Sufjan Stevens: The Avalanche

SUFJAN STEVENS: THE AVALANCHE (2006)

1) The Avalanche; 2) Dear Mr. Supercomputer; 3) Adlai Stevenson; 4) The Vivian Girls Are Visited In The Night By Saint Dargarius And His Squadron Of Benevolent Butter­flies; 5) Chicago (acoustic version); 6) The Henney Buggy Band; 7) Saul Bellow; 8) Carlyle Lake; 9) Springfield, Or Bobby Got A Shadfly Caught In His Hair; 10) The Mistress Witch From McClure (Or, The Mind That Knows Itself); 11) Kaskaskia River; 12) Chicago (adult contemporary easy listening version); 13) Inaugural Pop Music For Jane Margaret Byrne; 14) No Man's Land; 15) The Palm Sunday Tornado Hits Crystal Lake; 16) The Pick-Up; 17) The Perpetual Self, Or 'What Would Saul Alinsky Do?'; 18) For Clyde Tombaugh; 19) Chicago (multiple personality disorder version); 20) Pittsfield; 21) The Undivided Self (For Eppie And Popo).

General verdict: Second Illinoise, same as the first.

The subtitle Outtakes And Extras From The Illinois Album! is generally correct, except for one important detail: many, if not most, of the songs on this follow-up were actually written with the idea of a double album in mind — in fact, a triple one, if we remember that Sufjan typically makes 70-minute long CDs, roughly equaling three sides of traditional vinyl. The idea was even­tually scrapped, although I do not understand why: Sufjan's fans were already quite well used to the man's sprawl, and I cannot imagine any of Sufjan's reviewers actually listening to all of his records attentively all the way through anyway.

In any case, The Avalanche is simply the second half of Illinois — a little less liked by Sufjan himself, for obvious reasons of selection, and also containing some genuine moments of overkill (such as the three additional versions of ʽChicagoʼ), but on the whole, it goes without saying that if you loved the style, ideas, and feels of Illinois, you are dutifully obligated to give a little love to its younger brother as well. Unfortunately, it also makes the predicament: there are no new general words I can say about Avalanche that have not already been said about Illinois — and very few specific comments I could make about any of the individual tracks, since they, too, tend to cuddle together into one big sentimental glop, setting exactly the same mood of a never-ending Carnival of the Melancholic Woodland Pixies.

As a single example, I will take the title track — after all, it wasn't selected as the title track for nothing, so it must be somewhat symbolic of the entire experience. If you listen hard enough, you might note that the distinctive three-note chord sequence of the song, appearing around the 1 minute mark, is actually an exciting musical idea, slightly disrupting the supersmooth flow of the song and giving it a sharper edge. But it never gets properly explored — and the song, suppo­sedly describing a one man's hopeful journey to Illinois and culminating in a series of anthemic come-ons ("come on, Stone! come on, Star! come on, Snow! come on, Car!") is ultimately bogged down in monotonous and expressionless stomp. Yes, I fully admit that there might be people who like being urged on by a voice seemingly belonging to a human being who had been thoroughly and meticulously decalorized for months and months. Myself, I am still amazed at how it is even possible to write so many quasi-anthemic songs whose power cannot be measured even in a single joule.

In a general setting like this, it only gets worse when the songwriter throws in symbolic quota­tions from his betters — such as the "1-2-3-4-5-6-7 all computers go to heaven" line in ʽDear Mr. Supercomputerʼ, obviously referring to you-know-what; the song itself, however, reminds me more of the plaintive streak of The Kinks (Sufjan's "Oh-my-God-I-can't-believe-it..." shares similarities with ʽMr. Pleasantʼ), except that, once again, there is absolutely nothing to get riled up about here. Not a whiff of anger, not the slightest touch of offensiveness, not the smallest bit of evidence that this singer is a human being of flesh and blood and not a disembodied spirit or a Platonic idea. Come to think of it, is it really a sign of total humility when you sing like that, or a subtle demonstration of unprecedented arrogance?..

Maybe it would not be oh so painful like that if not for the additional insult of the long-winded song titles that float out so gratuitously, senselessly, and pretentiously. ʽInaugural Pop Music For Jane Margaret Byrneʼ, for instance. Clearly, the first female mayor of Chicago might very well deserve some pop music in her honor, but what do these minute and a half of elevator-ish key­board tones, closely resembling the kind of muzak that plays when you are accidentally redirected to some sleazy phishing website, has to do with true «pop», let alone «inaugural»? Gimmicks like that, strewn all over Sufjan's catalog but particularly viciously festering in his Illinois stage, only further my conviction that the man's art exists primarily in order to give critics something to write about, rather than give ordinary people something to enjoy from the bottom of their hearts.

Subsequently, even when Sufjan pokes a bit of fun at himself and subtitles two of his alternate arrangements for ʽChicagoʼ as «adult contemporary easy listening version» and «multiple perso­nality disorder version», respectively, I am inclined to take this at far stronger face value than we are supposed to. Because that first version, want it or not, is adult contemporary easy listening (as is a very large chunk of Sufjan's standard catalog, to tell the truth), and that second version, peppered with vocal overdubs a-plenty, does suggest that, while Stevens is probably (and hope­fully) not truly suffering from multiple personality disorder, he is somewhat obsessed with the concept. The only problem is that he is not very interesting as a vocalist all by himself, and it is not clear whether this issue can be solved by recording multiple vocal parts and having them bounce off each other. Like, when you multiply boring by boring, does boring squared equal exciting and involving? Not for me it doesn't.

As an optimistic and excusatory conclusion, I do have to add that I totally admire and respect the man's working ethic. To do so much research on the history and culture of Illinois, to spend so much time writing so many songs, to play most of the instruments in the studio himself — in terms of dedication to an idea, Sufjan should be a source of inspiration to us all. And it is not his fault, after all, that he does not possess the slightest spark of songwriting genius — in fact, I would be somewhat surprised if he did, because meticulous and hyper-productive work like this rarely, if ever, goes hand-in-hand with true genius. Herein lies the importance of Avalanche: far more significant is the mere fact that it exists, rather than the emotional and artistic value of its actual songs. Like, some people probably learned who Adlai Stevenson, Saul Bellow, and Saul Alinsky were from listening to it (let alone Jane Byrne) — surely there is something to be said about pure educational value, too.

Radiohead: I Might Be Wrong - Live Recordings

RADIOHEAD: I MIGHT BE WRONG: LIVE RECORDINGS (2001)

1) The National Anthem; 2) I Might Be Wrong; 3) Morning Bell; 4) Like Spinning Plates; 5) Idioteque; 6) Everything In Its Right Place; 7) Dollars And Cents; 8) True Love Waits.

General verdict: Apparently, there IS a big difference between «live recordings» and a «live album».

As per the Setlist.fm Wiki, The Radiohead live show held on July 7, 2001 at South Park, Oxford, in addition to all but two tracks included on this live album, also contained the following: ʽAirbagʼ (good song), ʽLuckyʼ (great song), ʽMy Iron Lungʼ (pretty good song), ʽExit Music (For A Film)ʼ (pathos, pathos, but still pretty good), ʽKnives Outʼ (the best song on Amnesiac bar none), ʽNo Surprisesʼ (I'm melting), ʽStreet Spirit (Fade Out)ʼ (very touching), ʽParanoid Androidʼ (a classic), ʽFake Plastic Treesʼ (aw, beautiful), ʽKarma Policeʼ (not a favorite, but I do remember how it goes), ʽThe Bendsʼ (alt-rock at its best), and even ʽCreepʼ — performed live for the first time since 1998.

