The Band: The Last Waltz

THE BAND: THE LAST WALTZ (1978)

1) Theme From The Last Waltz; 2) Up On Cripple Creek; 3) The Shape I'm In; 4) It Makes No Difference; 5) Who Do You Love; 6) Life Is A Carnival; 7) Such A Night; 8) The Weight; 9) Down South In New Orleans; 10) This Wheel's On Fire; 11) Mystery Train; 12) Caldonia; 13) Mannish Boy; 14) Stage Fright; 15) Rag Mama Rag; 16) All Our Past Times; 17) Further On Up The Road; 18) Ophelia; 19) Helpless; 20) Four Strong Winds; 21) Coyote; 22) Shadows And Light; 23) Furry Sings The Blues; 24) Acadian Driftwood; 25) Dry Your Eyes; 26) The W. S. Walcott Medicine Show; 27) Tura Lura Lural; 28) Caravan; 29) The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down; 30) The Genetic Method / Chest Fever; 31) Baby, Let Me Follow You Down; 32) Hazel; 33) I Don't Believe You; 34) Forever Young; 35) Baby, Let Me Follow You Down (reprise); 36) I Shall Be Released; 37) Jam #1; 38) Jam #2; 39) Don't Do It; 40) Greensleeves; 41) The Well; 42) Evangeline; 43) Out Of The Blue; 44) The Weight; 45) The Last Waltz Refrain; 46) The Last Waltz Theme; 47*) King Harvest (Has Surely Come); 48*) Tura Lura Lural; 49*) Caravan; 50*) Such A Night; 51*) Rag Mama Rag; 52*) Mad Waltz; 53*) The Last Waltz Refrain; 54*) The Last Waltz Theme.

Unless you are a complete novice in this whole «rock» business, there is probably no need to in­troduce The Last Waltz — one of the most well-known and successful, image-wise, publicity projects in the history of rock'n'roll show business. With Martin Scorsese and Robbie Robertson, two of the most ambitious procreators in their respective spheres of business, at the helm of the project, it quickly became much more than a «farewell concert»: more likely, the «farewell con­cert to end all other farewell concerts», The Greatest Goodbye & Thanks For All The Good Times Ever Bidden In The History Of Mankind.

In fact, as far as the legend goes, everybody else in The Band was pretty much taken aback at the proposition — nobody except for Robbie really had it in mind to quit the touring circuit, and many thought (correctly) that the man's super-ego finally got to his brain core, and there he was, eager to kill off the hen with the golden eggs for the sake of a bet-it-all gesture of grandiosity. The only reason they all had to go along with the plan was that they didn't have much choice at the time: without Robbie as chief songwriter, primary organizer, and activity center, The Band would not be able to exist anyway (or, at least, that is what they thought back then: the future would prove them partially — but only partially — wrong). So everybody had to bring along their own hemp rope and their own bar of soap, and then Scorsese filmed them all committing group suicide on November 25, 1976, at the Winterland Ballroom.

The ultimate irony of it all, of course, is that, for the most part, Robbie was absolutely right in his decision. Yes, it could be that The Band still had one or two good, even borderline great, albums left in them, but as good as Northern Lights was, it did not add much new substance to their legacy, and the upcoming era of punk, new wave and synth-pop would have inevitably swallowed them up anyway, as it did with every other roots-rock band in existence. In fact, the decision to pull the plug on The Band was almost prophetic — The Last Waltz was held the same year that The Ramones was released. In 1976, there was still some space under the sun left for The Band; in 1977, there already wouldn't be anything but a small dark corner.

The real depth of Robbie's cunning, however, lies not in the very fact, but in the scope of the con­cert. On the surface, an innocent, friendly idea to invite a few guest star colleagues for The Band's last concert might seem just like that — just an innocent, friendly idea. In reality, what Robertson and Scorsese cooked up was nothing less than a grand eulogy for the whole vast field. The very name — The Last Waltz — is telling enough, but if it were allowed to drag on for a little longer, chances are we'd see something like: The Last Waltz — The Day That Music Died, And The Greatest Band In The World Became The Gravedigger.

Clearly, the guest selection was far from randomized. Early rock'n'roll heroes, including The Band's own original mentor (Ronnie Hawkins). Even earlier blues patriarchs (Muddy Waters). The world of light jazz and New Orleans happiness, represented by Dr. John. The world of elec­tric blues rock, represented by Eric Clapton. Blue-eyed soul in the guise of Van Morrison. Neil Young and Joni Mitchell — the male and female emissaries, respectively, of the deep folk tradi­tion. Mainstream glitzy pop, represented by Neil Diamond (who, despite all the problems people sometimes have with his apparition, really does belong in this context). And, of course, Bob Dy­lan himself stepping out to close the show with ʽI Shall Be Releasedʼ, a song about imminent death and sweet redemption. And in and out and in and out of it all, The Band, The Band, and once again The Band, acting as that one particular glue pack to hold it all in place — «One Band to rule them all, One Band to find them, One Band to bring them all and on that stage to bind them, in the Land of Winter where seven 35 mm cameras have been installed».

But here is the last and ultimate moment of irony — even once you understand the setup and how they were all framed, there is no way, really, that you can stop watching The Last Waltz or lis­te­ning to the respective LPs. Because on a pure, simple, song-by-song basis, this was a damn fine concert, and one that all the members of The Band enjoyed giving, even despite being dragged into this by force; whatever their feelings towards Robertson might that been, on that particular evening, November 25, 1976, deep inside their hearts, they must have been pleased to be «The One Band», and took to the task with all due responsibility. Maybe even with extra responsibility — most of the songs are played so close to the originals that it makes the results a little less fun than on Rock Of Ages — but there is no questioning the effectiveness of the locked-in-a-groove thing, and that is what makes a live Band show really count.

Like Woodstock or other such «legendary» events, The Last Waltz, in audio form, has gone through a large number of incarnations over the years — beginning as a 3-LP set, then issued as a 2-CD set with a few bonus tracks, finally, as part of Rhino Records' extensive reissue program, appearing as a huge 4-CD boxset with 24 previously unreleased tracks. I definitely suggest going along with the latest and largest version: half of the last CD, featuring alternate versions from re­hearsal takes, might be expendable, but the rest conveys the real scope and sequencing of the show much better than the early truncated set. I mean, given that the idea was to make it BIG, one might as well go along with it — even including the two instrumental jams at the end of the show. Plus, it is always nice to get three Joni Mitchell songs instead of one, and a fun rendition of Louis Jordan's ʽCaldoniaʼ out of the mouth of Muddy Waters.

Discussing The Last Waltz in terms of high- and lowlights is useless: there is so much material here that the discussion can take forever, and none of it matters anyway. The Band end up perfor­ming 99% of their hits, including three blistering performances of songs from Northern Lights (ʽOpheliaʼ, in particular, is so tight-bolted that it ends up rocking real hard, despite having no trademarks of a hard rocker whatsoever), and none of their misses (although, strange enough, the ʽGenetic Method / Chest Feverʼ section is grossly abridged on all versions of the album, with just a few little bits of the former and a brief instrumental run through the latter — probably that usual trick where an audio equivalent of a video release has to have one or two songs missing or gross­ly abridged, and vice versa, pressing the audiophile into joining the videophile, and vice ver­sa).

The guest stars are all of the highest order (well, maybe bar «The Hawk», who merely adds a bit of barking and growling to the tight jam The Band got going on ʽWho Do You Loveʼ, and Neil Diamond, whose ʽDry Your Eyesʼ is really a generic folk anthem and not too diagnostic... maybe ʽKentucky Womanʼ would have been a more telling choice) — particular kudos goes to Clapton, whose sparring match with Robbie on ʽFurther On Up The Roadʼ prompted Eric into launching in one of his fiercest, flashiest solo passages at the end; and to Joni Mitchell for the gorgeous back­ing vocals, sung offstage to Neil Young's ʽHelplessʼ while Neil himself, according to reports, was floating in coke heaven (not that it impeded the performance in any way). As for the rest — just go see it and hear it for yourself. One might love The Last Waltz, or one might despise The Last Waltz — Robbie and Martin ensured that The Last Waltz itself cares about your feelings little more than the Tower of Pisa or the theory of evolution.

