Blind Guardian: A Night At The Opera

BLIND GUARDIAN: A NIGHT AT THE OPERA (2002)

1) Precious Jerusalem; 2) Battlefield; 3) Under The Ice; 4) Sadly Sings Destiny; 5) The Maiden And The Minstrel Knight; 6) Wait For An Answer; 7) The Soulforged; 8) Age Of False Innocence; 9) Punishment Divine; 10) And Then There Was Silence.

Come to think of it, every night with Blind Guardian is like a night at the opera, isn't it? With all that wealth of grand fantasy spectacles they had accumulated by the end of the millennium, the collective repertoire could very well lay claim to its own frickin' Bayreuth Festival. And there is little use in reminding yourself of all the previous people who had used that title, either, be it Queen or the Marx Brothers, because there is no connection whatsoever other than the very idea of a «grand» effect upon the listeners. And if you thought that, perhaps, the Marx Brothers asso­ciation suggests that Blind Guardian have finally begun to take themselves with a grain of salt and a modicum of self-irony — well, Judas Priest have a classic rock recommendation for you.

Although there is no such serious conceptual unity this time as there was on Nightfall In Middle-Earth, for the most part, the album still revolves around a set topical field — mythology, both pagan and Christian, and, to a lesser extent, history, rather than fantasy (only ʽWait For An An­swerʼ, based on Kürsch's own fictional tale, and ʽThe Soulforgedʼ, based on Dragonlance, con­stitute exceptions). If anything, this helps justify the band's position in preserving the grand-epic style of Nightfall — once again, the emphasis is squarely put on «power» and «pomp» rather than heaviness. When it's all over for the first time, what you are going to remember is not the metal riffs, but the huger-than-life choruses, most of which explicitly remind you of the fact that «chorus» and «choir» are originally the same word after all.

Here is a funny trivia tidbit that is not so much typical of the record as symbolic: the very first track, ʽPrecious Jerusalemʼ (as far as I know, marking the first appearance of JC himself as the protagonist of a Blind Guardian fantasy), contains a transparent musical reference to Jesus Christ Superstar — the "risin' up from the heart of the desert, risin' up for Jerusalem" passage brings to mind both the "when do we ride into Jerusalem?" and "roll on up Jerusalem" melodic phrasings from the Andrew Lloyd Webber opera, even if the rest of the song has nothing to do with Sir Andrew, being instead cast in the usual power metal mold. Still, this obvious link with the old art of «rock opera» is quite telling. No wonder the band's original drummer, Thomas Stauch, quit after the album was completed — even within the Blind Guardian camp, not every­body was satisfied with the way things were turning out.

Still, the balance between keyboards, orchestrations, and choral vocals, on one hand, and heavy riffs and blazing electric guitar solos, on the other, seems quite intelligently handled to me. There are a couple «power ballads» here, like ʽThe Maiden And The Minstrel Knightʼ (how come Blackmore's Night have not covered that one yet?), where the balance predictably tilts towards the «light» instrumentation, but this is justifiable — a ballad is a ballad, after all — and besides, the song has the most memorable chorus on the entire album. In anybody else's hands, the mock-Wagnerian solemnity of the choral "will you still wait for me, will you still cry for me" and Hansi's throat-ripping retort of "come and take my haaaaaand!" would just look ridiculous, but these guys now have such a long history of «going all the way to eleven» that it is hard not to get overwhelmed by the results. (Just play 'em real loud, or else you violate the rules of the game).

On the other hand, songs like ʽUnder The Iceʼ, ʽSadly Sings Destinyʼ, ʽThe Soulforgedʼ, and some others formally preserve the core of the Blind Guardian sound. There is an obligatory chugga-chugga thrashing riff, and a thick, melodic, sometimes multi-tracked, often wah-wah-enhanced lead guitar part that are loud enough in the mix so as not to allow themselves to be drowned out in an ocean of keyboards, strings, or choral vocals. And it's not as if the drummer had anything to complain about on his behalf — the tempos are consistently fast and give him all the usual conditions to exercise the traditional sledgehammering style.

The basic problem is the usual one — monotony. After a short while, as the hilarious quotation from JCS fades into history, the songs inevitably begin blending and melding with each other, and this time around, there are no storytelling links to keep them apart. In small doses, the album is perfectly palatable, but you'd really have to be an iron man to sit through this «night at the opera» in one go and get sixty-seven minute of incessant kicks out of it. (Predicting the possible question, yes, this «opera» is far more melodically monotonous and emotionally single-routed than any good classical opera — among other things, Blind Guardian are totally unfamiliar with the principle of crescendo, which they replace with the principle of «and now... switch on THE POWER!!!!!»).

The worst is saved for last: a fourteen-minute epic (ʽAnd Then There Was Si­lenceʼ) about the fate of Cassandra, which somehow feels longer than the entire first act of Ber­lioz's Les Troyens — for all of its numerous melodic changes, nothing truly interesting ever happens throughout the song, and I have no idea whatsoever why it needed to be 14 minutes long in the first place. And instead of a proper bang, it ends in... a fadeout, with a corny synthesizer solo striving for orchestral gran­deur? What an embarrassment, really. Without this track, A Night At The Opera could have been poised for at least a minor thumbs up, keeping in mind the unabated energy levels and the cleverness of the instrumental mix and the sheer overwhelming strength of Hansi's vocals. With this track, A Night At The Opera moves dangerously close to a failed experiment — an attempt to outdo themselves in the «grandeur» department without being able to come up with any new substantial trick to successfully complete that attempt.

