined with whatever news might be culled from the original album, will be a bit of a blessing. Why the label never cared about releasing or promoting this music in the Sixties is a big question mark — many of these songs are just as good as any brand of lush pop that they were peddling back then. Just one more of these silly «personal conflict issues», I guess, as history tells us.

Anyway, here are some highlights. First, the original album. In addition to the good stuff that was already mentioned in the previous two reviews, we have ʽWhere Were Youʼ, an upbeat, Supre­mes-style single with ecstatic strings, triumphant brass, handclaps, angelic backing vocals, and a party atmosphere that contrasts nicely with the usual lost-love lyrics. Even more fun are the two extra Smokey Robinson tracks — ʽOperatorʼ, where Brenda once again beats Mary Wells in terms of depth and subtlety; and ʽI'll Be Availableʼ, which is just super-catchy-friendly — you know, one of those tunes that should have been covered by the Beatles on the BBC sessions. "When the U.S. mail is no longer mailable, I'll be available" gets me every time.

Two more dang fine Smokey compositions are among the bonuses — ʽMy Smile Is Just A Frown Turned Upside Downʼ, known as a hit for Carolyn Crawford, is also done much more expressive­ly by Brenda, in fact, Smokey's «weeping» ballads are the perfect vehicle for Ms. «Hurtin'-and-Cryin'» to ride altogether; and ʽAfter All That You've Doneʼ, once again more upbeat and playful, castigates the lady's unfaithful friend in a bittersweet manner — finger-poppin', funky bassline, sly vocal hooks ("you had a girl over here, a girl over there"), the works. She also does a good job with Billy Eckstine's ʽLove Lineʼ, and fires all her cannons on ʽIt's Love I Needʼ, although, to be frank, «hystrionic» vocal delivery is not her strongest area — she could compete with Mary Wells in expressiveness, or she could offer an «aristocratic» alternative to the rowdiness of Martha Reeves and the seductive squeakiness of Diana Ross, but when it comes to wailing and howling and bellowing, she was no Aretha.

Anyway, while once again this is an odd, ragged release that should probably best be left without any «rating» as such, it is definitely a good thing that the vaults are being cleaned up this way — it does baffle the mind, though, just how many perfectly commercial and perfectly artistically attractive little nuggets Motown had Brenda record for them in the Sixties, only to let them gather shelf dust for decades. My only complaint is that there's way too much overlap with Motown Anthology — most people will probably go for just one or the other. Then again, these days it is becoming obsolete to think even in terms of «compilations», much less cohesive LPs, and the way they treated Brenda, she'd be like the perfect number one candidate to promote futuristic services like Spotify. Just hunt down the songs anyway.

Björk: Vespertine Live

BJÖRK: VESPERTINE LIVE (2001; 2003)

1) Frosti; 2) Overture; 3) All Is Full Of Love; 4) Cocoon; 5) Aurora; 6) Undo; 7) Unravel; 8) I've Seen It All; 9) An Echo, A Stain; 10) Generous Palmstroke; 11) Hidden Place; 12) Pagan Poetry; 13) Harm Of Will; 14) It's Not Up To You; 15) Unison; 16) It's In Our Hands.

The only reason not to own this album is if you own the Live At The Royal Opera House video from 2001 instead. Although these particular performances were taken from different locations on the 2001 tour, and there are some discrepancies in the setlist (somewhat expectedly, the audio album focuses more on new material, whereas the video includes a solid selection of older hits at the end), they are more or less the same thing — and this time around, the emphasis was placed more on accurate reproduction, accompanied with some gorgeous staging, so it really really makes a lot of sense to see the show rather than just hear it.

Because Vespertine was, indeed, a very special album for Björk, and the accompanying tour was a very special tour. In two years time, the lady would be completely going off her rocker, trying out fifty different shades of craziness all at once and, as far as my opinion is concerned, severely crossing the line that separates meaningful art from silly, pompous kitsch. But Vespertine was a deep, thoughtful, far-reaching album, and the accompanying shows somehow managed to be glitzy and «cozy-homely» at the same time. You get just one change of clothing — Björk in a simple white virginal dress for the first half of the show, Björk in a blood-red dress for the second half — a nice chamber orchestra, a couple guys handling the electronics, and an entire female choir from Greenland, in arguably the biggest bout of promotion for lovely Inuit ladies that the world of pop music has ever seen. Then again, it doesn't take much to travel from Iceland to Greenland, so perhaps it was more a question of rehearsal logistics than of generous support for minorities, or of an artistic choice of a group of people from the coldest regions on Earth.

The setlist on the album includes most of Vespertine (all but two tracks) and also makes us re­member Selmasongs (the orchestra introduces the show with ʽOvertureʼ, and later on you get a solo Björk performance of ʽI've Seen It Allʼ — something of a bonus for those of us who find it harder to cope with the vocal philosophy of Thom Yorke than with that of Guthmund's daughter), plus a couple of rarities: ʽGenerous Palmstrokeʼ is a lovely B-side in the form of a heated dialog between Björk and the harp, and ʽIt's In Our Handsʼ was a special new song recorded as a bonus track for Greatest Hits — not all that great in itself, but heavily experimental, with some of the most turbulent and dense layers of electronics on any given Björk song, and it probably belongs in the collection of any serious «glitch music» lover, provided love for «glitch music» can really be called a «serious thing» (really).