Put it all together, crank it up, and who knows? I might even forgive a few bad tunes from Kid A and Amnesiac thrown in. A solid, representative, well-paced live Radiohead album is nothing to sneer at: everybody knows that the guys can pack plenty of punch anytime. But you see where I am getting at — instead, they opted to release a short, amputated mini-album, almost an EP by modern length standards, that exclusively contained material from Kid A and Amnesiac (along with one new track that we will get around to separately). Not only was this a fairly intentional effrontery to piss off the old conservative fans — an implicit statement that the old stuff is now obsolete — but it also pretty much nullifies the significance of a live album, since the farther they progressed, the less their music was sounding like a band product.

This is not to say that the live performances here do nothing but recreate the studio originals: as the greatest oh-so-not-rock band in the world, Radiohead could not allow themselves the luxury of putting out something completely and utterly redundant. For instance, not being able to re­create the brass pandemonium of ʽThe National Anthemʼ onstage, they go instead for an electro­nic pandemonium, in which Greenwood's use of the ondes Martenot is far more clearly visible, and the psychedelic pull of the swirling keyboards far stronger than the original — at the expense of dropping the nasty jazzy growl. Something like ʽMorning Bellʼ in this setting also sounds less clinical and sterile than in its stereo incarnation, with less prominent keyboards and extra guitar work. On the other hand, ʽEverything In Its Right Placeʼ is extended by about three minutes so that the audiences might be properly bombarded with sped up, slowed down, chewed up, and sprinkled down segments of Thom Yorke's voice — not much of a «live» performance here, but hopefully enough to make a few ticket buyers go crazy.

I do have to thank them for including ʽLike Spinning Platesʼ: if you wanted to hear that song done normally for once, with actual piano notes and a pretty Thom Yorke vocal performance, this is the version to go for, rather than the gimmickally chopped up electronic debacle on Amnesiac. It still remains somewhat shapeless, but at least this time we get healthy, natural shapelessness, instead of «prepared» shapelessness. And the strong, clear, masterfully modulated vocals here are just as much of a highlight as the ones on the acoustic ballad ʽTrue Love Waitsʼ that closes the album (one of Radiohead's most famous unreleased songs, written as early as 1995 but having had to wait twenty years for a proper studio take — admittedly, it does sound uncannily similar to Jeff Mangum's acoustic style on Aeroplane Over The Sea).

Nevertheless, the flaws of this album clearly outweigh its virtues... scrap that, actually, since the record is so short anyway that it feels silly to talk of any sort of «weight» anyway. As of now, it is merely a reminder of a simple, astounding fact — that there has not, in fact, been even a single major release of a live Radiohead show on audio or video. Everything there is is either very short, or very poor quality, or bootlegged, or done in the band's preferred «from-the-basement» format to specially promote one of their albums. It is as if they were afraid that by releasing a Radio­head Live At The Royal Albert Hall, or something like that, they would be sacrificing their integrity as the best oh-so-not-rock-band in the world. Some might call this humbleness, others might see it as vanity. I just find this a bit sorry. In the meantime, if you are a big fan, you pro­bably already have a bunch of live bootlegs and have no need for this; if you are a small fan, what use do you have for a bunch of alternate performances of Amnesiac material? well, other than to certify that these songs are still boring, I mean.

Joy Division: Heart And Soul

JOY DIVISION: HEART AND SOUL (1977-1980; 1997)

CD I: Unknown Pleasures + bonus tracks; CD II: Closer + bonus tracks; CD III: Studio rarities; CD IV: Live rarities.

General verdict: Hardly worth it for the rarities, definitely worth it for the comprehensive feels.

Although I do not usually make separate sections for boxsets, Heart And Soul merits an exception, since it contains almost two discs' worth of previously unreleased, or at least long-out-of-print, goodies. Before the special expanded releases of Unknown Pleasures and Closer, it may have been the ultimate package for the fan — just about everything the band ever released in its lifetime and beyond that, wrapped together in a single artsy package, with tons of photos, liner notes, lyrics, you name it. Today, in the age of digital downloads, its importance has certainly dimmed down, and as of 2017, the box is out of print, but I'm pretty sure that it, or its equivalent, will return again sooner or later, because, after all, what is a cult band without a cult coffeetable boxset?

That said, in terms of getting us any new material it is a relative disappointment. The first two CDs offer you the two classic albums plus a selection of single and EP tracks, most of which had already been available on Still and Substance. The main hopes lie with the third disc, a chrono­logical assemblage of previously released and unreleased rarities, starting with the An Ideal For Living EP (ʽWarsawʼ and other tracks from the punk era), which we already saw on Substance; continuing with three tracks from the abandoned Warsaw album, discussed in the previous review; and probably culminating with a set of live-in-the-studio tracks from The Peel Sessions — truly the high point, since these performances only saw very limited release in EP and CD form in the late Eighties and early Nineties. For the record, these versions of ʽLove Will Tear Us Apartʼ and ʽColonyʼ sound just about perfect, sharper and with more energy than in their usual form, perhaps. However, collectors will probably experience the greatest delight at the early 1980 demo of ʽCeremonyʼ — presented here in rather low fidelity, but still far clearer in terms of guitar sound than on any live recording (except for the vocals, alas, which are barely audible).

The real disappointment is the fourth disc. Apparently, compilers of the boxset wanted to make fans really happy by scooping up as much previously unreleased material as they could find; un­fortunately, it seems like none of the tracks are soundboard recordings — everything is strictly bootleg quality, particularly the first ten tracks, taken from a Manchester show in July 1979, when the band was arguably at its energetic peak: the version of ʽInterzoneʼ captured here shows them ready to bring down the house, but, unfortunately, even with the lowest audiophile require­ments (like mine) it is fairly hard to enjoy the muck with half of the frequencies eaten up. On the other end of the spectrum, the February 29, 1980 show at the Lyceum in London was hardly one of their best gigs — you do get to witness a rare live version of ʽThe Eternalʼ, but Curtis is so awfully out of tune on it that it just keeps reminding me of how technically weak as a singer he had always been, and that is not something I need to be reminded of while following the slow funeral procession of the song.

Consequently, the optimistic perspective on the boxset is that it presents you with everything you ever wanted to know about Joy Division and more. The pessimistic perspective, on the other hand, is that it is highly questionable whether you actually want to know more. For all the bootleggish nature of Warsaw, that album, when heard in complete form, did really add an entire new chapter to the Joy Division history — Heart And Soul only borrows a few pages out of that chapter, and clearly shows you that this is it, folks: after all, Joy Division were not The Fall or Guided By Voices — they reached higher peaks, perhaps, but at the expense of skipping those smooth, endless kilometers of lower valleys. Still, great bands deserve optimistic perspectives that trump pessimistic ones, don't they?

King Crimson: Islands

KING CRIMSON: ISLANDS (1971)

1) Formentera Lady; 2) Sailor's Tale; 3) The Letters; 4) Ladies Of The Road; 5) Prelude: Song Of The Gulls; 6) Islands.

General verdict: No focus, no energy, no cohesion, too much Sinfield, too little Fripp, and a guy from Bad Company.

I will probably not offend anybody's senses by saying that this album, closing out the first big chapter in King Crimson history, is the least «Crimsonian» album ever made, even if all the tracks on it are still dutifully credited to Robert Fripp. Naturally, this does not mean that it is unrecognizable as a King Crimson album or incompatible with all other King Crimson albums; it is just that it seems to digress very much from the vaguely firm core set of values we typically associate with King Crimson. And, of course, it has to be understood that in 1971, there was as of yet no core set of values associated with King Crimson, simply because King Crimson had only existed for three years as a band, and as a revolving-door band at that. But now that we are in a comfortably located retrospective position, I think it is a fairly safe bet to say that Islands, like it or not, sticks out worse than a sore thumb on Robert Fripp's right hand after ten successive hours of rehearsing ʽDisciplineʼ.