One special note must be made about «The Last Waltz Suite» — a little special extra that The Band made specifically for the audio variant of the experience. This is a rather strangely sequen­ced concoction of mostly newly written numbers that supposedly run the gamut from blues-rock (ʽThe Wellʼ) to country-folk (ʽEvangelineʼ, with Emmylou Harris as guest vocalist) to pop balladry (ʽOut Of The Blueʼ) to gospel (a re-recording of ʽThe Weightʼ with The Staple Singers adding «authenticity») to classical-lite (ʽThe Last Waltz Themeʼ itself, sort of a «Johann Strauss Jr. meets The Third Man Theme» thing). The new numbers are not particularly memorable, and overall, the effort seems so slight in comparison to the powerful live show that this «studio epi­log» feels like a misfire — even if it does offer the fan a few last minute new compositions, and even if the resulting addition of Emmylou Harris to the roster is a good thing in itself.

But a quibble is but a quibble, and it does not in the least dim the general effect. The Last Waltz is a grand experience, and it does close the book not only on The Band, but on the heyday of tasteful, intelligently crafted roots-rock as well — blame it on Robbie to have collected 70% inte­rest for the task of assisting in the closure, but in a way, he only stated and logged the inevitable. And that is just the philosophical underbelly of it — and then there are the gut feelings, which simply state that The Last Waltz is a lot of fun for all those who like The Band and the guests of The Band, and that there is no way the album could be deprived of a thumbs up, be it the 3-LP, the 2-CD, or the 4-CD incarnation. One Neil Diamond don't spoil no show, anyway.

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Billy Preston: I Wrote A Simple Song

BILLY PRESTON: I WROTE A SIMPLE SONG (1971)

1) Should've Known Better; 2) I Wrote A Simple Song; 3) John Henry; 4) Without A Song; 5) The Looner Tune; 6) The Bus; 7) Outa-Space; 8) You Done Got Older; 9) Swing Down Chariot; 10) God Is Great; 11) My Country 'Tis Of Thee.

Sporting a slightly tougher image here: still as deeply religious and idealistic as ever, yes, but is that a slightly threatening «street punk look» that I feel is directed at me from the sleeve photo? Nah... can't be, really. Then again, the funk hits pretty hard on this record — clearly, Billy feels a strong need to emphasize that he is cool with the rock crowds of the day, and that it is really the last thing on his mind to get pigeonholed as a «ladies' man» or a «spokesman for God», or both. He still doth speak for God on occasion (ʽGod Is Greatʼ, yeah, right), but note the complete ab­sence of sappy ballads — in fact, the title track is, in itself, an angered rant against sappy ballads: "They took my simple song / They changed the words and the melody / Made it all sound wrong / Now it sounds like a symphony", he complains. Who knows, this might even have been a direct jab at Phil Spector and his strings on ʽThe Long And Winding Roadʼ, or something.

In any case, the approach does work: there are no particularly stunning highlights on this album (no George Harrison covers, no mega-epic production triumphs like on ʽThat's The Way God Planned Itʼ, etc.), but no particular sentimental lowlights either, with the possible exception of the very last track — for some reason, at the last moment we are presented with a weepy anthemic outburst of patriotism (ʽMy Country 'Tis Of Theeʼ) that misses the mark. Basically, unless you are Jimi Hendrix or the Sex Pistols, you should probably avoid putting your mark on century-old anthems: singing them directly is a corny move, and trying to find your own unique, refreshing interpretation is a risky one — particularly for Billy, who ain't no performing genius, and, despite all his personal charisma, cannot hope to get by on sincerity and passion alone for too long; and adding strings and a gospel choir does not make life any easier.

But disregard the country and vouch for space instead — the instrumental ʽOuta-Spaceʼ was ini­tially released as the B-side to the title track, then gradually overtook it in popularity and became one of Billy's most classic numbers: a rather daring experiment in funky, wah-wah-treated, cla­vinet composing, with Billy hanging on a wobbly, scratchy groove and the rest of the band jam­ming rings around his simple, but infectious phrasing. The effect is somewhat close to the one achieved in ʽSuperstitionʼ — although the latter employed a more difficult chord sequence, and was overall «tighter» in the composition sense, this one not only comes earlier, but has much more of a «nasty party» atmosphere.

That said, even if the punchy, prickly clavinet does make ʽOuta-Spaceʼ into the most memorable event on the album, the overall strength of the grooves is not any less on such workouts as ʽThe Busʼ and ʽShould've Known Betterʼ (nope, not a Beatles cover here at all: most of the material is quite rigorously self-penned). The pop spirit comes out on the upbeat, jumpy ʽLooner Tuneʼ (which, for some reason, quotes from ʽEntry Of The Gladiatorsʼ on the chorus, adding some psychedelic gloss to the circus atmosphere), and most of the gospel is either disguised as mid-tempo funk once again (ʽGod Is Greatʼ) or gets a nice rootsy sheen (ʽSwing Down Chariotʼ).

The album marks the end of Billy's «star luck» period — all the fabulous guests, courtesy of the Beatles connection, that contributed heavily to the star power of That's The Way and Encoura­ging Words, have finally packed and gone home. However, Harrison still stays behind for a few guitar and dobro flourishes, and Quincy Jones is responsible for the strings and horns arrange­ments (which might be the reason why the strings never sound annoying); notorious Motown session player David T. Walker is responsible for most of the guitar work, but most of the time, assuredly sticks in the background (overall, there is very little genuine «soloing» going on here — emphasis is always on collective groove playing).

In short — this is just another good Billy Preston album, designed to heat up the party and cheer up the heart, not to blow the mind or any­thing (even if ʽOuta-Spaceʼ seems to set its sights a little bit higher), which corresponds to a modest, easy-going, quickly-passing thumbs up in my book.

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Bo Diddley: The Black Gladiator

BO DIDDLEY: THE BLACK GLADIATOR (1970)

1) Elephant Man; 2) You, Bo Diddley; 3) Black Soul; 4) Power House; 5) If The Bible's Right; 6) I've Got A Feeling; 7) Shut Up, Woman; 8) Hot Buttered Blues; 9) Funky Fly; 10) I Don't Like You.

For an «early rocker» from the 1950s to do something worthwhile in the age of Led Zeppelin, Lou Reed, and Amon Düül II, he would really have to divide himself by zero — children of the «un-accelerated era» as they were, in most cases, their mentalities just could not cope with the idea of having to modify and adapt their styles every two years or so. By 1967, Bo's engine had stalled completely, and he wisely retired from the business, biding his time, rethinking his attitu­des, and waiting for a suitable opportunity.

The opportunity eventually came in the emergence of the funk scene — with James Brown, Sly Stone, George Clinton, etc. establishing a whole brand new, powerhouse market for black music, Bo Diddley sensed that there just might be a small corner in that market for himself as well. After all, wasn't Bo Diddley the original «funkster»? Single-chord groove-based African dance music and all? So he didn't exactly invent syncopation or the «chicken-scratch», but these are just tiny technical details — of course, The Originator had a right to stake his claim here, and that is just what he is doing on The Black Gladiator (a title that James Brown must have envied).

Few people know about this record, and a small handful of those that do has predictably dis­missed it — «Bo Diddley having nothing better to do than to jump on the funk bandwagon, with expectedly laughable results etc.». Hold on, brothers and sisters. Maybe this is just a chronology effect: after so many same-sounding, self-plagiarizing, openly mediocre albums from Bo in the mid-Sixties, The Black Gladiator simply comes through as a stunning ray of light by sheer con­trast. But it is also an objective fact, I suppose, that as the first hole-burning electric laser beams of ʽElephant Manʼ cut through the speakers, everyone will just have to realize that, at the very least, Bo has managed to turn over a heavy page here — the likes of which most of his original colleagues were never able to deal with.