Bonnie Raitt: Give It Up

BONNIE RAITT: GIVE IT UP (1972)

1) Give It Up Or Let Me Go; 2) Nothing Seems To Matter; 3) I Know; 4) If You Gotta Make A Fool Of Somebody; 5) Love Me Like A Man; 6) Too Long At The Fair; 7) Under The Falling Sky; 8) You Got To Know How; 9) You Told Me Baby; 10) Love Has No Pride.

No attempts at tweaking the formula here, just tightening it up by hiring even better musicians, writing one more song than the last time around, and possibly playing a bit more electric guitar, too, although it is hard to guess who is playing what without the individual credits for each song, considering that no less than six different guitar players are listed in the notes. These are all just subtle nuances, though, so do not let the album cover shift (from dark living room to sunny countryside) fool you into imagining that something major has changed.

Bonnie's songwriting abilities have not improved by much — and, to tell the truth, they would never improve by much — but you still gotta admire somebody who has the gall to write a song in the near-authentic style of 1920s vaudeville (ʽGive It Up Or Let Me Goʼ) and then immediately follow it up with a song written in the near-authentic style of Carole King (ʽNothing Seems To Matterʼ — transpose that guitar melody to piano and you'd be able to sneak the song on Tapestry without anyone noticing). The third song, ʽYou Told Me Babyʼ, is written in the near-authentic style of blandly-friendly Californian blues-rock, I think, but it is really not so much a «song» as an excuse to trade some classy guitar licks between two or three guitarists in the coda.

The covers, like before, are split between forgotten golden oldies (Sippie Wallace's ʽYou Got To Know Howʼ), classic R&B (Barbara George's ʽI Knowʼ), and contemporary material, with the balance seriously tipping now in favor of the latter — not necessarily to the benefit of good taste, since there is just a tad too much sentimental melodrama here; certainly ending the record with an honest-to-goodness, but way too emotionally puffed-up ʽLove Has No Prideʼ is not a great choice compared with ʽWomen Be Wiseʼ on Bonnie Raitt. Still, at least she is still diligently splicing quotas: other than sentimental ballads, there are also tough blues-rockers (ʽLove Me Like A Manʼ) and upbeat country-rockers (Jackson Browne's ʽUnder The Falling Skyʼ), and ʽToo Long At The Fairʼ is at least one song that transcends sentimental clichés and, aided with some lush singing and a carefully engineered crescendo, rises to nearly epic heights.

But on the whole, it seems clear that Bonnie Raitt's second album predictably confirms what was already suggested by the first one — namely, that she is a competent, likable, respectable blues mama who is not afraid to dig all the way down into the roots and the original functions of the blues (one of which is just sheer entertainment), and that everything else, whether she likes it or not, comes across as more of a concession to modernity. ʽGive It Up Or Let Me Goʼ, with its self-confident swagger, jazzy flavor, and cocky slide guitar playing, is the album's best performance, the rigid 12-bar blues of ʽLove Me Like A Manʼ, which she sort of sings like a man, comes second, and Wallace's ʽYou Got To Know Howʼ, putting the final touch on Bonnie's fully solidified «wise woman» image, comes third. The more emotional and psychological she gets, though, the less use there seems to be for this music — in light mode, there's always Carole King, and in heavy (emotionally, not musically, that is), there's always Joni Mitchell.

Nevertheless, the album is consistently listenable: with so many people around and such relative­ly complex, yet seemingly spontaneous, arrangements, Give It Up generates a loose, good-time, friendly atmosphere that not many «generic» blues-rock records can offer with such ease. Addi­tionally, you get Paul Butterfield himself blowing his harmonica on a few tracks (ʽUnder The Falling Skyʼ), and some really tight brass players jazzifying the proceedings along the way. So, nothing too special in the grand scheme of things, and not even necessarily an improvement on her first try, but still well worth an empathic thumbs up, I'd say.

Bob Marley: Exodus

BOB MARLEY: EXODUS (1977)

1) Natural Mystic; 2) So Much Things To Say; 3) Guiltiness; 4) The Heathen; 5) Exodus; 6) Jamming; 7) Waiting In Vain; 8) Turn Your Lights Down Low; 9) Three Little Birds; 10) One Love / People Get Ready; 11*) Roots.

I am pretty sure that this album would have been impossible without Marley's brush-with-death experience in late 1976. With a miraculous escape like that, you start thinking, quite naturally, of all the things you have not yet completed in your life — you get an incentive to accelerate, to realize your grandest ambitions, no matter how much energy and spirit it costs you. So, perhaps Exodus is not necessarily the best Marley album lying around, as critical ratings often evaluate it (and it is even more absurd to call it «the best reggae album ever», because Exodus honestly does not give a damn about what musical style it was accidentally cast in). But it is quite clearly the «biggest» Bob Marley album, in scope and in execution; there is no use denying that the man set himself pretty high marks here, and there is no need to insist that he did not manage to hit most of them as best he could.

Exodus means Moses, and it is this album that turned Bob Marley into a modern-day Moses indeed: particularly the first side, all of which is structured like a multi-part sermon from the most esoteric depths of the Old Testament. "There's a natural mystic blowing through the air / If you listen carefully now you will hear / This could be the first trumpet / Might as well be the last". The musical backing is nothing particularly special — sparingly minimalistic, but with a neces­sarily ominous ring to the bass, and most of the overdubs (guitar, occasional brass) have been pushed way back into the mix: this helps generate the impression that the man is somewhere over there (on Mount Sinai, perhaps, receiving the latest instructions from Jah), letting you, the listener, in on his serious conversation — and the rest of the crowds are someplace down there. Waiting for the trumpets and all.