Granted, the band was in really poor shape at the time. The new lead vocalist and bass player, Boz Burrell, was a poor bass player (they had to pick him on emergency notice due to their previous bass player jumping ship all of a sudden) and a half-decent singer, more suitable for tender balladry than adventurous prog-rock. Fripp was still doubling on guitars and keyboards, torn between the two and not doing his best at either. Sales were dwindling, and so was critical and fan interest after they'd failed to up the antes on In The Court twice in a row. Most impor­tantly, there was a growing rift between Fripp and Sinfield on whether the band should go in a harder or softer direction — with a resulting compromise that, as it often happens with compro­mises in art, ultimately satisfied no one.

Like Lizard, Islands is not horrid, but it is even more shapeless. Most of the songs have very little by way of backbone — typically, they are presented as atmospheric pieces, without any memorable main themes and without any inbuilt sense of development. The bulkiest pieces are, in fact, more of a cross between mood jazz and impressionist classical, with heavy emphasis on pianos, saxophones, and woodwinds, exploring a variety of modes and styles: ʽFormentera Ladyʼ putting a folksy / medieval spin on the proceedings, and the title track, with its chamber introduc­tion (ʽSong Of The Gullsʼ), a slightly more baroque one, eventually transitioning into full-on impressionist mode.

Honestly, I do not know what to make of either of them. Notwithstanding some grinning double bass experiments on ʽFormentera Ladyʼ, this is some of the softest and nicest music in the KC catalog, and, frankly, for soft and nice I would rather go to a band like Renaissance, to which this style comes so much more naturally. As a symbolist-romantic crooner, Boz Burrell is even less impressive than Haskell — his singing is generic and stiff, and it hardly feels as if he really liked or understood Sinfield's convoluted imagery. The wordless siren soprano of Paulina Lucas on the first track (ʽFormentera Ladyʼ clearly refers to Sirens) is much better, but at the precise point when the track slips from light to dark mood and the strings, woodwinds, and vocals conspire to make you feel lost and confused in a creepy magical environment, you realize that their touch is just too soft to reach that goal. Like, where's the guitar, man? Why is Mel Collins impersonating Coltrane in the background? Does Boz Burrell ever take more than two notes on his instrument? And why the heck should we even bother when we have, oh, I dunno, Amon Düül II's Yeti, for instance, if we ever feel the need to take a trip through a somber, threatening landscape?

The title track is even more disappointing. It is not that difficult to write a pretty romantic ballad that gradually rises to an epic climax — but apparently not if you are in free-form impressionist mode and, like Keith Tippett here, impersonate a Debussy on tranquilizers. Mark Charig's cornet solo, coming in to take the song towards a crescendo of sorts, is way too lively and disruptive in comparison. I can see where some people might like the effect, but every time I remember that the person responsible for this elegant slop is Robert motherfuckin' Fripp, my hand automatically stretches out to recover the query «Robert Fripp on drugs» from my Google search requests (no, allegedly he never did any, but come on, surely there must have been something... at least a minor sleeping pill addiction, no? really? come on!).

The three shorter tracks in between are a bit more reassuring. ʽSailor's Taleʼ, logically expanding on the Siren theme of ʽFormentera Ladyʼ, is the best of these — a seven-minute jam with some of the record's best guitar work (rather awfully produced, though); you only have to make your way through a couple minutes of more ugly saxes to find yourself in the middle of a nicely brewed Fripp thunderstorm (and the Mellotron support ain't no slouch, either); too bad this particular track could not have made it onto In The Wake Of Poseidon, because, honestly, it sounds much more like a real wake of Poseidon than the inferior ʽEpitaphʼ clone of the same name. ʽThe Lettersʼ is an odd murder ballad that needs more Greg Lake, but also needs to be less reminis­cent of ʽMoonchildʼ in terms of chords and tones. Finally, ʽLadies Of The Roadʼ is really the odd one out — a twisted blues-rocker about roadies, occasionally interrupted by waltzing sections, a song that rather belongs to the catalog of 10cc than King Crimson. (I'm sure Godley and Creme would have taken this one off Bob's hands in a jiffy).

In short, if there was ever a moment of total confusion in the King Crimson camp, this one's it. From pastoral landscapes to guitar thunderstorms to sexist rockers to baroque instrumentals, Islands does it all, and does it all poorly. Most importantly, this does not even sound like a real band getting their act together: more like an overdubbed collage where each musician does his own thing without paying any attention to the others — and it is not even clear what that own thing is in each particular case. In history, Islands has gone down as one of the most poorly rated King Crimson albums, and I have to join the consensus: I cannot imagine the situation where I'd want to reach for even a single one of its songs to satisfy my King Crimson fix. That this version of the (non-)band never survived the ensuing tour was, as far as I'm concerned, a historical inevi­tability — and a blessing for us all. Imagine Boz Burrell and Mel Collins staying in the band, and there'd never be a Larks' Tongues In Aspic. Never!

Pink Floyd: Atom Heart Mother

PINK FLOYD: ATOM HEART MOTHER (1970)

1) Atom Heart Mother; 2) If; 3) Summer '68; 4) Fat Old Sun; 5) Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast.

General verdict: This is their «Pink Floyd Take A Lazy Holiday» album — get in the groove if you can.

In this present day, the Hipgnosis cow on the front cover would have been instantaneously memetized, in a «what the fuck, bro?» kind of way. In 1970, the band members simply said some­thing about getting sick of being constantly pegged as a «space rock» outfit, and wanting to do away with stereotypes. Indeed, there is practically nothing related to deep space on this record, and a whole lot of quiet, mellow, pastoral elements that have a clear and concise connection to the imposing quadruped, staring at you with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

Atom Heart Mother is another transitional album, and one that remains somewhat «pointless» if we approach every Pink Floyd album the way we think we are supposed to approach any Pink Floyd album — that is, a conceptual whole. It is dominated by two ideas, neither of which works all too well. The first side, conforming to the progressive spirit of the times, consists of a side­long suite, recorded together with the EMI Pops Orchestra and the John Alldis Choir — Pink Floyd's own response to Deep Purple's Concerto For Group And Orchestra. The second side, albeit on a smaller scale, reprises the Ummagumma approach of «four composers, four compositions». Thus, you have a single quadraphonic (quadrophenic?) personality for the first half, and four distinct personalities for the second one. Nice in theory, clumsy in practice.

On the other hand, as long as they all stayed together, Pink Floyd never once recorded a truly bad record — and if we come to terms with the fact that Atom Heart Mother holds up poorly as a whole, it still has enough juicy bits and pieces to be worthy of our attention every once in a while. It has some firsts, some unique moments, and some bizarre failures; it never seems to know where it is going, and for those who sometimes get irritated with all the meticulous calculations of classic era Floyd, there might be a certain charm here that no Dark Side Of The Moon is ever going to provide. At the very least, this rustic flavor I've already mentioned — this is one of the last times you are going to get it without some accompanying kick in the guts of bourgeois society from Roger Waters' venomous pen.