The trick is that The Black Gladiator is not really an attempt to make a «generic funk album with Bo Diddley's name on it»; it is an attempt to make a Bo Diddley album with a strong funky undercurrent. ʽElephant Manʼ, ʽBlack Soulʼ, ʽI've Got A Feelingʼ (nothing to do with the Beatles song), and ʽFunky Flyʼ — all of these «jams with vocal support» are really quite close in melodic structure to the «old» Bo Diddley. But the guitar tones are tougher, snappier, occasionally even acid-drenched; the old pianos are replaced with loud, jerky, stuttering organ passages; and the overall level of volume, «dirt», and grittiness is completely in keeping with the standards of 1970, even if one good listen is enough to understand that the man in charge must have had his basic schtick worked out at least a decade earlier.

Nor is the album particularly monotonous. The four titles listed above do sound very close, but there is also a mad, ear-piercing  «dance-gospel» celebration (ʽIf The Bible's Rightʼ); several old-fashioned 12-bar blues numbers, either just modernized for the psychedelic blues-rock era (ʽHot Buttered Bluesʼ — a somewhat misguided retort to Isaac Hayes' ʽHot Buttered Soulʼ), or milking the «Bo Diddley persona» for exaggerated comical misogyny (ʽShut Up, Womanʼ); an update of the «hey, Bo Diddley» routine (ʽYou, Bo Diddleyʼ — "who's the greatest man in town"?) with a well-engineered funkified variant of the Diddley beat.

Oddball-est of all is the next installment in the ʽSay Manʼ series: ʽI Don't Like Youʼ is a joke dialog between Bo and another of his female sidekicks (possibly Cookie Vee) which is not only set to a funky groove as well, but also unexpectedly shows Bo's operatic side, as he occasionally breaks out in mock-Spanish serenading — taken out of context, this would simply look dumb, but in the context of this totally freaked out, hyperbolic extravagance makes for a grand flashy finale to the album, fifty percent silly pomp and fifty percent hilarious self-irony.

All in all, this is an exhilarating experience. It ain't much in the way of new melodies, but it is a near-perfect update on Bo's personality — somehow, The Black Gladiator manages to sound completely different from the old stuff and yet, at the same time, preserve each and every element that is necessary to make a Bo Diddley out of an Ellas McDaniel. But remember — this record must be played loud from the very first notes, because if you are not sucked in by the first beats of ʽElephant Manʼ, you might miss the train altogether. Thumbs up.

Alicia Keys: Girl On Fire

ALICIA KEYS: GIRL ON FIRE (2012)

1) De Novo Adagio (intro); 2) Brand New Me; 3) When It's All Over; 4) Listen To Your Heart; 5) New Day; 6) Girl On Fire; 7) Fire We Make; 8) Tears Always Win; 9) Not Even The King; 10) That's When I Knew; 11) Limitedless; 12) One Thing; 13) 101.

Wow. It has actually been a long time since I last subjected myself to an album that bad, and it almost sort of slipped my mind just how bad a «Diva»-style R&B album can get — and, honestly, it does not get much worse than this. It's almost as if Alicia's major goal here was to specifically shatter every last ray of hope one could ever have held — because, honestly, it all began in a dif­ferent way: the girl had a small, but significant stash of talent, training, intelligence, and character to break out of the muck. But instead of progressing in the right direction, she ended up wasting it all — regardless of how bad her subsequent output will be, Girl On Fire puts a certified final stop on the idea of Alicia Keys as «a serious force in R&B to be reckoned with».

There are just so many potshots to be taken here that I do not even know where to begin. Perhaps one could start with the album title and the front sleeve photo — that ain't a real human being out there, is it? Maybe if the record were a cyborg-based post-apocalyptic anti-utopian rock opera or something, it would have made more sense. But then, once the minute-long piano intro (rather or­dinary, but probably the best thing about the whole album) is over, we do get to hear the lady say "Don't be mad / It's just a brand new kind of me / Can't be bad / I found a brand new kind of free", and it looks like she means what she says. Not just brand-new — factory-made, shrink-wrapped, registered with a certified trademark, and ready to go.

The «music» is not worth a serious mention: on most of the songs, it just consists of tepid elec­tronic patterns, non-descript acoustic backing tracks, and boring drum machines. Alicia's piano skills have completely receded into the background — except for those two or three times when it is decided that the listener needs an extra shot of soul in the form of a weepy minimalistic ballad (at this point the piano is dragged out and we get a lazy atmospheric run through some scales). I think the only moment of «real life» on the entire album is at the end of ʽFire We Makeʼ, where guest star Gary Clark Jr. tries to somehow justify the title and strike out some actual sparks with his jazz-rock guitar solo. It ain't exactly Jeff Beck or John McLaughlin, but on a record so utterly devoid of life, it is that much-needed glob of oxygen that allowed me to catch my breath and ac­tually sit this out (thrice!) until the end.

Still worse is the singing, because, for some reason, Ms. Keys seems to have been told that 2012's requirements for «soulful» are limited to one strict formula: «breathy voice let out through the nose». Maybe that is exactly what they all do on American Idol today, but that does not make the effect any different — she honestly sounds as if under some heavy drug influence the entire time. This isn't «soul», not to mention «freedom»: this is simply conforming to the adopted formula. Again, she was never a particularly great or individualistic singer, but the frame inside which she locks herself here is downright pathetic.

And it is all the more pathetic given how much — even compared to the previous albums, which all revolved around this idea as well — she is extolling her «self-established» nature on here. The lyrics speak for themselves: "It took a long, long time to get here / It took a brave, brave girl to try" (ʽBrand New Meʼ) — «brave» is definitely the last word that comes to mind when thinking about this record; "She's on top of the world / Hottest of the hottest girls" (title track) — resorting to the third person is a nifty trick that can always bring down formal accusations, but we are not that easily fooled; and the mightiest of them all — "Money / Some people so poor all that they got is money... I don't care what they're offering / How much gold they bring / They can't afford what we got / Not even the king" (ʽNot Even The Kingʼ), which should be an official contender for 2012's corniest lyrical bit competition.

Almost everything here ranks from, at best, unmemorable and conventional (e. g. the elevator muzak of ʽWhen It's All Overʼ) to, at worst, hokey and pseudo-tough (the obligatory rap bit on the title track; the strange last-minute brush with «psychedelic» vocals and guitars on ʽLi­mi­ted­lessʼ; the «powerhouse» synth-gospel finale of the hidden last track, where she belts out halle­lujahs as if begging forgiveness for what she just put us all through). But what should you expect? When you have a well-polished android like that greeting you on the front sleeve, there are but three possible outcomes: (a) this will be a spooky Kraftwerk album, (b) this will be a decadent Roxy Music album, (c) this will be a really, really shitty modern R&B album. And since the cre­dits are right there on the sleeve as well, options (a) and (b) are out of the question.

Naturally, being a responsible reviewer and all, I must emphasize that this is all a matter of sub­jective opinion. For instance, it definitely does not co-represent the position of «Rolling Stone» editor Jody Rosen, who called Girl On Fire «her catchiest and subtlest album yet — and one of the best R&B records of 2012» and awarded it 4 stars out of 5. (For the record, the same Jody Rosen gave Aimee Mann's Charmer, which I consider to be one of the best records of 2012, period, 2.5 stars out of 5, complaining about lyrics that were «sagging under the weight of mixed metaphors». Yeah right, no question here — lyrics like "party people say, ah it's a new day, while they getting ready for a new day, celebrate and say ay-ay-ay-ay" definitely don't have all that much to sag under, that is for sure). So who am I to throw in my two thumbs down? Do I get my records produced by Babyface, Swizz Beats, Jeff Bhasker, Antonio Dixon, Dr. Dre, James Ho, Darkchild, @Oakwood, @PopWansel, Salaam Remi, and Jamie Smith all at the same time? Not even in my worst nightmares, I don't.