Although the first four songs are all good, in reality they all sound like honest-to-God dress re­hearsals for the title track. At 7:40, it is the longest track so far on a Wailers album, and its epic length is not accidental: most of the actual musical secrets of the groove are disclosed within the first minute already, but, like all great grooves, it is supposed to put you in a state of trance that you'd wish could last forever. The combination of stinging wah-wah guitar, that ominous bass, and the funky brass section that almost seems temporarily loaned from Sly & The Family Stone is quite worthy in itself, but it is the vocal shamanizing that pushes the whole thing over the top. Did Bob Marley truly believe that, like Moses, he could rally the people around him, leading them out of «Babylon»? (Should be «Egypt», of course, but it's all the same to them Rastas any­way). Even if he was naïve enough to believe that, the ensuing idealism, bottled in this track, still suffices to give you a spiritual jolt — maybe not strong enough to set you on the proper path of demolishing Babylon, but enough to make you go out and feed a homeless kitten or something.

The song is not even properly a «reggae» song, more like a reggaeified funk vamp, full of grim determination that is as far removed from the usually more relaxed atmosphere of reggae as pos­sible. There is one motto throughout — "move! move! move! move!" — echoing around the room like a retranslation of Jah's own command, and you can just feel that crazy, but disciplined drive urging and urging you on. The heat that is generated by the moment is on a James Brown level, but James Brown, even at his very best, was an entertainer, not a prophet, and his trance inductions could only be called «religious» figuratively, whereas ʽExodusʼ is indeed a religious musical ritual that even Moses himself could appreciate. Easily the most single powerful track of 1977, a year that was fairly ripe on powerful tracks — but no anthem from the punk or New Wave crowds could pack that much depth.

The second side of the album intentionally brings the level of tension down: not only are there some tender love songs, but even the political ones, like ʽOne Loveʼ, are delivered in a more lyrical and friendly key. There is ʽJammingʼ, which has always seemed like a fairly tame and unimpressive little ditty next to ʽExodusʼ to me — go figure why it has become so insanely popu­lar, but I guess that the majority of the population can't take it as heavy as ʽExodusʼ, and needs something lighter and catchier for their personal freedom anthem. If anything, I like ʽThree Little Birdsʼ with its nagging little keyboard riff, more than ʽJammingʼ, maybe because it is so simple and childish in every aspect of its execution that it comes out as more adequate — a simple love message for a simple song. Then again, it really makes no sense to compare.

Some people complain that Exodus is too glossy — that they like their Wailers «raw», not pre­pared carefully in the studio according to some particular technological recipe. I do not buy this accusation, and neither should anybody: by 1977, Bob Marley was anything but committed to the formulaic demands of «hardcore reggae», yet at the same time he had lost none of the fiery spirit of old — if anything, that attempt on his life only rejuvenated that spirit — and if Exodus sounds overproduced to you, well, so does Pink Floyd, and we have never found that aspect of their sound to be a problem. On the other hand, the «gloss» and all the extra overdubs really help to overcome the sometimes uncomfortable simplicity of the basic groove and push the songs to­wards masterpiece status on the strength of their atmosphere.

Listen, for instance, to ʽThe Heathenʼ and to whatever Julian Jr. Marvin, the band's new lead guitarist, is doing out there in the background, sometimes sending out small, compact thunder­balls of distortion and sometimes letting go with killer screeching blues-rock leads, and how Tyrone Downie begins his part with simplistic three-note synth phrases and then gradually buries himself in some real crazy jazz-fusion stuff. Or how Julian adds some lovely country guitar licks to ʽTurn Your Lights Down Lowʼ, a song that brings Marley dangerously close to «adult contem­porary» (or, at least, some really boring 1970s R&B) but keeps its distance because of the devotion of the nuances of the indivudual players. That may all be «gloss», but unless I am in some very special mood, I will take that gloss over Lee ʽScratchʼ Perry's minimalism any regular time of day. Deep bass groove, after all, is not the only possible way to worship Jah.

In all possible respects, Exodus is an outstanding record that goes way beyond the basic values of reggae as a musical genre and/or of Rastafarianism as a religious ideology. It is a triumph of in­spiration and active drive, a certain spiritual push-up that Marley would not be able to replicate ever again (in fact, and perhaps to his honor, he did not even try). Not the best place to come looking for hooks — Catch A Fire or Natty Dread would be more obvious choices; not the best place to understand what the hell is «reggae» supposed to mean (since, even technically, about half of this album is not really reggae); but just a great place, no doubt about it, if you're looking for a little outside aid to charge up your batteries. Exodus, movement of Jah people, the works. Major thumbs up guaranteed.

Blue Öyster Cult: Heaven Forbid

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: HEAVEN FORBID (1998)

1) See You In Black; 2) Harvest Moon; 3) Power Underneath Despair; 4) X-Ray Eyes; 5) Hammer Back; 6) Damaged; 7) Cold Gray Light Of Dawn; 8) Real World; 9) Live For Me; 10) Still Burnin'; 11) In Thee.

Say, it's a new Blue Öyster Cult album, and perhaps I'm «damaged», but I like it. It is not really a proper «comeback» album, because, as it happens, the band never truly went away — they just stopped producing new music for a while, but the original duo of Bloom and Roeser, usually combined into the original trio with Lanier, never really split, continuing to tour on a limited scale and quietly biding their time. That time finally came in 1998, with a new record deal with the indie label CMC, and a new traditional collaboration with one of the pulp fiction guys: John Shirley, specializing in cyberpunk sci-fi and other stuff that I have little interest in. I do have some interest in moderately successful career rejuvenations by oldies' acts, though, and Heaven Forbid, while certainly and predictably not on the scale of BÖC's classics, passes the test — as surprising as that is.