If it were up to me, I'd suggest reversing the album sides: the presentation of four personalities seems more logical as an introduction, upon which they all take the stage and merge together in megalomaniacal ecstasy. Anyway, in this particular contest I feel hard pressed to name the winner: all the three main contributions are good, not great, songs. Roger once again steps into the shoes of an acoustic singer-songwriter — ʽIfʼ is a tender folk ballad whose numerous referen­ces to insanity fall on deaf ears (this has to be one of the least credible "if I go insane" bits in popular music history); frankly, I can see somebody like James Taylor doing it — pleasant, sympathetic, forgettable — and really, Waters is never at his best when he is being that soft. Rick contributes another psychedelic piano nugget: ʽSummer '68ʼ is a mix of music hall, ʽPenny Laneʼ, autumnal French pop, and Mamas & Papas-style vocal harmonies that people frequently single out as the highlight, but I think that it lacks sharpness, just like everything else here — and could never endorse it higher than Gilmour's ʽFat Old Sunʼ, the first bona fide song which he wrote completely on his own and which is essentially one fat old tribute to The Kinks (David's falsetto on the verses is so Ray Davies that I refuse to believe the similarity of the title to ʽLazy Old Sunʼ was merely a coincidence).

One thing that all these three songs show surprisingly in common is a general feel of weakness and apathy, upgraded to the state of (not too) high art — Roger is moodily complaining, Rick is sentimentally nostalgizing, David is lethargically chillin' in some hammock, as if the album was their reflection of some lazy vacation. What better to do than to conclude it all with a 13-minute collage of breakfast noises and banter about food? The poor drummer, suffering the typical poor drummer's fate, could not come up with a suitable composition of his own, so he had to serve as engineer on ʽAlan's Psychedelic Breakfastʼ, mixing all that stuff in between half-assed snippets of melodies that the band probably gathered together from rehearsal jam sessions. As rotten as that suite is, really, it at least ties into this general concept of making an album side about nothing in particular — the laziest-sounding side in Pink Floyd history, with everybody just chillin' like a big old Holstein-Friesian in the meadow on a hot summer day... hey wait a minute!

Curiously, the same «lazy» feel, although in a somewhat different manner, also permeates the big orchestral suite on the first side. Very soon, Floyd would be using their slowness and moodiness as traps for the listener, ready to open the gates of Hell at a moment's notice — ʽAtom Heart Motherʼ does nothing of the sort. Its main theme is a solemn, mildly epic horn melody with a bit of a Morricone flavor (not surprisingly, it began life as the band's own «Theme for an imaginary Western»), and all the other movements are largely there to answer the question «what sort of disparate elements can we all put together because 1970 allows us to?» So there are bluesy inter­ludes with pretty (not gorgeous or stunning, but pretty) examples of Gilmour's slide technique, medieval-style exercises in vocal harmonics, avantgarde keyboard passages, pastoral ballads, and funky jamming — you name it, you got it. It does not look like the whole thing was very well planned in advance, and with Floyd, this is a flaw, because when they improvise or, at least, do not have all the separate pieces precisely thought out, they tend to meander and not give it their all. Hence, lazy feel, of which there's plenty on ʽAtom Heart Motherʼ, too.

But in the end, none of it is bad. The twenty-three minutes of the suite pass by quite merrily: the main heroic theme is memorable, they come back to it pretty often, and the other sections are short enough to let you rather enjoy the diversity than get bored with particularities. It is simply that the whole piece — the whole album, as it happens — does not stand competition with the major prog acts of its day. This is Floyd trying to gain position on the turf of ELP / Yes / King Crimson, and for that kind of ordeal they had neither the wild energy, nor the expert musician­ship. They did have the feels, for sure, but the album ends up being too much of a question mark — what is it exactly they are trying to say? why are they saying it? are we supposed to be finding connections between cows, atoms, symphonic orchestras, and psychedelic breakfasts, or is this just one big put-on?.. whatever.

One definite thing about Atom Heart Mother is that it is not in a position to become a major fan favorite — all the more ironic in that it was the band's first #1 album in the UK — and this means that it is a great candidate for a cult favorite. «They really blew minds with Atom Heart Mother, and then they went and sold out with Meddle» is a very handy slogan for those who like being in the minority. I will say this one thing: discussion on Atom Heart Mother is far from over, and even if the band members themselves these days have few kind words to remember it by, it is perfectly possible to have some sort of awesome individual connection with it. I never had one, but I am ready to believe in the existence of people who did. Then again, one must never under­estimate the power of an intense glare of a prime Holstein-Friesian specimen.

John Lennon: Live Peace In Toronto

JOHN LENNON: LIVE PEACE IN TORONTO (1969)

1) Blue Suede Shoes; 2) Money; 3) Dizzy Miss Lizzy; 4) Yer Blues; 5) Cold Turkey; 6) Give Peace A Chance; 7) Don't Worry Kyoko; 8) John, John (Let's Hope For Peace).

General verdict: Sloppy, silly, sometimes unlistenable, but still imbued with that odd summer '69 charm.

Blame it all on the ridiculous title of this album and the even more ridiculous sequencing on the D. A. Pennebaker-directed movie version of the Toronto Rock'n'Roll Revival — but the overall event was far more normal than the impression of it that you get from the most commonly available mementos of the show. John's decision to add the word Peace to the title makes you think that it was some sort of anti-Vietnam gathering, when in reality the subject of «peace» was only vividly brought up once, by John and Yoko, over the twelve hours of the festival. And Pen­nebaker's decision to concentrate his filming on performances by Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis — and then on John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band — makes you think that this was primarily and exclusively a Fifties' revival event, rudely crashed by John and Yoko who, out of some egotistic hatred, just had to submit the innocent Jack Rabbit Slim's crowd to platters of their bullshit avantgarde art.

In reality, both the Plastic Ono Band and the Fifties' icons were only parts of a much larger project that day — a project that also included several quite modern bands, including Chicago, The Doors, and Alice Cooper (yes, this was the very same event where Alice had his infamous «chicken incident» that pretty much defined the band's — and the man's — entire life), and whose conceptual goal, as drawn up by producers John Brower and Kenny Walker, was inte­gration between generations past, present, and future: the first significant event in the history of rock'n'roll festivals where old heroes would mingle with contemporary ones in a demonstration of mutual respect and friendship. And for the most part, perhaps still under the influence of the Woodstock vibe, everything went well.

Unfortunately, a definitive video and audio presentation of the festival, one that would combine all the high-quality material saved on that day, is still lacking — instead, one has to search out a scattered variety of albums and videos, some of which are still easily available today and some are long out of print. (For that matter, I also long for the day when somebody would get around to making a definitive boxset for the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival, not to mention Woodstock). The Live Peace album, containing John and Yoko's performance in its entirety, is just one of these chunks — and being released long before all the others, under John's direct supervision, is also the most commonly known. And also the most befuddling if you ever make the mistake of listening to it completely out of the day's context.

As is well known, the Plastic Ono Band was more of a concept than a real band, and on that par­ticular day — September 13, 1969 — it consisted of John, Yoko, ex-Manfred Mann bass player Klaus Voormann, ex-Blind Faith guitar player Eric Clapton, and future Yes drummer Alan White: a somewhat rag-taggy crowd, especially considering that they were all brought together by John at something like twenty-four hours' notice and only had time to very briefly rehearse a few numbers on the plane flight to Toronto. (Admittedly, John already had the opportunity to play together with Clapton on ʽYer Bluesʼ for The Rolling Stones' Rock'n'Roll Circus, so this was not such a completely blank-slate experiment). Throw in Clapton's psychologically unstable state at the time (he was in the process of crashing his second band in three years), John's «anything goes» mentality, and Yoko in a bag, and it is actually nothing short of amazing that they still made it on to the stage and played a set that was... listenable. Well, up to a certain point.