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The Auteurs: How I Learned To Love The Bootboys

THE AUTEURS: HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE BOOTBOYS (1999)

1) The Rubettes; 2) 1967; 3) How I Learned To Love The Bootboys; 4) Your Gang, Our Gang; 5) Some Changes; 6) School; 7) Johnny And The Hurricanes; 8) The South Will Rise Again; 9) Asti Spumante; 10) Sick Of Hari Krisna; 11) Lights Out; 12) Future Generation; 13) Breaking Up; 14) Getting Wrecked At Home.

Somebody ought to probably do a study on all the «turn of the millennium» albums released at the turn of the millennium, explaining why they all sucked. (Or, at least, why we do not heartily remember any of them as «that record that marked our transition into another epoch»). In any case, one of the most self-consciously «generational» records of that kind certainly must have be­longed to Luke Haines — for that purpose, he reassembled The Auteurs, previously put on hold while Luke was working on his «Baader Meinhof» project, and together they made their last re­cord, which may not be the best in their catalog, but definitely seems to make more sense than After Murder Park and almost as much as New Wave.

This is a concept album of sorts, a fuzzy look back at the past century in its numerous delights and disillusionments — with every delight a disillusionment, and vice versa. Luke Haines is too much in love with his own brain to ever let you know properly how he feels about the things he is singing about (and sometimes, simply what the hell he is singing about), but, like the proverbial early hipster, he always takes good care to pick out the least predictable topics and drape them in the most controversial moods. «Nostalgia» would be too simple, and misguided, a term to apply to these songs. Nobody could seriously be «nostalgic» about The Rubettes, an idiotic mid-1970s band that tried to merge posh Motown style with glam entourage — and even if Haines' seductive "hang up your jeans, put out your school clothes, tune in for the top ten" at the beginning of the album, multiplied by sweet soft chimes, begins with a message not unlike Lou Reed's classic "her life was saved by rock'n'­roll", very soon the irony starts to creep in. Nobody's life, after all, was saved by "sugar baby love" (here, Luke is directly quoting The Rubettes' biggest hit), and against all the chimes and angelic backing vocals, his sneering vocals are what rules the stage: "the future's made of coal, the past is made of gold... you developed late, weren't the Nineties great?" (The correct answer is: "no, they weren't, at least not for The Rubettes").

So, basically, this is not «nostalgia» — this is «post-nostalgia», where you still look with the usual lon­ging at the past, but simultaneously realize that most of it, all those «little things» you used to be fond of, are just as ridiculous as whatever you have in the present or expect from the future. Maybe even «anti-nostalgia», in a way — just look at these titles: ʽThe South Will Rise Againʼ (scarecrowish!), ʽSick Of Hari Krisnaʼ (no sucking up to George Harrison, that's for sure), ʽHow I Learned To Love The Bootboysʼ (the «bootboys» were an anti-hippie skinhead variety, and this title alone might have cost Luke the loyalty of quite a few potential fans), and even ʽAsti Spumanteʼ does not really look much like a positive title, if you ask me.

ʽ1967ʼ is not about going to San Francisco or tripping in an underground club in London: more in line with one of Luke's primary idols — The Kinks — it is sort of a snazzy-spazzy retort that simply states: for the average Joe, it does not matter much if it is 1967 or 1999 behind that win­dow, because in both cases, there is "no pop in our record collection", because "we are bedazzled, we're ordering cocktails, we act like peasants". It is actually quite funny how many people in this world, if properly explained the meaning of the song, would probably want to strangle Haines with their bare hands — but in reality, he is quite safe behind the protective wall of ellyptic and metaphorical language, not to mention the consciously chosen lack of public notoriety.

Musically, the album is a hodge-podge, and you should expect one if the idea of the album is to turn the past hundred (okay, more like fifty) years into an enormous Monopoly playboard and drop the dice in fourteen random spots. For instance, the title track looks back to the dark depths of post-punk, with an almost danceable «electro-pop» rhythm section peppered with space synths and echoes — but no suicidal or generally depressed notes, rather a mysteriously threatening atmosphere here (one that is probably better suited for the likes of the «bootboys», even though I seriously doubt that the average «bootboy» would ever be flattered by the song).

ʽYour Gang, Our Gangʼ is distorted, screamy and barky, just as the title suggests; ʽSome Chan­gesʼ is power-pop with psychedelic keyboard overtones; ʽThe South Will Rise Againʼ, on the other hand, has no true Southern overtones, but is rather «dark psych-folk»  — medieval acoustic guitar merged with electronic effects; and ʽJohnny And The Hurricanesʼ is simply non-descript — a progressive epic, deeply submerged in chimes, strings, pianos, and fuzz, the last thing you'd probably expect from a song written about Johnny and the Hurricanes. Except it was not written about Johnny and the Hurricanes — rather, it is dedicated to everyone and everything that is "born on a Monday, dead within a year", and from that point of view, its threatening strings and fuzzy rumble are perfectly appropriate for such a general eulogy.

Lyrically and atmospherically, really, this is a very complex album — way too complex to be properly understood in a world where we want our rock music to speak to us as fast as it can, be­cause otherwise, it will be mercilessly trampled down by all those standing next in line. And, as I said, it might have been all for the best: because How I Learned To Love The Bootboys is not a «depressing» record — it is a ruthless killer, and the deeper you dig into it, the better you under­stand all the specific peculiarities of Luke Haines' genetic material: all I can say is — thank God the man was not born with any political ambitions in mind. Three / four listens may be enough to understand that this is quite an unusual album, and appreciate some of the subtle hooks and melo­dic moves, but they will probably not be enough to understand all the incredible nastiness of the spirit behind this whole thing.

If you ask me, it is no wonder Alice Readman quit The Auteurs even before they officially disbanded, leaving them without a stable bass player for the subse­quent tour. It may have been one thing to record these songs in the studio, but quite a different one to sing them before live audiences — people as much indicted by this «hippie killer» album as their fathers and mothers. Not to mention ʽFuture Generationʼ, where Haines pompously — but, of course, with tongue firmly in cheek — asserts that "future generations will catch my falling star" and that "I put a pox on the seventies" (just as he put it on every other decade). Well, I suppose that this kind of brave­ry certainly warrants a thumbs up here — melodically, these songs are anything but trivial, yet it is not really the chord changes, but the arrogance and audacity, subtly hidden under a thin cover of verbal enigmas, that make Bootboys so special for that kind of «turn of the century» albums I was talking about. Some people complain about degradation, others look forward with optimism to the future — Luke Haines is the only one to tell us that all is vanity, and that numbers are just numbers. ʽSome Changesʼ, yeah, right.

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Bad Religion: The New America

BAD RELIGION: THE NEW AMERICA (2000)

1) You've Got A Chance; 2) It's A Long Way To The Promise Land; 3) A World Without Melody; 4) New America; 5) 1000 Memories; 6) A Streetkid Named Desire; 7) Whisper In Time; 8) Believe It; 9) I Love My Computer; 10) The Hopeless House­wife; 11) There Will Be A Way; 12) Let It Burn; 13) Don't Sell Me Short.

A bit of a change here, and an overall improvement. First, none other than pop master-craftsman Todd Rundgren himself was brought in as producer — and, although working relationships be­tween Graffin and the «True Star» were said to be rather tense, Todd still managed to leave a very strong power pop stamp on the proceedings: quite obviously, he did not give a damn about Bad Religion's hardcore reputation, and did everything he could to slow down the freaky tempos, add extra ring and color to the guitars, smother the melodies in choral harmonies, and, overall, try to have the band play four chords wherever they would previously settle for three.