First and foremost, it sounds good, and that is what counts. Almost no synthesizers (gone are they together with the Eighties); healthy, grumbly, nicely distorted heavy metal tones, occasionally lapsing into pop metal style, but usually reminiscent of the band's classic sound; great drumming from Chuck Burgi; unspoiled powerhouse vocals from Bloom — I have not a single complaint about how the record has been produced. In fact, come to think of it, they haven't sounded that well since at least Fire Of Unknown Origin... hmm, perhaps even earlier. Okay, so perhaps the iron Teutonic grip of ʽHammer Backʼ pushes them a little farther into Accept territory than us conservatives would have desired, but they understand how to handle this approach, and make the song kick as much primal ass as any Accept clone would.

The songs — that's a different matter. The songs are not too memorable, and it would have been a total wonder if they were. It's not that there aren't any hooks: it's simply one of those records that may enthrall while it's on, and then quickly evaporate when it's off. But that in itself is already a sign of some progress. And then there is at least one song here that is totally on par with the clas­sics: ʽCold Gray Light Of Dawnʼ, a grim, dusty slab of doom-laden-rock, burns with terrifying implied threats as properly as anything they'd done earlier. The "you can't hide the truth, hide the truth anymore" bit at the end of the chorus hits hard, as does Buck Dharma's soloing throughout. I sure wish they'd re-record some of the Imaginos material in the same style.

A couple other songs seem to have been written by Roeser in «heartfelt» mood as well, and I think that ʽHarvest Moonʼ and ʽLive For Meʼ, reflecting Buck Dharma's trademark «heavy lyri­cal» style, both have potential; at the very least, there is no denying a certain mournful nostalgic pull of ʽHarvest Moonʼ, whose verses, with Roeser recounting the imaginary losses borne by all sorts of people, are actually emotionally superior to the chorus. Then again, I guess that, as Buck Dharma grows older, his little death-and-misery fetish must only get stronger and stronger. So more songs about famine, devastation, and nuclear fallout, please.

As for such simpler, less moody, more directly hard-rocking tracks as ʽSee You In Blackʼ, ʽPower Underneath Despairʼ, ʽDamagedʼ — well, they're okay. Catchy choruses, not too catchy riffs, and an atmosphere that never gets too out of bounds ("I'm damaged, and I like it, I live for rock'n'roll" is as close as they come to «campy» here, but it's not that bad when it's taken at such a fast tempo and with such a cocky-funky attitude). Nothing to go bananas over, but nothing to seriously complain about, either.

There is some playing around with their own legacy here that we could all do without — for instance, there was no need to name one of the songs ʽStill Burnin'ʼ, as it is not even stylistically similar to ʽBurning For Youʼ (it actually sounds more like a Van Halen tribute), and the decision to finish the record on a live acoustic performance of ʽIn Theeʼ is a dubious one: it's a nice per­formance, but gestures like these inevitably bring on associations with creative burnout — all the more surprising since, on the whole, Heaven Forbid shows that the band, on the contrary, has somewhat picked up steam after a decade and a half of drifting around in a figurative sea of radioactive waste. But then I suppose that it is really hard to avoid the temptation to fall back upon auto-quotations when you want to remind your old fans what was it that was great about you in the first place. Even if you do stupid things in the process.

Anyway, a pleasant minor thumbs up here, and a rock-hard recommendation for the seasoned fan. Also, there are two alternate album covers for the record: the normal one features a horribly mutilated guy with a glass eye and half of his face burnt, and the ugly one features Morgan Fair­child following printed instructions on how to probe her patellar reflexes with a steel-cast female gender symbol (or so I read). Thank you, Blue Öyster Cult, for proving in such an innovative manner that «freedom of choice» remains more than an empty idiom in 1998.

The Bears: Eureka!

THE BEARS: EUREKA! (2007)

1) Zelda Fitzgerald; 2) Veneer; 3) On; 4) Troubled Beauty; 5) Normal; 6) We Never Close; 7) Think; 8) Keep Your Own Counsel; 9) Idiot In The Sky; 10) Doodle; 11) Comin' Round The Mountain.

This must be some sort of tradition for The Bears now — alternate the release of one really fun pop album with the subsequent release of a really lacklustre one. You'd think that in between the six years that separate Eureka! from Car Caught Fire, the band members would have had the strength to come up with another fine batch of tunes — instead, what you get is about thirty minutes worth of something seriously undercooked, unmemorable, and just plain boring.

I have no idea what happened, but these ten songs (eleven, if you count the pretty, but fully dispensable cover of ʽComin' Round The Mountainʼ) do not move me in the least. The band is still there in its proper incarnation, with all four members dutifully supplying more or less equal shares of songs as they did on Car Caught Fire, but they are really boring, and I do mean really. This time, it all sounds like one of those yawn-inducing moralistic records by the Barenaked Ladies — every single song. Even Belew's three songs are generally subpar: ʽDoodleʼ has some funny falsetto harmonies, but is melodically repetitive, just a lazy vamp on a single jumpy-jerky distorted riff, and the other two sound like outtakes from some uninspired King Crimson session.

Most importantly, it's as if the fun factor was never there in the first place. This is serious-faced «intellectual pop» with a social / environmental message, mostly, but if it's intellectual, then where is the intellectual wish to come up with something new? For each of these songs, there are two or three Bears songs alone that say the same thing, let alone the output of other artists, and say it with more verve and energy. Eureka!? Really? As far as I understand, the exclamation that adequately conveys the atmosphere of the record is Oh, Shhhiiii...