For all the confusion, the progression in the setlist seems to have been quite logical. The band started out with three rock'n'roll oldies, to match and honor the spirit of the day (two of them from The Beatles' recorded past and ʽBlue Suede Shoesʼ probably done to death by John and the boys when Klaus Voormann was still their Hamburg neighbor); continued with ʽYer Bluesʼ, one of the few authentic blues-rock numbers in The Beatles' catalog; from there, they switched on to John's brand new solo career, doing a fairly rock'n'rolly take on ʽCold Turkeyʼ — and then ad­justed the audience to the iron rule of Yoko Ono as mercifully as possible, by running through the blues-based ʽDon't Worry Kyokoʼ first and saving the harshest stuff for latest. Thus, symbolically, the progression from the rockabilly of ʽBlue Suede Shoesʼ to the brutal avantgarde of ʽJohn, John (Let's Hope For Peace)ʼ could be regarded as the entire history of musical evolution in the past fifteen years, over a 40-minute long set.

Of course, it all sounds so much cooler in theory than in practice. The rock and roll numbers sound steady enough, but somewhat stiff (out of caution, they slowed down the tempos to avoid any unnecessary accidents), and Eric is occasionally quite sloppy, not to mention that rockabilly soloing was never one of his strong sides. On ʽYer Bluesʼ, I would even say that Lennon delivers a better guitar solo overall than Eric — less technically complex, but more in touch with the overall mood of the song. ʽCold Turkeyʼ is played more like a straight rock number than the proto-industrial nightmare of the studio version, although even that would be more tolerable if John did not forget about half of the lyrics. And ʽGive Peace A Chanceʼ... well, if somebody needs to hear ʽGive Peace A Chanceʼ with tons of bluesy rhythm guitar, there you have it.

The best news is that Yoko sat out much of this part of the performance in a bag on the stage — no, wait, actually the best news is that after she got out of the bag and began to wail the wail on ʽYer Bluesʼ, John had the gall to go into the studio and edit her out (see, even the most heartless bastards have their moments of mercy). On the other hand, it seems that occasionally he also edited her in — there is at least one blazing goat scream during the solo in ʽDizzy Miss Lizzieʼ when in the movie, at that same moment, Yoko is clearly bag-residing, unless she had a hidden recording mike under the cover, of course. (Anyway, this is all far more merciful than that one time when John brought Yoko to his joint performance with Chuck Berry on the Mike Douglas show in 1972... remember that one? Fifty million Chuck Berry fans still complain about Mark Chapman missing the mark up to this day).

The Yoko-dominated side of the album, which has most likely remained in pristine quality for all LP owners, is tolerable as long as the band actually plays — ʽDon't Worry Kyokoʼ, here heard in all of its electric chaos, comes across as a sort of proto-Zeppelinish voodoo ritual, and the menace and madness of the blues riff strangely agrees with Yoko's wailing which, just for this once, actually carries over some of the atmosphere and symbolism that its equivalents may have in traditional Japanese culture (any fan of Kenji Mizoguchi's movies will probably understand what I am talking about here). Once the actual music dies down, however, and the last track becomes ten minutes of screechy-squeaky feedback and «wailing for peace», it is rotten tomato time all over the place, although I do have to tip my hat to John's audacity — it is one thing to conduct such experiments in the studio, or even to play them before a forcefully tolerant group of Cam­bridge University students, and quite another thing to unload the same baggage before thousands of regular fans, most of which came there to headbang and dance to Little Richard, not to mention expecting the greatest Beatle to, you know, lay on some ʽRock And Roll Musicʼ like in the good old days of Candlestick Park. So we also have to tip our hats to the fans who were polite enough to let the Plastic Ono Band off stage without any broken bones or anything.

In the end, Live Peace is what it is — a single, out-of-context, but still intriguing page from a very important historical document, still waiting to be properly re-integrated into its own little book, and barely usable at all for any entertainment-related or enlightenment-related experiences. It did remain the only officially available document of a post-Beatles John Lennon live perfor­mance until the archival release of Live In New York City in 1986; but now that the latter is available, the only reason to come back to Live Peace is to get an extra taste of the all-permeating craziness of the Woodstock era. Which, admittedly, can be quite a bit of a reason.

Marvin Gaye: Hello Broadway

MARVIN GAYE: HELLO BROADWAY (1964)

1) Hello Broadway; 2) People; 3) The Party's Over; 4) On The Street Where You Live; 5) What Kind Of Fool Am I; 6) My Kind Of Town; 7) The Days Of Wine And Roses; 8) This Is The Life; 9) My Way; 10) Hello Dolly!; 11) Walk On The Wild Side.

General verdict: Another record that even our grandmothers have no good reason to listen to.

This is a Marvin Gaye album, and it is titled Hello Broadway — if you have read thus far about my take on Marvin's Natkingcolisms, what else is there to say, really?.. The only difference from Soulful Moods and When I'm Alone I Cry is that this time around, most of the material is taken from recent / contemporary musicals, the oldest compositions going back to the mid-Fifties — covering the general range from My Fair Lady to Hello, Dolly! and their environments.

Once again, I can only express a mixed feeling of admiration and bewilderment at the fact that Motown agreed to honor the singer's wishes a third time — what with all our ideas of Motown as a ruthless, merciless factory aiming at 100% efficiency and all. Perhaps his decision (agreement) to mostly cover «modern standards» was a factor, so that Berry Gordy could entertain at least a vague hope of the record succeeding where its predecessors failed — the freshness of the hits might have stimulated people to buy alternate versions. But no dice: the album flopped just as badly as the previous ones. And not simply because this was not the kind of material people were expecting from Motown — unfortunately, also because Marvin still had not figured out how to approach the material in any remotely interesting kind of way.

With completely generic, failsafe orchestrations, and the same kind of happy croon, unburdened with oddities or subtleties, Hello Broadway does not have a single thing going for it to merit active recommendation (as opposed to «passive» recommendation, which means that if you like Broadway standards and sweet voices, you will probably enjoy this set in just the same way as you'd enjoy hundreds and hundreds of others just like it). But the tenaciousness with which Marvin kept clinging to this stuff really makes you wonder — did he, like, actually hate the «teen crap» of the ʽStubborn Kind Of Fellowʼ variety that made him popular at the time? Did he feel remorse at gaining fame and fortune by singing adolescent-oriented lightweight stuff, and did he seriously think that ʽOn The Street Where You Liveʼ and ʽThe Days Of Wine And Rosesʼ were deep-and-serious compositions, to be treasured for eternity, as opposed to the fickle and transient nature of the teen market?..

This is actually an interesting topic to think about (unlike the discussion of the actual songs on Hello Broadway), because we know that, in the end, Marvin grew up to be one of the most serious-minded artists and innovators on the Motown scene, and, paradoxically, these endless stabs at the Adult Songbook — something that few, if any, other Motown stars tried out on such a regular basis — might be regarded as his first, still quite blind-groping and inane, attempt to break out of the mold and make a bigger, more lasting mark. What he himself — along with many other people — probably did not realize at the time was that the «teen market» of the early 1960s would, in fact, in the long run turn out to be a far more serious, exciting, challenging, and long-lasting cultural development than any other musical market of the same period; that it was ʽStubborn Kind Of Fellowʼ where it was at, and not the stale Broadway formula. But then in 1964 many people still believed that The Beatles, too, were just a passing fad, and that within a year or two things would get back to «normal».