In short, even though Graffin is still listed as sole writer on most of the tracks, it is probably not a coincidence that it is exactly this Rundgren-produced album to feature a song that begins with the words "I don't want to live in a world without melody / Sometimes the rhythmic din of society is too much for me" — substitute «society» for «Bad Religion» and you will see just how much «The Wi­zard» was able to hypnotize Graffin. Of course, even without Todd, the band was alre­ady moving from «hardcore» to «popcore» for quite a bit of time, so the seeds fell on fertile soil. The problem is — what are we planting, exactly?

And here comes the second first: the album is a huge lyrical improvement over No Substance as well. Although the main focus is on society perspectives as usual, there is a three-song «suite» stuck in the middle focused on far more personal affairs: ʽ1000 Memoriesʼ is about Graffin's re­cent divorce, while ʽA Streetkid Named Desireʼ and ʽWhisper In Timeʼ deal with past memories and, basically, add a little bit of introspection — ever wanted to know how come Greg Graffin became what he is? well, here is your chance to get a glance at the man behind The Man.

But the rest of the songs, too, are delivered in a somewhat different key, shifting the emphasis from Chomsky-style radical hatred and propaganda to visionary sermons: with track names like ʽYou've Got A Chanceʼ, ʽIt's A Long Way To The Promise Landʼ, and ʽThere Will Be A Wayʼ, you can see that there is — just for a change — an attempt to stir up some positive emotions, and do it in a way that is not necessarily linked to the right here and the right now, but at least purely formally aspires to the timelessness of the message. Not that the message itself is new or anything — and the lyrics are definitely not among Greg's best ("Shut your eyes, see the future's distant shore / March ahead more enlightened than before / And there's sure to be bumps and distractions / But I know we'll get through / There will be me, there will be you" — yes, years of radicalism and hardcore musicianship may inflict heavy damage even on a university professor). But at least you no longer feel yourself stuck in the middle of a narrow-minded  political rally, behind locked and barred doors, and that is a big relief.

All this leads to an overall increase in memorability — with the choruses bent just a bit more on melody and just a bit less on indoctrination, they are occasionally fun to sing along (unless they become too anthemic, as on the title track). There is even an «experimental» track — ʽI Love My Computerʼ, the next installment in Greg's ongoing saga of «How Electronics Helps Ruin Our Lives And Turn Us Into Mindless Puppets», this time with a mock-subliminal message of "click me, click me" built in and little electronic burps and blurbs adding up to the atmosphere. Hilari­ous, but the chorus of "I just click and you just go away" is the catchiest bit on the album. And highly instructive, too. For instance, I just clicked — and Bad Religion just went away. Amazing, isn't it? The wonderful world of technology.

On a technical note, The New America sees Gurewitz briefly returning to the fold — co-writing one of the songs, ʽBelieve Itʼ, and playing guitar on it, presaging his eventual permanent return on the next album. Curiously, it is one of the poppiest, jangliest numbers on the album, even though Gurewitz was never the primary pop engine in the band — well, blame it all on Todd, I guess.

Anyway, just for a change, I give this album a thumbs up in recognition of its rather unusual status in BR's catalog, and most importantly, in the overall context — it is such a huge improve­ment on the pathetic loaded boredom of No Substance that this simply has to be somehow reflec­ted in the overall chronology. Do keep in mind, though, that it is far from a fan favorite: even those who are accustomed to the «popcore» direction often have a hard time acknowledging Todd Rundgren's right to put his nose in the genre.

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AC/DC: Live At River Plate

AC/DC: LIVE AT RIVER PLATE (2012)

1) Intro; 2) Rock'n'Roll Train; 3) Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be; 4) Back In Black; 5) Big Jack; 6) Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap; 7) Shot Down In Flames; 8) Thunderstruck; 9) Black Ice; 10) The Jack; 11) Hells Bells; 12) Shoot To Thrill; 13) War Machine; 14) Dog Eat Dog; 15) You Shook Me All Night Long; 16) T.N.T.; 17) Whole Lotta Rosie; 18) Let There Be Rock; 19) Highway To Hell; 20) For Those About To Rock (We Salute You).

Throughout the later stages of their career, AC/DC have taken good care of ensuring a steady flow of live videos — beginning with 1992's «classic» Live At Donington — but it has been 20 years now since they last released a live audio album, and the reasons are obvious: since most AC/DC shows sound exactly the same way, the only proper way to «relive» an AC/DC show is through the appropriate picture. Basically, what good is a live Angus chord when unaccompanied by an Angus grimace? And how are we supposed to tolerate the irritating gurgling produced by Brian Johnson's larynx if we do not simultaneously get to watch him fist-pumping the air, in that ever-present working man wife-beater?

So the natural question is — why did they finally decide to combine the release of this live show, filmed and taped in December 2009 at a Buenos Aires stadium, with a 2-CD audio release? Can there be anything special about this performance? Are AC/DC finally, almost fourty years into their career, going to give us a big surprise? Yes, they are... with a seventeen-minute performance of ʽLet There Be Rockʼ. Bet you didn't see that one coming.

No, of course not. The only reason for the existence of Live At River Plate is to act as a remin­der — it has now been thirty years since these guys came back in black to us, and they are still here, and they are still kicking the same old ass. To be honest, they do not kick it quite the same way — not so much age, as basic stage professionalism has set in, and even the wildest of the wildest of Angus' ecstatic outbursts seem more disciplined and «ingrained» than they used to be. But that is probably inevitable: the important thing is, the lads prove the point — not only do they not sound in the slightest like old relics, but, on the contrary, the old war machine is still well-oiled and running faster and tighter than ever. Plus, of course, all the technological benefits of modern production — guitars, drums, bass, vocals, everything sounds cleaner and more distinct than ever before. Nothing but the best for these guys — well, you'd probably have a right to noth­ing but the best, too, after spending fourty years in the business.

All of which, of course, guarantees one and exactly one listen to the album, upon which you may safely return it to your local library or collector's shelf. The fact that they decided to include re­cordings from one show only (actually, three nights were involved, but these are petty details) gives this better continuity and authenticity than the Live album from 1992, but also surmises the inavoidable — most of the songs are well-known crowd pleasers; in fact, 12 out of 19 songs over­lap with Live, with 4 others played from the latest studio album — essentially, only the deci­sion to bring back to life ʽShot Down In Flamesʼ and ʽDog Eat Dogʼ comes across as mildly surprising, and not particularly indicative of the whole atmosphere.

So what is there to comment upon? Brian Johnson's voice is in good form for his age, proving that the studio feats of Black Ice were not performed by a fake (but we trust the band on that one — if we stop trusting AC/DC, what else is there remaining in the world to trust?). The Young brothers remain reliable warhorses. The Argentinian audiences are enthusiastic to the core (after all, for most people in the world, AC/DC is the next best thing to soccer, and some don't even see the difference all that well). Angus does his striptease thing on ʽThe Jackʼ, which only works for the video — on the audio, the unsuspecting novice simply gets to wonder what the hell it is that makes the people go ga-ga as the band is simply pushing a melody-less 12-bar structure on them for ages. The new songs mesh in well with the old stuff (although I, for one, would love to hear ʽAnything Goesʼ for a change). The 17-minute jam on ʽLet There Be Rockʼ is overcooked be­yond mercy, but at least most of it is set to the song's general frantic pace, so feel free to indulge your inner headbanger until the head finally falls off.

In short, the universe still stands, so, if anything, a two-hour long listen to Live At River Plate is simply a good remedy against the hidden menace of the Mayan calendar for those who think they might need one. Global financial crisis? Arab Spring? Justin Bieber? Go on, take one more bite of AC/DC — add some much-needed stability to your life. Even in the 21st century, some things never change, and that's cool by me.  