It's not too tasteless or anything — it's vintage Bears, featuring all their trademarks, just none of their spontaneous wit and charm. In such situations, it is very hard to even begin to explain why one record is good and another one is bad, and I am not sure it is worth my time to really strain myself over the issue, so you'll have to just take my word on this. If you like The Bears for their overall style, you will probably want to disagree with me — if you are relatively indifferent to­wards their style, but care about their hooks, you probably won't. It is objectively telling, though, that (a) this record is so very short (so, obviously, they did not have too many ideas when they got together in 2007) and (b) the Bears have not reconvened ever since, even after Belew had finally been fired from King Crimson and gained as much free time on his hands as possible. After all, funny friendly lightning did strike twice on their behalf already, but now it seems like the game is finally over. No hard feelings whatsoever, but a thumbs down all the same.

Blur: Parklife

BLUR: PARKLIFE (1994)

1) Girls And Boys; 2) Tracy Jacks; 3) End Of A Century; 4) Parklife; 5) Bank Holiday; 6) Badhead; 7) The Debt Collector; 8) Far Out; 9) To The End; 10) London Loves; 11) Trouble In The Message Centre; 12) Clover Over Dover; 13) Magic America; 14) Jubilee; 15) This Is A Low; 16) Lot 105.

Probably the closest thing to a «definitive Britpop manifesto» to have gone down in history as such — although one wonders just how much that reputation is due to the now-classic image of the two greyhounds on the front sleeve. Speaking strictly in melodic terms, Parklife offers little progress beyond the earlier established style: the band takes most of its structural cues from the Beatles and the Kinks circa 1966-67, slightly bending them to reflect some echoes of the punk and New Wave era, improving upon the production and taking serious care that the lyrics con­form to modern, not retro, values. But the good news is that the killer hooks keep coming — and that the band itself thinks that they have something important to say with these hooks.

«Keep it simple, but not stupid» is the now-established motto, and there ain't a single Blur track on which it would work better than on ʽGirls And Boysʼ — probably the definitive Blur song in that it will be impossible to forget it once you've heard it, just once. The nagging two-note synth pattern which completely dominates the song is a perfect sense irritator, as is the robotic chorus (for better effect, all of it should be sung in one breath, which is quite a feat, and in perfect Mock­ney, without which it would lose much of the effect): part of your brain will tend to dismiss the song as an exercise in idiocy, part of it will bend towards its inherent catchiness, and still another part will perceive the thinly veiled irony, as Blur declare themselves supreme rulers of the hip young crowds of London and send up so many of these crowds' values at the same time, most importantly, the whole concept of sexual freedom in the New Age of Man.

Then the cynicism gets even hotter on the title track, whose melody goes around in simple, steady, repe­titive circles, just like the figurative park stroller whose casual life is described by the (mostly spoken, provided by actor Phil Daniels) lyrics — note that not a single phrase or word directly condemns or ridicules «parklife», but Daniels' rather comical, puffed-up attitude, and the song's musical impersonation of «simplistic arrogance» make it hard to perceive ʽParklifeʼ as some sort of positive anthem. Rather, it is one of those «deceitful» songs where you make a chorus so catchy, it is impossible for your stadium audience not to sing it as an anthem: "all the people, so many people, they all go hand in hand through their parklife" — nice words, right? But there is not-so-deeply-hidden contempt here, in that chorus, going all the way back to the jolly old tradi­tion of character assassination by Ray Davies (ʽDedicated Follower Of Fashionʼ, etc.).

This formula — a simple, effective guitar melody based on «toughly-popped» chords, spiced up with some sprinkly electronics and an imminent vocal hook in the chorus, and paired with sar­castic situation-observing lyrics — describes approximately half of the songs on the album; to the two big hit singles above add also ʽTracy Jacksʼ, ʽLondon Lovesʼ, ʽMagic Americaʼ (the latter pokes fun at Americaphilia rather than America itself), ʽJubileeʼ, and even the instrumental ʽDebt Collectorʼ, whose bourgeois-gallant waltzing gets a wholly unusual interpretation when you view it in the context of its title. In each of these songs, behind the «modern English cool» façade there is thoughtful, insightful content — and the musical arrangements are complex enough to prevent the possibility of boredom (keyboards, vocal harmonies, special effects): this is electric guitar-based pop rock, yes, but Blur sell their songs as complete multi-layered packages, not as bare-bones ideas fueled only by sheer enthusiasm and arrogance.

However, the songs that carefully lead Parklife over the threshold that separates «simply cool» records from «great» ones are those that add a slight lyrical touch — most importantly, ʽEnd Of A Centuryʼ, ʽTo The Endʼ, and ʽThis Is A Lowʼ, situated respectively near the beginning, middle, and end of the album and giving it three major «pivots» around which revolves all the snappy coolness. ʽEnd Of A Centuryʼ, in particular, is one of my absolute favorites — the greatest, pro­bably, of all of Blur's «compassionate» songs, an ode to all the bored and lonely people that once again honors the Kinks with its ʽWaterloo Sunsetʼ-ish harmonies and melancholic horn solos, and really cuts all the way down to the heart. ʽTo The Endʼ, on the contrary, dips into the influence pool of French pop (the band even involves Laetitia Sadier of Stereolab to sing in her native language), sounding not unlike something out of the soundtrack of Un homme et une femme, although still infected a bit too much with Blur's usual energy.

Finally, ʽThis Is A Lowʼ ends the album on a note that is as far removed from the opening sneer of ʽGirls And Boysʼ as possible — here, Blur plunge into full-scale psychedelic mode, yielding something deep, multi-layered, loud and screechy one moment and soothing the next moment, a song that is more Pink Floyd than Beatles or Kinks; a good example of a situation where «The British» and «The Astral» merge together in one cohesive whole, reminiscent indeed of Syd Barrett, but with its own Nineties' face.