The rarities, however, are not as important as the entire experience: both on the video and on the live album, the sound is engineered so as to maximally preserve the «cocoon-like» atmosphere of Vespertine. This was probably not an easy task, but it was accomplished perfectly — and for once, I am not complaining that the live performances are more often than not indistinguishable from studio versions, because the biggest surprise, perhaps, is that you completely forget that these are live ones, until they die down and the stunned audience bursts into applause. For a near-perfect record like Vespertine, this live perfectionism is perhaps the only way to do it justice. In fact, sometimes the live versions are even more perfect — for instance, ʽUnisonʼ, with additional crystal-clear harp parts and more prominent background vocals, sounds as if the necessary final touches to the song were only added in concert.

I mean, it would be one thing if the original arrangements were a piece of easy cake, but they were actually more complex than anything prior to that point — and it is amazing how everything was taken to the stage and even slightly improved upon; and I do understand that only the best live takes were hand-picked from the tour, as far as Björk's own vocals go, but the fact of the mat­ter is that she was consistently in peak form on the video as well. Hardest working lady in the business? In addition to being the most talented? I guess you could say, yes, that 2000-2001 be­longed to Björk, and the current thumbs up will refer not just to the textbook perfection of this live album, but to this album as a symbol of her creative triumph. Too bad the strain was so heavy on her that she went gaga in two years' time, and was never the same after that.

Bon Jovi: What About Now

BON JOVI: WHAT ABOUT NOW (2013)

1) Because We Can; 2) I'm With You; 3) What About Now; 4) Pictures Of You; 5) Amen; 6) That's What The Water Made Me; 7) What's Left Of Me; 8) Army Of One; 9) Thick As Thieves; 10) Beautiful World; 11) Room At The End Of The World; 12) The Fighter; 13*) With These Two Hands; 14*) Not Running Anymore; 15*) Old Habits Die Hard; 16*) Every Road Leads Home To You.

It was a little funny, I must confess, reading lots of irate reviews about how this record is not really «hard rock», is not really «Bon Jovi», represents «the beginning of the end» for the band and other equally sour reactions. Was there ever a period when this band was after anything but mass popularity? The only reason why Jon Bon Jovi has not turned into Nicki Minaj — which, if necessary and possible, he'd do in a jiffy — is because he's got, uh, T&A problems. Also, he's kinda old-fashioned and prefers to stay in that comfort zone where well-built, muscular guys rip the shit out of their guitars, at least visually. And since that kind of music still sells reasonably well today, despite all the attempts to push «classic rock» out of the spotlight, well, why change anything? Just another day, just another dollar.

The album did cause a rift between Jon and his loyal guitarist: Sambora was not seen all that much on the accompanying tour, throughout which he was largely replaced by session guitarist Phil X, and soon afterwards announced his departure from the band. True enough, he is only co-cre­dited for about five out of twelve songs, while on the rest Jon shares credits with such seedy figures as John Shanks and Billy Falcon; has not a single interesting or outstanding riff to contri­bute; and is seriously misused even in the lead guitar department — the absolute majority of these songs depend on nothing but vocal hooks. Oh, sorry, vocal hooks and pomp — as the years go by, Jon Bon Jovi takes himself more and more seriously each day, and on What About Now, he is much more of a preacher than an entertainer.

I will not deny, though, that some of these songs are hooky. The anthemic singalong chorus of ʽBecause We Canʼ, the punchy album opener, is Super Bowl material alright, though I'm pretty sure it must have been lifted wholesale from some earlier roots-rock or country tune. Same with the sentimental ʽPictures Of Youʼ, same with the heroic-romantic confession ʽThat's What The Water Made Meʼ — although I know what the water really made that guy: it made him surrepti­tiously nick the inspiring background guitar/synth melody of David Bowie's ʽHeroesʼ and appro­priate it for his own, much less original and much less subtle purposes. No, I am not being too judgemental, and I have no problems with musicians borrowing and recycling other people's ideas — it's just that this one feels way too blatant. Don't say I didn't warn you if on his next re­cord J.B.J. samples ʽRide Of The Valkyriesʼ in one of his Big Social Statements.

Are we being too cruel? Well then, let me just backtrack a little and redeem myself by saying that somehow, on a certain level I do feel sympathetic to ʽWhat's Left Of Meʼ — as uninteresting as the generic «banjo-rock» arrangement of that song is, its «I'm-still-standing» vibe sounds more sincere than anything else here: the guy does sound like he really means it when he says "God, I miss the smell of paper and the ink on my hands" and when he complains about how "they sold old CBGB's". Not that Bon Jovi ever had much to do with CBGB's in the first place — yet some­how it is true that, as of 2013, Bon Jovi and the old CBGB residents seem to have much more in common than they would have in the mid-1980s.