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The Band: Islands

THE BAND: ISLANDS (1977)

1) Right As Rain; 2) Street Walker; 3) Let The Night Fall; 4) Ain't That A Lot Of Love; 5) Christmas Must Be To­night; 6) Islands; 7) The Saga Of Pepote Rouge; 8) Georgia On My Mind; 9) Knockin' Lost John; 10) Livin' In A Dream; 11*) Twilight; 12*) Georgia On My Mind (alt. take).

If Northern Lights was The Band's Abbey Road, then this is their Let It Be: a somewhat «im­proper» album, consisting mainly of outtakes and a few last minute recordings, chronologically scattered over a large period and released mainly to satisfy formal obligations, so that they could get out of their contract with Capitol and be free to release The Last Waltz for Warner Bros. The analogy is not perfect — Let It Be was more cohesive, and came out already after the band's total demise, whereas Islands was not necessarily supposed to be the end of The Band. But in overall terms of status and quality, it is comprehensible.

Actually, it is not an overtly «bad» record — in general, it might rank somewhere close to Ca­hoots — but it is strictly a minor donation to serious Band fans: no new insights or discoveries will be made here. The only track that is frequently extolled as a highlight is not even an original composition — rather an acknowledgement of Richard Manuel's vocal genius, as he almost pulls off (or just plain pulls off, depending more on your pre-assumptions than actual feelings) a per­fect Ray Charles impression on ʽGeorgia On My Mindʼ (actually recorded in 1976 to endorse Jimmy Carter's presidential campaign). However, this is not a «new reading» or anything, more like a successful, heartfelt homage to a great influence, and it belongs on a Ray Charles tribute album rather than on something more serious. Besides, Hudson's synthesizer backing is a little annoying here — some simple piano would be more effective.

Curiously, there is very little Levon on lead vocals — almost as a couple of leftover chewing bones, he is saddled with a perfunctory, mechanical cover of the old blues-rock standard ʽAin't That A Lot Of Loveʼ (much better done by Taj Mahal anyway), and the brief, upbeat album clo­ser ʽLivin' In A Dreamʼ. The rest is mostly handled by Rick and Richard, and their somewhat similar high soulful deliveries result in a pretty, but somewhat monotonous atmosphere — what Islands would really need is a couple of tough rootsy rockers, ʽOpheliaʼ-style, as such, it is as lullingly smooth as the sea surface on the album cover.

That smoothness works fine and well for the first two songs — ʽRight As Rainʼ is an elegant and soothing intro with Manuel providing his usual restrained majesty, and ʽStreet Walkerʼ is an equ­ally convincing retort from Danko, with moody harmonies and cool piano/brass interplay (even so, rather heavily derivative of ʽStage Frightʼ, I'd say). But it starts getting tiresome around the time that the generically composed ʽLet The Night Fallʼ comes up, and most of the rest is, at best, just pleasant background muzak — starting with the little «fawn dance» of the instrumental title track (why do they call it ʽIslandsʼ with such a pastoral atmosphere, I wonder?) and ending with ʽThe Saga Of Pepote Rougeʼ, which is mostly just Robbie indulging in his mythological fantasies and the rest half-heartedly playing along — or the total throwaway of ʽKnockin' Lost Johnʼ, mostly «famous» for being one of the very few Band songs on which Robbie himself takes lead vocals, and little else.

Rather pitiful, too, is ʽChristmas Must Be Tonightʼ, a song allegedly written by Robbie on the birth of his son — just goes to show how much the man thinks of himself if the analogy is with baby Jesus (and I suppose that Levon, Richard, Rick, and Garth are, without realizing it, playing the part of the She­pherds — well, in a way, since all the royalties go to Robbie anyway). Besides, the lyrics are donwright pathetic for Robertson's usual standards: "How a little baby boy bring the people so much joy?" It is not even clear what makes this so cringeworthy — the lack of proper grammar or the weird decision to write in such a «simplistic» Christmas fashion. But the results are cringeworthy, in any case.

Still, a contractual obligation has to be respected, so it is kinda fruitless to castigate the band for not delivering yet another masterpiece — on the contrary, we should probably acknowledge this as yet another demonstration of the greatness: even a clearly filler-choked, uninspired record is still listenable and, in select places, mildly charming. These are, indeed, scattered «islands», on which you can encounter — at random — awful desolation, paradise beauty, or simply nothing in particular. In a way, that, too, is exciting in its unpredictability.

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Billy Preston: Encouraging Words

BILLY PRESTON: ENCOURAGING WORDS (1970)

1) Right Now; 2) Little Girl; 3) Use What You Got; 4) My Sweet Lord; 5) Let The Music Play; 6) The Same Thing Again; 7) I've Got A Feeling; 8) Sing One For The Lord; 9) When You Are Mine; 10) I Don't Want To Pretend; 11) Encouraging Words; 12) All Things Must Pass; 13) You've Been Acting Strange; 14*) As Long As I Got My Baby; 15*) All That I've Got I'm Gonna Give It To You.

Billy's second and last album for Apple is frequently singled out as the highest point of his solo career — for which there certainly has to be some objective basis. Much of the team that would very soon be working on George Harrison's All Things Must Pass is already assembled here, in­cluding George himself, who not only oversaw the production, but also contributed material: in fact, both ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ and ʽAll Things Must Passʼ itself were first shown the world  through Billy Preston's interpretation, before George could think of them as tested enough to make the grade on his own solo record.

I do not think we should drift too far away towards that opposite shore, though: Encouraging Words is a very good album that has been as unjustly forgotten as everything else masterminded by «that funny black keyboard guy in the Rooftop Concert», but fanboyishly overrating it (like Bruce Eder did in his AMG review) is no solution, either. In particular, ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ is not better than George's own version, and not just because it lacks the not-yet-invented slide motif, but also because Billy's religious fervor, no doubt sincere but rather ordinary for a professional soul/gospel performer («clichéd» if you will), is no match for the comparatively quiet, restrained, and «earned», if you will, rather than «in-yer-blood» spirituality of Harrison. Here, it is just a high quality gospel number, nothing more.

Overall, as usual, the performances are not memorable in an individualistic manner, and get by on the strength of the grooves, the collective spirit, tastefulness of the arrangements, and Billy's per­sonal charisma — the latter is particularly important, because all too often, he assumes a mentor tone (title track; ʽUse What You Gotʼ), which could be annoying, but he is also incapable of plun­ging into a holier-than-thou attitude: "stop getting jealous of the other fellows" is a line delivered with perfect credibility, so that you somehow get to know Billy is just «one of the guys» who mentors you because he cares, not out of some inflated narcissistic reason.

And, as «one of the guys», Preston simply does whatever it is his select genre requires him to do. Be sentimental? You got your ʽLittle Girlʼ, with an exaggerated tearful delivery. Rave and rant over unrequited love? You got your ʽWhen You Are Mineʼ, with a funky backbone and a psycho­tic vocal. Praise the Lord? You got your ʽSing One For The Lordʼ — slow tempos, gospel choir, the works. Be transcendental? Here is a cover of George's ʽAll Things Must Passʼ — very dif­ferent from the final version, with heavy orchestration instead of the guitar-brass arrangement that we are all used to. Be socially conscious? The title track will teach you to "stay in school and don't you be no dropout" — a pretty reasonable call for the first post-Woodstock year, even if, for some, it might make Billy look too much like a square (an image he would soon be growing out of, what with that large head of Afro hair and touring with the Stones at their wildest and all).

The only truly unpredictable choice here is the brave stab at ʽI've Got A Feelingʼ: you'd think that if there had to be one song exported by Billy from the Let It Be sessions, it would rather be ʽLet It Beʼ itself, or a torch ballad like ʽThe Long And Winding Roadʼ — okay, if it necessarily had to be something from the Rooftop Concert, it could have been a soul-burner like ʽDon't Let Me Downʼ, but ʽI've Got A Feelingʼ? That one is almost psychedelic, and it was quite an achieve­ment for Billy to sense its true funky soul and turn it into a playful groove (although the conversion of Lennon's counter-melody into an alternate megaphone-processed nasal overdub does not work at all). Still, of course, it lacks the snappy bite of the original — and the strangest thing about it is that Billy's keyboard work on the Beatles' recording is actually more impressive than on his own interpretation, where, as the «master of his domain», he could be expected to turn in a much more flashy performance.