There is no need to religiously adore Parklife or overrate it as the harbinger of the «Britpop re­volution» — at its core, it is really very unpretentious, just a humble tribute to the original Brit­pop, but paid by a bunch of really talented guys who, somehow, while essentially wishing to follow, must have found out, to their own surprise, that they were now in the lead. Which is, really, a pretty damn good situation in terms of creativity, and especially in terms of how well these records stand over time. In 1994, it was unclear whether Parklife would just represent a fad, but twenty years later, it sounds as fun and as fresh as if it were released only yesterday. In fact, I'd bet you anything that at least two or three records like Parklife were probably released yester­day (and the day before yesterday, and the day before that...), because Parklife has not lost its appeal or relevance in the least, and everything that has not lost its appeal or relevance gets cloned on a continuous basis these days, doesn't it? Major thumbs up.

Blondie: Autoamerican

BLONDIE: AUTOAMERICAN (1980)

1) Europa; 2) Live It Up; 3) Here's Looking At You; 4) The Tide Is High; 5) Angels On The Balcony; 6) Go Through It; 7) Do The Dark; 8) Rapture; 9) Faces; 10) T-Birds; 11) Walk Like Me; 12) Follow Me; 13*) Call Me; 14*) Suzy & Jeffrey.

Despite selling even stronger than Eat To The Beat and yielding at least one more iconic Blondie single in ʽRaptureʼ, the band's fifth album was greeted rather coldly by the press — and, in retrospect, seems to have acquired a rather suspicious reputation. Scan the average bunch of people's reactions on the Internet and, even without hearing the album, you will put together a clear picture: on Autoamerican, Blondie try to bite off more than they can chew, going off in a million different directions, but writing dull, bland songs in each one. The fun is gone, replaced by pretense and ambition. This is not the Blondie we used to know and like.

Indeed, it does seem as if something had happened. Judgemental statements aside, Autoamerican is a total downer of an album — in the place of exuberance, arrogance, bright humor, and de­layed-teenage happiness (some of which was still in evidence on Eat To The Beat) comes a record whose brief moments of fun-fun-fun are so brief indeed, they almost seem like ironic auto-send-ups in the overall context. They say sometimes that one of the album's pervasive subjects is cars (the title, the spoken bits in ʽEuropaʼ, ʽT-Birdsʼ, the eating cars bit in ʽRaptureʼ), but that looks more like a coincidence to me. What is really pervasive is an overall sense of gloom; not panick or depression as such, more like a dark, disturbing premonition of some hard times to come. If there is one title here that is better suited for the choice of album title, it is ʽDo The Darkʼ — much more telling than Autoamerican, which really says nothing.

Looking at the record this way, as a sort of «Blondie gets sick» signal, is much better than just coming to it in search of another bunch of stellar pop tunes à la ʽDreamingʼ or ʽOne Way Or Anotherʼ. Diversity, as such, has never been this band's enemy: they were exploring different musical styles as early as in 1976, and if there is a little more experimentation here than usual, why should that be a problem? ʽEuropaʼ, the odd neo-classical instrumental that opens the album, will never be deemed a self-standing masterpiece, but it isn't meant to — it simply provides a suitably moody grand opening for the record. In the short run, it was a miscalculation to place it right at the start: after ʽHangin' On The Telephoneʼ and ʽDreamingʼ as classic upbeat openings, people were certainly not prepared to encounter those morose, slightly dissonant strings and that Pink Floydian guitar riff. But today, we are prepared.

The album's centerpiece is ʽRaptureʼ, which we all know, of course, as (a) one of the first exam­ples of rapping recorded by a white artist and (b) that song about the man from Mars who keeps on eating cars and when he's through with cars he's eating bars. What sometimes escapes our attention is the inherent bitterness in the song — no signs of delight or giddiness or happiness, and a lot of mock-irony that actually overwhelms and downplays the absurdity of the rapped lyrics. The song does not celebrate club life; its robotic pulsation and somnambulant vocals play up its dehumanizing aspects rather than anything else. ʽAtomicʼ — now that was a happy disco song. ʽRaptureʼ is dark, creepy, and much closer in spirit to ʽMidnight Ramblerʼ (come to think of it, the man from Mars might just be a different incarnation of the midnight rambler); and when Debbie seductively croons out "...in raaaaaptuuure..." at the end of the sung part, she really truly sounds like an angel. The death angel, that is.

Speaking of angels, ʽAngels On The Balconyʼ, written by Destri, may actually be the best song on the album — another gloomy, smoky pop song that tries to become more cheerful in the bridge section ("they can still see him singing on the corner...") but fails. Empty theater, after­glow, cold outside, fading memories, ghostly lowered voice, cold backing synthesizers, more Bauhaus than Blondie, but with much more «natural» production. The moderately fast tempo and powerful in-between-verse riff suggest that life is still going on, but there's no getting away from past shadows and closet skeletons, want it or not.

Even when they go retro-all-the-way on our asses and toss off a light, 1920s-influenced vaude­ville number (ʽHere's Looking At Youʼ), catchy as heck and almost hilariously authentically arranged, its mood and tone are still bitter (it's in the «drowning one's disillusionment and per­sonal grudges in a liquor glass» style of delivery). And then there is the gloomy danceable ʽLive It Upʼ ("your old lover's lying in the gutter"), the gloomy danceable ʽDo The Darkʼ (actually, it is one of the happiest songs on the album — using its darkness-evoking lyrics and snake-charming synth lines to titillate rather than to spook), the midnight jazz balladry of ʽFacesʼ, all drenched in some tragic nostalgia... need I continue?