Sufjan Stevens: Illinois

SUFJAN STEVENS: COME ON FEEL THE ILLINOISE (2005)

1) Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois; 2) The Black Hawk War; 3)  Come On! Feel The Illinoise!; 4) John Wayne Gacy, Jr.; 5) Jacksonville; 6) A Short Re­prise For Mary Todd; 7) Decatur, Or, Round Of Applause For Your Stepmother!; 8) One Last ʽWhoo-Hoo!ʼ For The Pullman!!; 9) Go! Chicago! Go! Yeah!; 10) Casimir Pulaski Day; 11) To The Workers Of The Rock River Valley Region, I Have An Idea Concerning Your Predicament; 12) The Man Of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts; 13) Prairie Fire That Wanders About; 14) A Conjunction Of Drones...; 15) The Predatory Wasp Of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us!; 16) They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhhh!; 17) Let's Hear That String Part Again, Because I Don't Think They Heard It All The Way Out In Bushnell; 18) In This Temple As In The Hearts Of Man For Whom He Saved The Earth; 19) The Seer's Tower; 20) The Tallest Man, The Broadest Shoulders; 21) Riffs And Variations On A Single Note For Jelly Roll, Earl Hines, Louis Armstrong, Baby Dodds, And The King Of Swing, To Name A Few; 22) Out Of Egypt, Into The Great Laugh Of Mankind, And I Shake The Dirt From My Sandals As I Run.

General verdict: This "Illinois" is a really nice place where nothing, nothing ever happens.

Critical consensus usually regards Sufjan Stevens Invites You To: Come On Feel The Illinoise And Spend Twenty Three Years Of Your Life Trying To Memorize All The Fascinating Song Titles Jesus Helped Me To Come Up With Because As Of 2005 You Have Nothing Better Left To Do Anyway as the finest hour (more precisely, the finest hour and fifteen minutes) of the man's career, and for once, I will not presume to disagree. If we judge Sufjan by Sufjan's own schtick and nobody else's, you have to admit that this is the man's magnum opus that he will have a pretty hard time to match, let alone surpass. Which still does not make it a particularly great album: in order to make even one great album, Sufjan Stevens would have to stop being Sufjan Stevens — and become, oh, I dunno, Randy Newman, for instance.

First things first, though: like Michigan before it, this album pretends to be very tightly con­nected to the history, culture, and ambience of Chicago and other Illinois landmarks — but the connections rarely, if ever, extend beyond lyrical references (most of which will be too obscure for non-US residents anyway, and a few might not even be completely obvious to residents of Chicago itself: Sufjan did quite a bit of factual research on the history of the state while working on the songs). Musically, however, this is Sufjan territory all along, and the overall impression left by the album is as far removed from classic «Americana» as possible. I mean, musically most people would probably associate Chicago with the blues and Chess Records, but one thing Sufjan never, ever does is play the blues. The closest Stevens really gets to honoring the musical heroes of the city is with ʽRiffs And Variations On A Single Note...ʼ — fifty seconds of brass and wood­wind improvisation more or less as announced, and I am not sure whether the real Jelly Roll or Louis Armstrong would have been pleased with this.

Not that there's anything wrong with such an approach, just like you should not probably blame a priori a reggae opera about the unification of China, or a doom metal album about the creation of Tetris. All the Illinois-related themes merely create a conceptual framework to make the record seem like a variegated and comprehensive portrait of a fictional universe, loosely based on real world events and environments. The portrait itself, however, looks more like a lengthy carnival, a giddy musical ritual performed in honor of the local gods so that the flowers could grow and the water could flow. The fact that the giddiness and playfulness are occasionally interrupted by moments of sadness and even of alarm means nothing, because the steady, unnerving grip of soft, friendly tenderness and guidance is present on every single track: it is a well-known fact that Sufjan Stevens never loses his temper, even when you set his balls on fire.

Stevens is credited for about twenty different instruments on the album, many of them forming complex overdubbed patterns (often with non-standard time signatures), so this is all as sympho­nic as it ever gets in the man's history. And while many of the tracks still retain the form of a one-phrase groove, running around and around in circles as additional overdubs may or may not settle upon its body, others see the man take on extra challenges. The title track, for instance, bravely goes from 5/4 to 4/4, and so does ʽThe Tallest Manʼ, I think (granted, the different sections there are dutifully marked as separate parts: on the whole, Sufjan remains a firm believer in the power of the monotonous mesmerizing groove).

Alas, in the end all this complexity and all this symbolism lead to pretty much the same dead end. All of the tracks set the same mood: I cannot genuinely name any stand-outs, big or small, because no matter how many times I spin the record, everything gels together in a puddle of soft, rosy musical goo. Whether he is singing about serial killers, Casimir Pulaski, the Sears Tower, or the Lord our Saviour, whether he is backing himself with just an acoustic guitar and a banjo or with an entire orchestra of strings, keyboards, and choral vocals, that befuddling «dollhouse feel» never, ever goes away. Sometimes it gets close to infuriating — the man sings about serious matters, and all he manages to come up with are these feather-light woodland fairy dances, with Stevens himself at the helm as a modern day St. Francis or something, so I feel like deep down inside, you'd probably have to be a Franciscan monk to really get this music.

I would say that the only time Illinoise manages, perhaps accidentally, to delve into emotionally less bubblegummy territory is on ʽThey Are Night Zombies!!ʼ, whose bass groove and relentless­ly «marching-on» backing vocals create a whiff of disturbance and ominousness in between Sufjan's usual quasi-Franciscan prayers for the departed — if there is one track that at least lightly interrupts the even flow of the album, it is that one. Even so, this «interrupt» is largely just a matter of cosmetic subtlety.

But what is wrong with a consistent atmosphere if it is produced so effectively?, you will ask. Well, nothing, really, except that I cannot regard this atmosphere as «satisfactory» from any possible point of view. Really great art is always offensive — that is, it goes on the offense, prod­ding you, challenging you, provoking you, shaking you up, making your fists clench or your spirit soar. Illinoise might come a bit closer to that state than any other Sufjan Stevens album in existence, but there is no tension in this music — just hollow, useless bliss. This is probably the kind of muzak that St. Peter now has installed in his personal elevator, although I'm pretty sure that even St. Peter could have his blood boiling in a pinch — I seriously doubt it that Sufjan Stevens would have been able to mobilize himself to cut off the high priest's servant's right ear in times of need.

One last excuse might be made, in that Stevens is also a big fan of Steve Reich, and if the mini­malist approach works well enough for Reich, why shouldn't it work for Sufjan? (See the final track, ʽOut Of Egypt...ʼ, which is pretty much just a direct four-minute tribute to Reich's loops). But the catch here is that Sufjan Stevens writes chamber pop, not minimalism; and chamber pop, like any other kind of pop (and like any other kind of chamber music, for that matter), requires dynamics to capture the listener's attention and spirit. Minimalist experiments are different — they may range from purely intellectual challenges to trance-inducing patterns; it is not the kind of music to which you should be expected to shed tears or feel sharp pangs. And besides, as ʽOut Of Egyptʼ clearly shows, Sufjan Stevens is not exactly pushing forward the boundaries of mini­malism, either — more like just homaging one more of his idols.

At the very least, Illinoise is a very welcome rebound from the total and utter slumber of Seven Swans — the quasi-orchestral arrangements help out quite a bit. But as one of the principal torch bearers for Art-Pop in the 21st century, Illinoise seems to me very much a false idol, unless, of course, we have reached an implicit agreement that Art-Pop has been completely reduced to Pythagorean musical geometry, because Dionysus happens to be doing time for a long history of offensive behavior and unsolicited sexual harrassment. From that point of view, why, sure, Sufjan Stevens may definitely be the symbol of our times.

Radiohead: Amnesiac

RADIOHEAD: AMNESIAC (2001)

1) Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box; 2) Pyramid Song; 3) Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors; 4) You And Whose Army?; 5) I Might Be Wrong; 6) Knives Out; 7) Morning Bell; 8) Dollars & Cents; 9) Hunting Bears; 10) Like Spinning Plates; 11) Life In A Glass House.

General verdict: Inventively excruciating, in a nails-on-smorgasbord sort of way.