There is no flash whatsoever on Encouraging Words, though — not even a Billy/Eric duel like the one on the coda to ʽThat's The Way God Planned Itʼ — and that's the way Billy planned it,  to be just a friendly soul/R&B party with a bunch of friends. And what friends — Derek & The Do­minos in their entirety, plus Harrison, plus Ringo, plus Jim Price and Bobby Keyes on horns,  plus the Edwin Hawkins Singers on backing vocals. There is really no thinking of this record in terms of «hooks» and «pre-meditated melodies» — much of it must have been created right then and there on the spot, and almost everything sounds terrific as long as it's on; then, as the in­dividual moments quickly fade from memory, the overall warmth still remains for quite a bit of time. Not a great record, perhaps, but an encouraging one indeed — thumbs up.

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Bo Diddley: The Originator

BO DIDDLEY: THE ORIGINATOR (1966)

1) Pills; 2) Jo-Ann; 3) Two Flies; 4) Yakky Doodle; 5) What Do You Know About Love; 6) Do The Frog; 7) Back To School; 8) You Ain't Bad; 9) Love You Baby; 10) Limbo; 11) Background To A Music; 12) Puttentang (Nursery Rhyme); 13) Africa Speaks; 14) We're Gonna Get Married.

This hodgey-podgey mess would be Bo's last self-sustained album of the 1960s: other than two «supersessions» with Muddy and Howlin' Wolf, he would be refraining from recording new ma­terial over the «psychedelic years» — finally realizing, perhaps, that one of the last things the world was truly interested in at the time was yet another helping of the good old Bo Diddley beat. Thus, The Originator, coming out in early 1966, became Bo's goodbye to his decimated pack of fans — for the next four years, he would sink in the shadows, biding his time and thinking about building himself a brand new image from scratch.

In the meantime, this album throws together a bunch of widely varying, chronologically scattered stuff — ʽPillsʼ, for instance, was a minor hit going back all the way to 1961; ʽJo Annʼ was a single from the less commercially fruitful year of 1964; ʽLimboʼ is a re-recording of ʽLimberʼ from In The Spotlight (faster, cooler, and spiced up with a snazzy dose of «yakety sax»); and I have no idea how much of the rest was specially recorded for these sessions, but the very fact that «The Originator» had to stretch out so far back in time shows that even the mighty Bo, with his seemingly unending supply of optimistic energy, was feeling disoriented.

Of course, in some subtle way drawing attention to an old song called ʽPillsʼ in 1966 was a novel move — "she went through my head, through my head, while I was layin' in the hospital bed" sounds highly relevant, and «edgy», for the circumstances. Plus, it does feature one of Bo's catch­iest melodies, even if he almost certainly nicked it off some Cuban dance or something. The bad news is, you still get this song on most of Bo's compilations, so its presence alone does not justify finding out how well The Originator matches its title in toto.

What else is there? Well, actually, a few of the tracks are funny blurbs with individualistic twists. ʽTwo Fliesʼ acts out a dialog between... two flies (how did you know?), set to a generic shuffle beat, but kinda funny (Bo has always been a better actor than singer anyway). ʽBackground To A Musicʼ has Bo speaking in the name of the «background» itself, demonstrating several of his well known rhythmic techniques at a staged «job interview». Most unusual and eccentric of all is ʽAfrica Speaksʼ, which is a natural round-the-fire tribal chant with, indeed, authentic Africans in­volved in the chanting — a bit of realistic «world beat» way, way before these things became na­tural in pop music, and hence, doing a bit of justice to «The Originator».

On the other hand, there are still predictable lows — rough, rote ballads (ʽWhat Do You Know About Loveʼ), perfunctory rehashes of the Diddley beat (ʽYakky Doodleʼ almost reads like a Bo Diddley cover of the Rolling Stones' cover of Bo Diddley's ʽI Need Youʼ), unsuccessful attempts at inventing pseudo-new dance moves (ʽDo The Frogʼ), and a strange pro-school sermon (ʽBack To Schoolʼ) dominated by an electric organ so poorly tuned that the result is almost completely unlistenable (or maybe the engineer accidentally wiped his ass with the tapes before starting work on the final masters).

Overall, it's all in the same ballpark as Bo's albums from the three previous years — a bit less monotonous than 500% More Man, perhaps, but certainly unfit for a proper «goodbye record»: not that Bo ever planned turning it into a goodbye record, of course — however, the one most wise decision he could have done in 1966 was take a long, well-deserved break, and turn into a careful «listener» for a while, instead of persisting in the mostly discredited emploi of «the origi­nator». That he did, and we are all grateful.

NB: do not confuse the LP The Originator with a much later 2-CD compilation also called the same. It is definitely true that a collection of Bo's bestest deserves being called The Originator far more than a third-hand-derivative LP which originates insect dialogs and spoken confessions of musical patterns, but rules are rules: the original Originator originated first, and even if the origination of the unoriginal Originator originally originated prior to the original Originator, this originates no originality for the unoriginal Originator as such. Is this an original statement or what?..

Bloc Party: Four

BLOC PARTY: FOUR (2012)

1) So He Begins To Lie; 2) 3x3; 3) Octopus; 4) Real Talk; 5) Kettling; 6) Day Four; 7) Coliseum; 8) V.A.L.I.S; 9) Team A; 10) Truth; 11) The Healing; 12) We Are Not Good People; 13*) Mean; 14*) Leaf Skeleton.

Let it not be insinuated any further that ambitious indie work horses cannot take lessons. A bloc party has to learn to compromise, and this here Bloc Party, clearly taken aback at the generally less than tepid reaction to Intimacy, wisely refuses to continue the Intimacy line unabated. With a three year break and some sunken solo projects behind them, the original four, still tight as a nutshell, finally return to make a new album called... Four. Well, actually, it isn't called anything — it just draws four electron orbits on the front cover. But since it is the fourth album by four band members, that's what everybody calls it anyway.

The good news: not only did they get rid of excessive electronics, they are also trying desperately to remember what it was that made their debut album so successful — in particular, crunchy gui­tar riffs are back, and so are the complex, precise, powerhouse drum dramas of Matthew Tong. Memories of Silent Alarm do spring out of all corners, with enough stylistic changes retained so as not to invoke «carbon copy» accusations. The bad news: Four is still a much worse album than Silent Alarm, and there is very little reason to bother oneself with any Bloc Party album that is much worse than Silent Alarm — life is too short and all.

The main problem is that, even after introducing reasonable quotas on the use of synthesizers, Okereke and friends did not completely reverse the tendency. On their first record, they were still very much within the «punk» idiom — brutal, kill-'em-all riffs coupled with targeted shotgun blasts from the drums and a singer who was, perhaps, a bit «whiney», but dangerous all the same (you don't mess with the Igbo!). Then they started drifting farther and farther into «artsy» territo­ry, where they never properly felt at home — and Four still sees them trying to woo you with upbeat intelligence rather than brute force.

Already the first track, ʽSo He Begins To Lieʼ, lets its potentially cool combo of «broken» hard rock riffage and percussion rhythms be underwhelmed by vocals excessively disguised with echo effects, murky guitar tones, and noisy «anthemic» sections. They may be trying to go for a Cure-style atmosphere, but if so, they are lazy — Robert Smith would invest extra dozens of hours and at least several additional counter-melodies in this stuff, not to mention making all them fit toge­ther; these guys just do a bunch of «outer space guitar trills» that we have already heard a million times — and hope to inspire us that way. Thanks, guys; I already have my ʽFrom The Edge Of The Deep Green Seaʼ and I am sticking to it.