Against this background, ʽThe Tide Is Highʼ, a cover of an old ska tune by The Paragons (here given a far more lush arrangement that almost turns it into a mariachi band tune), sticks out like a sore thumb. Since the people still loved their Blondie when she was happy much more than when she was feeling like shit, they had no problem pushing it all the way up to No. 1 (and, perhaps, subconsciously they were aided by the chorus line "I'm gonna be your number one" as well?), but it is not at all indicative of the overall atmosphere of the record. It's just that they needed a hit, and Mike Chapman obviously felt that the only surefire hit by Blondie is a happy hit, so here it is. It's a jolly good cover, too, but these days it feels a bit... slight, perhaps, against the general heavy weight of the record.

On the whole, I would go as far as agreeing that Autoamerican represents «the beginning of the end». This is an evolved band, one that has already tasted its best taste of happiness and success and is now embracing «post-maturity». This gloomy style does not come to them as naturally as the giddy style of their early records, but it isn't faked, either. The songwriting is kinda limp in places (ʽWalk Like Meʼ, for instance, sounds like a lifeless shadow of their once brashly arrogant approach), but more than half of the record is still comprised of great tunes — also, if you get the reissued remastered version, ʽCall Meʼ, the band's biggest hit single, is on there as well, one of the grandest songs of the disco-rock era, though, like all such specially commandeered songs (for the soundtrack of American Gigolo, in this case), it is rather faceless, though undeniably catchy. In any case, unlike the original band's last album, Autoamerican, whether you like it or not, is an integral and necessary-to-know part of the band's legacy. Personally, I am quite partial to its disgruntled spirit, and have no problem with a strong thumbs up rating — it's not my fault, and, come to think of it, it's not even their fault that somebody would categorically refuse to accept them in any mode other than «power pop», which this record does not even try to be. 

Blind Guardian: Nightfall In Middle-Earth

BLIND GUARDIAN: NIGHTFALL IN MIDDLE-EARTH (1998)

1) War Of Wrath; 2) Into The Storm; 3) Lammoth; 4) Nightfall; 5) The Minstrel; 6) The Curse Of Feanor; 7) Cap­tured; 8) Blood Tears; 9) Mirror Mirror; 10) Face The Truth; 11) Noldor; 12) Battle Of Sudden Flame; 13) Time Stands Still; 14) The Dark Elf; 15) Thorn; 16) The Eldar; 17) Nom The Wise; 18) When Sorrow Sang; 19) Out On The Water; 20) The Steadfast; 21) A Dark Passage; 22) Final Chapter (Thus Ends...); 23) Harvest Of Sorrow.

Okay, brace yourself: a concept album based on nothing less than a complete (well, actually, nearly complete) version of J. R. R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion — as the chief protectors of the Professor's legacy, Blind Guardian accept nothing less than completeness and perfection. You can look at this as a soundtrack to an imaginary movie, or the score to a non-existent musical, but whatever it is, not since the days of Bo Hansson and his Music Inspired By The Lord Of The Rings has the Professor received such a royal treatment — and this one is almost twice as long as Bo's work, and it isn't merely inspired by the novel, it is a musical re-telling of the novel.

Two British actors were hired to provide the (mercifully brief) narration parts, including actual bits of impersonation of the novel's most colorful hero (Morgoth, of course, for whom Blind Guardian have a special predilection). These are packed into brief spoken links, usually accom­panied with movie-like sound effects, introducing the various songs or simply separating them, and all the songs are highly specific, relating to different events over the course of the First Age, from Morgoth's flight with the Silmarils and right down to the utter defeat of the forces of good by the forces of evil (although, funny enough, all of this is framed by the introductory track as Morgoth reminiscing of his history while standing on the verge of final defeat).

Fans of Blind Guardian usually stand divided over the record, which is no surprise — there are those who love these fanatical Germans for their obsession with fantasy worlds, and then there are those who just love them for all the monster riffs and virtuoso solos and general blood-pum­ping skills. For that second group, Nightfall will be a disappointment: not only does all the spoken material detract from the music, but the music itself is much less «heavy» than it used to be, now placing at least as much emphasis on stately choral harmonies and ornate mock-classical synthesizer flourishes as on heavy guitar phrasing and «brutal» vocal parts. As a symbol of this transition, Kürsch even relinquishes his position as regular bass player for the band: Oliver Holz­warth, while not officially a regular new member of Blind Guardian, joins as his regular session replacement both for studio recordings and live performances.

Personally, I am not quite sure what to think. To be sure, the whole experience smells of cheese, but so does the band in general, and is it even at all possible to make a rock opera based on The Silmarillion that would smell of something else? It would most likely take somebody of a Wag­nerian caliber to achieve the task, and even then it is one thing to put your own personal stamp on a thousand year old mythological tradition, and quite another one to put it on a «simulacre», no matter how high quality. What really bugs me, though, is that if we actually want to put Tolkien to music, Nightfall In Middle-Earth is very far from my personal ideal vision of it. I am not at all sure what that vision is, but it definitely is not Blind Guardian vision.

First and foremost, Blind Guardian are really a power metal band. They are at their best when audializing battle scenes — violence, brutality, clashing swords, stampeding Oliphaunts, what­ever. Consequently, the best realized tracks here are the militaristic ones: ʽTime Stands Still (At The Iron Hill)ʼ, for instance, is a rousing, gripping epic that does convey the spirit of personal combat of an elf warrior against the Lord of Darkness pretty well. Even better is the track that begins it all: ʽInto The Stormʼ, starting the Silmarillion tale from the moment where the bad guys initiate their conquest of Beleriand, fleeing from the light into the dark — no special build-ups or atmospheric introductions, just a straightforward plunge into aggressive frenzy that could illus­trate everything that includes speed, fire, and devastation, from the flight of Morgoth and Ungoliant to the Four Horsemen.