It might not seem fair to pronounce any general judgements on Radiohead's artistic behavior in the 21st century based on an album that is, essentially, a set of outtakes from the Kid A sessions: something that explains both the speed with which it was thrown on the market (one year in between records is not at all typical for Radiohead) and the fact that nobody I know has ever dared to rate it above Kid A. Two circumstances, however, still work against the band. One — these songs are by no means «rejects»: in fact, one of the original plans was to release Kid A as a double album, but somebody probably dissuaded them from the idea, so as to soften the blow for «rockist» fans just a little bit. Two — in no way does Amnesiac ever sound like an auxiliary detour; on the contrary, it ties in very organically and logically as a legitimate album in its own right that paves the way from Kid A to Hail To The Thief and beyond.

It is also the first Radiohead album that reads as an almost perfect blank to me. Where OK Computer was an artistic marvel, only so slightly obscured with faint hints of excesses to come, and where Kid A was a confusing mix of good songs, risky production, and art-for-art's-sake, Amnesiac is essentially just a collection of textures and atmospheres. It completes the transition of Radiohead from a band that used to make strong, firm, sharp, soul-pinching musical statements (even Kid A still had a few of those) to a band that spends most of its time splashing buckets of musical paint against the wall, then forcing you to sit on the floor and watch that paint dry. Which, I admit, may be a form of therapy for an actual amnesiac, but still gives no excuse for forcing this amnesia on the unhappy listener.

I draw the line at the album's opening track, ʽPackt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Boxʼ (and the spelling only adds to the indignation — at least be consistent about it and devoice crushd to crusht if you have just done it for packt). Its soft, fragile percussive loops, ultrasoundish key­boards and murmury autotuned vocals probably imply that the protagonist of ʽEverything In Its Right Placeʼ has been finally stripped of all emotionality and sensitivity, and pretty much reduced to a human robot in a low-power state. This is a solid, if not particularly original, concept, but the problem is that they got so carried away by all the stripping and quieting down that they forgot to make the track exciting, be it with crude or subtle means. If you listen to it long enough, think about it, read about it, think about it some more, you might come to appreciate its symbolic value; but how could it ever become a feast for the senses if there is nothing to feast on?..

Throw in ʽPyramid Songʼ, and you get the second (and pretty much the last) avatar of the album: moody piano + nasal Thom Yorke = pure melancholia without memorable melodies. Think back to ʽLuckyʼ, when these things were done on an epic scale, with crescendos and climaxes and cliffhangers; ʽPyramid Songʼ tells you that crescendos, climaxes, and cliffhangers are boring clichés that constrain expressivity, and that the right way to do this thing is to simply let it flow. Slowly, smoothly, atmospherically, with minimalistic waves of electronic strings rolling across the rudimentary piano chords. Of course, the piano chords themselves are jazzy, inspired by Charles Mingus' ʽFreedomʼ, so it would be sacrilegious to call this music Radiohead's equivalent of «adult contemporary», right? Well, if nobody else is going to come out and do it, I'm ready to take the blow — this is a very dull track, and Thom's «Tristan-is-down-to-his-last-ounce-of-blood» vocal delivery only helps milk curdle faster.

Need one last crippling blow? The same formula is then repeated in the same way, with ʽPulk/Pull Revolving Doorsʼ reprising the wimpy percussion loops and autotuned vocal samples of ʽPacktʼ, and ʽYou And Whose Army?ʼ giving us another melted-down ballad, this time one that might have provided Bon Iver with the blueprint for about half of their songs. And yes, none of this would be so horrible if it weren't so pretentious — but the idea behind this, see, is that Radiohead continue making High Art, leaving behind the plebs-oriented song structures, melodi­city, energy, and focus of their naïve, misguided, silly musical adolescence.

I count exactly two songs... — err, excuse me, «art pieces», «songs» is such a lame term — on the album that have at least a tiny bit of emotional power to them. ʽI Might Be Wrongʼ is just a con­solatory bone thrown to rock music lovers, with its twirling bluesy riff (dropped D tuning! hey, that's like Led Zep's ʽMoby Dickʼ!); and ʽKnives Outʼ, supposedly inspired by Johnny Marr, has a lovely guitar melody and, for once, a strong croon rather than wimpy whine from Thom — the combination of these factors makes it an obvious standout, and, not surprisingly, this is the only song on the entire record that I could easily envisage on The Bends or OK Computer.

As the record nears its conclusion, the band toys more and more with all kinds of jazz, a fascination that reaches its climax with ʽLife In A Glass Houseʼ, for which they had enlisted an actual jazz band to make it sound like New Orleanian funeral music (deconstructed, of course; for constructed New Orleanian funeral music, you are welcome to come directly to New Orleans). Admittedly, this is at least more novel than their boring electronic diddlings, yet in both cases, the main problem remains the same — Radiohead are simply not very good at handling electronic devices, just as they are not very good at showing how they can make the transition from rock to jazz. The only glue that keeps gluing it all together is Yorke's teary depression, and there is only so much teary depression a man can take.

Putting it bluntly, Amnesiac is crap. In theory, I have nothing against records that try to combine experimental musical textures with drowning in one's own tears in the face of complete helpless­ness against the evil weight of the world. But when the «experimentation» in question means poking your nose into genres for which you don't really have either the feel or the knack, and when, at the same time, the tears are beginning to reach the level of Alice in Wonderland... like I said, this is where I draw the line. Of course, Amnesiac is art: it is analyzable, it is layered, it takes risks and tests out ideas, it even goes further than Kid A in breaking up the pop formula, and, hell, it displaced Shaggy's Hot Shot from the top spot on the UK charts, so it did at least something good in this world. But in terms of fulfilling the greatest function that music, as an art form, is supposed to fulfill — as far as I am concerned, it fails just as miserably at this as Shaggy did, if not more so.

Technical note: the 2-CD special reissue of Amnesiac collects a bunch of B-sides and live ver­sions of Amnesiac songs, but excuse me if I do not make any comments on any of these, because this album has come that close to making a certified amnesiac out of me.

Joy Division: Warsaw

JOY DIVISION: WARSAW (1977-1978; 1994)

1) The Drawback; 2) Leaders Of Men; 3) They Walked In Line; 4) Failures; 5) Novelty; 6) No Love Lost; 7) Transmission; 8) Living In The Ice Age; 9) Interzone; 10) Warsaw; 11) Shadowplay; 12) As You Said; 13*) Inside The Line; 14*) Gutz; 15*) At A Later Date; 16*) The Kill; 17*) You're No Good For Me.

General verdict: Well, why not go back in time for a change and see Joy Division as punks rather than post-punks?

Most of the songs on this album were well known to audiences in 1994 — some from Unknown Pleasures, some from singles and EPs gathered on Substance, some from outtakes captured on Still — but all of these versions actually go back to the infamous «RCA Sessions», held by the band in May 1978. The twelve tracks in question were supposed to be their first LP, still provi­sionally titled Warsaw, despite the band already having changed its name to Joy Division. How­ever, things fell through, allegedly due to the band being disappointed with the label's post-production, and although the tracks had been in active bootleg circulation for decades, it was not until 1994 that the record was legally licensed and released by MPG Records.

Naturally, the release itself was a cash-in, considering the unending demand for new Joy Division product, somewhat offset by severed lines of communication between Earth and Ian Curtis. But! In retrospect, this is a brilliant cash-in, and it is awfully sad, really, that this album will always count as an archival document and not as a legit Joy Division product — because not only is it pretty damn good, it also completes the picture in such an effective way as could never be provided by a Still-level or even Substance-level compilation.