At other times, they succeed in getting more of a «self» thing going on, but then you sort of don't know what it is, exactly. ʽOctopusʼ, the lead single, for instance — what is it? A power pop num­ber? Why place the «jammed PC speaker» effect in the center of attention, then? An ode to teen insanity? Why do I have to guess that by scrutinizing the lyrics, what's wrong with the atmo­sphere itself? An aggressive rocker? Why the nursery rhyme approach to the chorus? «Happi­ness», «sadness», «anger», «joy», «depression», «melancholy» — none of the standard emotional tags seem to fit, and I'm all out of non-standard ones. It is sort of a curious creation, but I get a strong feeling that it was created blindly — and that the final result is more «frustrating», or at least «confusing», than «revelatively unusual».

A couple of the numbers are real heavy rockers: ʽColiseumʼ (starts out like a dark acoustic blues number, then goes into noise-rock territory but with a metal riff at the heart) and the very last track — ʽWe Are Not Good Peopleʼ, picking up speed and pinned to a riff that seems to be a cre­ative variation on Anthrax's ʽCaught In A Moshʼ or any such-sounding tune (must be lots of 'em). They are, predictably, quite well executed, but the «artsy» bug spoils them anyway — because the production, honestly, sounds awful in both cases. With all the echoes, multi-tracking, and «felt, but not heard» electronic undertones (they're there, aren't they?), the in-yer-face brutality is undermined, and subtlety is not gained anyway.

Overall, this is a strange case: Four seems more «mature» than their preceding albums, but in this maturity, a basic sense of purpose is somehow lost. Yes, it is still the sound of four bright, de­pressed, disillusioned, disoriented young lads locked in an urban jungle, that much I get. If they want to emphasize the senselessness of their urban existence by making senseless music, I sup­pose they got every right to do so. But senseless music is being made before our eyes in virtual tons every day without any subtext to it anyway — why should we need senseless music from a supposedly «intelligent» rock band?

There are albums by brilliant artists out there that succeed in marrying the opposites. Bloc Party are simply not talented enough to make it work — too artsy to be «punk», too basic to be «art», too limp to bring your spirit to a boil, too clumsy to conjure subtle beauty, too turn-of-the-century depressed to bring their musical structure experiments to successful conclusions, too musically smart-for-their-own-good to evoke basic heartfelt reactions. They have a little bit of everything — this is not an awful album, and, like I said, at least it beats the hell out of the awful Inti­macy — but I have no desire whatsoever to write about these, ultimately very boring, songs. I do admit that this is a highly subjective situation, though, so if ever you were an admiring fan of Bloc Party, do not take my word for it: for everybody who had Silent Alarm as an A+, Four will just have to be at least a B-, or higher.

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The Auteurs: After Murder Park

THE AUTEURS: AFTER MURDER PARK (1996)

1) Light Aircraft On Fire; 2) Child Brides; 3) Land Lovers; 4) New Brat In Town; 5) Everything You Say Will De­stroy You; 6) Unsolved Child Murder; 7) Married To A Lazy Lover; 8) Buddha; 9) Tombstone; 10) Fear Of Flying; 11) Dead Sea Navigators; 12) After Murder Park.

Supposedly this here is the station where the successfully converted adepts of Luke Haines con­tinue their merry train voyage, whereas everybody else, tired of unceasing harrassment on the part of the conductor, gets off with a feel of relief — justifying their choice by pointing out that, whatever Haines really had to say, he said on his first two records, and this... this is just After Murder Park. I mean, what else is there to «get» once you've already been murdered?

The record does feature at least one intriguing contrast — on one hand, it was recorded at Abbey Road Studios, the textbook symbol of clean, perfectionist production; on the other hand, the band worked with Steve Albini, the notorious guru of American lo-fi indie, as producer. That said, the contrast intrigues more on paper than through the audio channels, because there is not a whole lot of big sonic difference between what they used to have and what they have now — the whole «ringing guitars coming from a mudhole» schtick was already favored by Haines from the very beginning, and calling in Albini mainly just re-states the old fact rather than generates a new kind of sound. Beauty through dirt, dirt through beauty, you know the drift.

The choice one has to make is very much triggered by «The Auteurs»' continuing slide into total monotonousness. For the most part, these songs chiefly differ only in the mix balance between acoustic and electric instruments — some are louder, grungier and screechier, others a bit more soft and subtle, with Luke singing more or less in the same «poisonous» breathy snarl all over the record. But the obscurely-depressing «dark folk vibe» is at the heart of each and every song, and how does that warrant individual comments on any of them?..

«Flashiness» only comes through in one or two tracks, most notably ʽBuddhaʼ — because, admit it, one does not usually concern oneself with Buddha's birthday unless one is properly Buddhist, and none of us probably ever heard Buddha congratulated on his birthday in such a sneering, iro­nic tone over a musical pause, followed by an ominous organ swirl that is probably supposed to accompany Buddha's being pushed over a cliff with a sack over his head ("I hope your absence is made clear", Haines remarks, either bitterly hinting at the universal betrayal of Buddhist — or Christian, or Confucian, you name it — ideals all over the world, or just conducting a random session of shock therapy). Notable, but is it a good song? — I am still quite unsure. Too overtly gimmicky to convince my senses of the realness of this anger.

Everything else is rather non-descript. The lyrics continue to flow in barely controlled streams of subconscious metaphors, sometimes decipherable (ʽLand Loversʼ seems to be about Israeli occu­pation; ʽTombstoneʼ mentions the Baader-Meinhof group, later to be adopted as a moniker for a Haines side project of «musical terrorism»), more often not — but generally still revolving aro­und dark thoughts of murders, suicides, crashes, and other equally delightful subjects. (You don't even need anyone to tell you that — just look at the titles.) The instrumental melodies revel in mediocrity, and only get by through the usual Auteurs' atmosphere. The best part of it all are Haines' vocal twists and twirls, which still remain inventive — but, like I said, you'd have to be seriously in love with Haines to be bowled over by any of them.

It is the vocal hooks, actually, that still betray a connection to Brit-pop: for instance, the Kinksy slip into falsetto on the "everybody's gonna get it, yeah... in tombstone" line in ʽTombstoneʼ, or the lazy languid modulation on "I have no fear of dying at all" in ʽFear Of Flyingʼ, or the slides and ascents on the «romantic» chorus to ʽChild Bridesʼ. My personal opinion, though, is that all these excellent inventions — those which are the only advocates for After Murder Park's quali­fying as a «musical achievement» — deserve a different production style. There's indie lo-fi, and then there is melodic Brit-pop. Sometimes it is interesting to splice them together, but more often than not it's like putting sugar and salt in the same cup of coffee. If you ask me, I'd rather hear these songs recorded by Ray Davies — except that Ray would never agree to record them: the bitterness and cynicism in these words and moods is way too much even for Ray's permanently disillusioned and embittered (but still quite romantic and idealistic) old ass.

In conclusion, I will just say that my favorite song here is probably ʽMarried To A Lazy Loverʼ — not because of its great vocal hooks (there aren't any specific ones), but because it injects a little less venom than usual, replacing it with an opium-den-like atmosphere of stupefied tranquil­lity: slow, a little hazy and dreamy, a little desperate and resentful, and somehow managing to state its «there is no way out» message without too much of that self-righteous anger that, ever so often, is likely to trigger a «who the hell do you think you are?» response rather than simple ad­miration. It would probably be a surprising choice for the fans — who seem to usually go after more uptempo stuff like ʽLight Aircraft On Fireʼ — but without it, I would probably have to re­frain from the expected thumbs up. Even then, it's sort of an intermediate decision, and definitely not a love gesture: anyway, Luke Haines doesn't ask to be loved — he is far more of a «negative creep», really, than Kurt Cobain ever managed to pass himself for. (Real «negative creeps» do not shoot themselves, anyway — they gleefully watch others shooting themselves).

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