But that does not change the general attitude. Had ʽWhat's Left Of Meʼ and ʽBecause We Canʼ been the most pretentious songs on the album, with the rest of it given over to regular vocal-hook-based pop rock fare, life would be adequate. As it happens, these are just the tasters for the real «Celine Dion-style» gala prayers — the syrupy, orchestrated ʽAmenʼ was written twenty years too late for the Titanic soundtrack, and the "never give up, never give up!" chorus of ʽArmy Of Oneʼ is more Alicia Keys, or even more Disney, than Bon Jovi. Oops, I think I'm falling into the same trap as all those allegedly cheated fans — let me quickly correct myself: what we have here is Bon Jovi trying to naturally morph their way into a Disney cartoon.

The album ends on a soft acoustic note, with Jon making yet another not-so-subtle reference to some of his heroes: "I am the fighter, though not a boxer by trade". What is it, then, about ʽThe Boxerʼ that will make that song stand the test of time, while ʽThe Fighterʼ is already forgotten? It's not really the melody — it's the attitude. Even at his softest and tenderest, Jon Bon Jovi still sounds like a straightforward, predictable, cocky guy who thinks way too much of himself — and, most importantly, believes that «thinking too much of himself» is already sufficient to write a song about it and offer it to the world. And nobody told him, or nobody was ever able to convince him that such is usually the recipe for a boring song at best — an offensive song at worst. But then again, who the heck could convince him if these sometimes boring, sometimes offensive songs kept selling like hotcakes all around the world? And neither my own thumbs down here, nor anybody else's will really make a difference. For that matter, What About Now hit the top of the charts all right — even though, in the era of predictably dwindling album sales, it sold less than any previous Bon Jovi album. But yes, the guys are still popular.

Boris: The Thing Which Solomon Overlooked

BORIS: THE THING WHICH SOLOMON OVERLOOKED (2004)

1) Scene 2; 2) A Bao A Qu; 3) The Dead Angle Which It Continues Showing.

I guess I have to give props to these guys for releasing their most unlistenable records as «limited editions» — this one originally came out as 500 copies of colored vinyl, and probably cost a fortune, so that 500 lucky souls could reach their own personal Nirvana by subjecting themselves to forty minutes of jarring feedback, and everybody else could just happily ignore this artistic statement, left behind in a state of immature unworthiness. Unfortunately, the digital era came along pretty soon and messed up all the clever configuration.

Not being aware of the exact circumstances surrounding the title of the album, I, like everybody else, assume that «Solomon» here refers to King Shlomo (970-931 B.C.), known mostly for his wisdom and his large number of wives and concubines, and that, consequently, the title prompts us to give a thought as to what exactly was that one thing, that one tiny little thing that the King managed to overlook in his only slightly less than infinite, God-given wisdom. More than enough reason here, I guess, to force yourself to sit patiently through the entire forty minutes of the re­cord — I mean, who knows, maybe the answer is waiting right there in the end, and once it's all over, just think about it, you might actually be wiser than Solomon himself. Who wouldn't wil­fully give up a pair of ears to gain access to a secret that may have been unknown to the wisest man on Earth?..

Too bad I have to spoil this for you, but then, every once in a while this blog finds itself obliged to go out on a salvation mission. The title is just one big hoax — there is really nothing but a huge, endless sea of feedback here. The first and last track merely feed you crude, primal sludge, a ten-minute cauldron for starters and a twenty-minute barrel for the main course. Faint hints of a droning melody can still excuse ʽScene 2ʼ, but ʽThe Dead Angleʼ is probably the most extreme thing these guys came out with so far, beating out Absolutego and everything else — basically just one bass note that takes its time to burn up and fizzle out, only to be replaced by the same thing again, and again, and again.

In this context, ʽA Bao A Quʼ (named after one of J. L. Borges' pseudo-mythical creatures) separates the two sludge monsters like a symphonic phoenix — at least there's some development here, as the track moves from high-pitched guitar whine to hellishly overloud, overdriven howls and roars. Even so, the title is pitifully wasted this time around (fortunately, it would be reused later on for something much more distinctly musical).

In short, this one is «not for everybody», and by «everybody» I mean «everybody who is already a Boris admirer». It does get me to wonder, though — what if Boris did not have access to tech­nology, or even electricity, and still wanted to make this kind of «music»? What would they have done? Rubbed on a double bass with a live crocodile? Raped a tiger with a loosely tuned cello? Set the entire town on fire and walked around playing on a deliberately unstrung guitar? Actually, each of these ideas, now that I think of it, seems more exciting and innovative than what we have just heard here, and I hate being cruel to animals. Thumbs down, unless you're a big fan of limited editions on colored vinyl — they can be so cool to show off to friends, just do not forget that you won't have that many friends if you ever decide to play this for them.