Simply put, this is a coherent, comprehensive, and detailed portrait of Joy Division in their infancy — a sort of Please Please Me that only hints at the greatness to come, but this bare hint has a fresh, raw, innocent charm of its own. This is the stage when Joy Division were still a gritty punk band, a stage when Hook, Sumner, and Morris played brutally and aggressively, a stage when Curtis was yet far away from developing his deep Morrison-style voice, preferring to growl and bark in a much higher, much more punkish pitch. True enough, at this stage they had not yet found their unique voice — but hey, they could rock, and the tight, tense, no-nonsense grooves that dominate the album are nothing to sneer at.

I shall not give detailed comments on the individual songs, considering that most of them had been previously discussed one way or another (or not discussed if I did not think they merited special discussion). I will just say that, although the production values throughout are fairly rough, the sound will very much satisfy all those who find problems with Hannett's production and like to hear their Joy Division crisp and powerful, rather than drenched in echo, reverb, and other New Wavish technological effects. I myself reserve judgement, but damn if it isn't at least interesting to hear ʽShadowplayʼ and ʽInterzoneʼ as thick, crunchy rockers with Stooges-like guitar tones (in fact, I have only just realized that ʽInterzoneʼ is a straight-ahead tribute to Fun House, and could fit on that album like a glove). And no electronic gloss on the drums! and not in a piss-poorly recorded live setting! No, this record definitely has some nifty reasons to exist.

In addition to the RCA Sessions, the album goes even deeper in time and throws on five demo tracks from 1977 (back when the band was still named Warsaw) — the first known examples of studio recordings made by the team, with predictably shitty quality but even more reminiscent of the Sex Pistols and other punk pioneers. Actually, ʽGutzʼ, with its insane tempo and undeciphe­rable screaming, might be as close to hardcore as Joy Division ever got — two minutes of all-out blasting stupidity, but loaded with charming determination. Truthfully, most of this stuff is rudi­mentary and derivative shite, but even The Beatles used to be The Quarrymen, and the greater you get, the more fascinating is your backstory.

Cutting a long story short, Warsaw is an absolute must-own for any Joy Division fan, and will be particularly pleasing to those who share the band's own opinion — that Hannett's production sold short their rock-the-house-down abilities. Of course, back at the time this only reflected the narrowness of the band's vision, what with Hannett pushing them into the next decade and the next dimension of musical sound; but now that the age of technological innovation (or, at least, specifically New Wave-related technological innovation) is long past, we have a right to look at these songs from another angle — and somehow, it is nice to know that there was a time when they were brimming with the energy of raw anger and frustration, rather than imploding from within with the internalized energy of doom and depression.

McDonald And Giles: McDonald And Giles

McDONALD AND GILES: McDONALD AND GILES (1970)

1) Suite In C; 2) Flight Of The Ibis; 3) Is She Waiting?; 4) Tomorrow's People / The Children Of Today; 5) Birdman: The Inventor's Dream / The Workshop / Wishbone Ascension / Birdman Flies! / Wings In The Sunset / The Reflection.

General verdict: Beautiful, if a bit lightweight, jazz-symph-prog — an epic and logical conclusion to the saga of Giles, Giles & Fripp.

With Lizard and McDonald & Giles appearing on store shelves within the same year, it was actually difficult to tell which of the two was the real King Crimson — with Fripp and Sinfield on one team and Ian and Michael on the other, each had exactly two members from the original lineup. (In fact, since Sinfield also wrote the lyrics for the ʽBirdmanʼ suite, one could take him out of the equation and hand the victory over to McDonald and Giles with a smashing score of 2:1). Indeed, this self-titled debut from the pair, which, unfortunately, also turned out to be their only record, is thoroughly Crimsonian in shape and intent; all it lacks to be fully canon is Robert's blessing, and at least a bit of his guitar presence.

Lengthy, multi-part compositions; improvised jamming; mixtures of classical, jazz, and folk in­fluences; an overall feel of tapping into something transcendental — all of these trademarks of early King Crimson make their way onto this album as well. However, left to their own devices, McDonald and Giles show little desire to rock out: the album's moods range from playful to solemn to sorrowful, but never cross over into angry / ominous territory. Word of the day is «romantic», so much so that it does not take a tremendous leap of imagination to understand how it was that seven years later Ian McDonald would find himself as one of the founding fathers of Foreigner. (For that matter, John Wetton's leap from King Crimson to Asia is far less credible).

But that would be seven years later, when «going commercial» and 20 minute-long suites were mutually exclusive undertakings. In 1970, the climate was different, and although the duo's only album did not sell at all well, this was due rather to the lack of good publicity, an established stage presence, and a strong accompanying single. The music, however, was largely excellent — with tons of fresh and experimental ideas, plenty of energy, and a couple of sincere loving hearts behind all the songwriting.

Thus, ʽSuite In Cʼ, whose atmosphere of lightly psychedelic tenderness is also reminiscent of contemporary Caravan, dips into just about everything over the course of its eleven minutes — there's R&B-influenced pop, jazz jamming, brief orchestrated classical interludes, rockabilly saxes, and Beach Boys-style harmonic shuffles. Whether it all fits together and makes perfect sense is debatable, but the track never loses momentum, and the funniest thing about it is hearing Giles go apeshit on the drums and McDonald go all Ian Anderson-like on the flute and under­standing that this is just like the mid-section on ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ, only with all the aggression taken out. Which means there will always be a vague stigma of «fluffiness» attached to this kind of music, but surely there is a word to be said about positive and harmless emotional agitation, too. McDonald and Giles handle this well.

They get even more ambitious with the ʽBirdmanʼ suite, which occupies the entire second side of the album with its story of a modern-day Icarus (but with a happy ending, I gather) that goes all the way back to 1968. In many ways, it is a fascinating piece, with choral harmonies, catchy pop interludes, masterful use of kaleidoscopic sound effects, bits of deliciously funky jamming (brother Peter Giles shines on bass in the ʽWorkshopʼ section); in some ways, it is a bit messy and unsure of itself (the entire ʽBirdman Flies!ʼ section, instead of sounding like actual flying, sounds more like six minutes of tuning up and getting one's act together before advancing to the real thing); but the track's main theme, briefly introduced in the opening section as a leitmotif, truly soars in the ʽReflectionʼ finale — a simple, but majestic piano theme, eventually joined by a host of instruments and voices. This is truly a high point of the symph-prog era, combining melancholy with majesty and sadness with optimism, and it makes me a little sad to see it so hopelessly buried at the end of a record known only to meticulous connoisseurs of the genre.

For completeness' sake, we should also briefly mention the remaining three songs on side A: ʽFlight Of The Ibisʼ and ʽIs She Waiting?ʼ are a couple of pretty ballads («power»-style and folk-style, respectively) that ooze class, but are not very memorable; and ʽTomorrow's Peopleʼ, originally written by Michael in 1967, predictably sounds like an extended outtake from Giles, Giles & Fripp — a light, cheerful jazz-pop composition with a sense of humor, something cool to come back to once you have decided to seek a fittingremedy for post-Al Kooper Blood, Sweat & Tears. Somehow, though, I end up liking their multi-part suites more: their individual ideas, with the obvious exception of ʽReflectionʼ, tend to be weaker than their colorful — and some­times downright crazyass — transitions into one another.

Overall, I do believe that the record should be treated as fully «canon» for any King Crimson or prog-rock fan. This is one possible direction, after all, in which the band's sound might have evolved. Sure, it is simpler and lighter and maybe even poppier than the other one, but this does not make it any less... well, let's say, inquisitive into the laws of music and the peculiarities of human nature. Sometimes I actually feel a bit sorry that with the guys' departure, King Crimson had forever lost that tender romantic spirit — I do not really believe that it goes completely against the nature of Robert Fripp or anything. Then again, perhaps distancing yourself from future members of Foreigner is a good thing to do... as early as possible. Just in case. And with Fripp's sagacious art of foresight, he probably saw that one coming, too.