On the other hand, as they get into more psychological details (ʽThe Curse Of Feanorʼ) or into lyrical matters (ʽWhen Sorrow Sangʼ), the limitations of Blind Guardian become obvious: once again, they use exactly the same approach for everything. Eventually, you just lose sense of what is going on — where are the good guys and the bad guys (Kürsch uses pretty much the same vocal style for the Dark Lord Morgoth and the Elven Lord Fëanor, and no, this is not due to an artistic decision to blur the lines between good and evil, which would agree with Tolkien's own storyline, but simply due to the singer's limitations), where are the battles and the peaceful inter­ludes, where are the triumphs and the sufferings. Everything is neutralized.

And this is where the complaints of the «metal camp» fans can be heard, too: the music generally loses much of its «kick-ass» quality, without necessarily compensating for this from the «beauty» angle, because the band is not very good at incorporating medieval folk motives and exquisite baroque synthesizer passages. Their chief musical talent had always been Olbrich, and now he is almost like a bit player in a symphonic ocean, and not a terrifically inspiring at that. Even within a polyphonic production, you'd like to hear individual voices, but there is not a lot of them here. Try and go straight for ʽThe Eldarʼ, one of the few songs on the album to feature a different approach — a mournful piano ballad (with guest star Michael Schüren at the grand piano), where Hansi goes from soft, tragic falsetto to raging scream and back. If the song shakes you to the core, count yourself an altogether well-rounded, properly initiated Blind Guardian fan; but to me, there is too much melodrama, too little in the way of truly interesting melody.

All said, though, ambition alone... no, well, ambition alone probably wouldn't cut it, but ambition coupled with Blind Guardian's pedigree, experience, and professionalism make Nightfall In Middle-Earth a curious artefact. Curious success? Curious failure? That is up to you to decide, but my current opinion — as a Tolkien soundtrack, this is a failure, but as a Tolkien-inspired self-standing musical fantasy, it definitely has its moments. At the very least, as is the standard case for Blind Guardian, nearly each track has its own catchy chorus, so let that be one final argument for a stable thumbs up. I sure wish they'd hire some other guy to impersonate Morgoth, though. Wasn't Christopher Lee a more-than-obvious choice? Or does he dislike Blind Guardian because they're Krauts or something?

Bonnie Raitt: Bonnie Raitt

BONNIE RAITT: BONNIE RAITT (1971)

1) Bluebird; 2) Mighty Tight Woman; 3) Thank You; 4) Finest Lovin' Man; 5) Any Day Woman; 6) Big Road; 7) Walking Blues; 8) Danger Heartbreak Dead Ahead; 9) Since I Fell For You; 10) I Ain't Blue; 11) Women Be Wise.

Upon entering Radcliffe College, Bonny Raitt majored in social relations and African studies, and it shows — what other type of artist would have covered not one, but two songs by (then still fairly obscure among everybody but very hardcore blues aficionados) Sippie Wallace? Both of which are, of course, all about social relations (gender relations, to be exact) in the Afro-Ameri­can community of the 1920s, and not at all out of date or out of touch in the early 1970s. Yet it is not so much the actual subject that is interesting here as it is the approach, which can make all the difference and make you love this record, hate this record, or use it as casual background for the «boring» category of house parties.

Roots-rock, in those days, used to come in extremes — it could be reverential and self-conscious­ly «spiritual», downplaying the earthiness of the music (they don't call it «roots» for nothing, but too many people played «roots rock» as if it were «angels' rock» instead), or it could assume the «dirty» form of hard-rockers, pub-rockers, shit-rockers, or whatever you'd like to call the self-consciously irreverential crowds. If it didn't come in extremes, though, it was running an even higher risk of not finding its own face. And it is very easy not to be impressed by this record and just walk away saying, «yeah, so what's the big deal?..»

Because on most counts, the 21-year old Bonnie Raitt is professional, but whether she is anything special is not so evident. She knows how to play guitar, pleasantly but not exceptionally (and in any case, her playing on this debut album is intentionally devoid of any flashy demonstration of her later-to-be-respected slide technique); she is a good enough singer, but her voice is physically weak, or, rather, at this juncture she has not yet learned to control it rigorously; and she is not at all a «singer-songwriter», because she writes very few songs — the two numbers that are credited to her are, respectively, a rather generic folk-pop ballad and a rather simplistic blues vamp.

She is, however, an interpreter and a blender of tradition; perhaps the most interesting aspect of the album is its choice of cover material — ranging from then-contemporary songs by Stephen Stills and Paul Siebel (and Bonnie's own, of course) to Motown (the Marvelettes) to vocal jazz to old acoustic blues to, most intriguingly, the «urban blues» tradition of the 1920s, as illustrated by the two Sippie Wallace covers: love for Robert Johnson, one of whose songs is also covered here, may have been ubiquitous in the early 1970s, but proper understanding of the importance of the female blues singers of the pre-Depression era was yet to come (I think that even Bessie Smith was more revered for her legend than actually listened to — unless that feeling is being secretly nurtured by the association with the Band song of that name that bears no resemblance to Bessie Smith's real style whatsoever. Whatever).

There is no particular strife for «authenticity», thank God, outside of Bonnie hiring blues legend Junior Walker to contribute harmonica throughout — and the production by Willie Murphy is intelligent and tasteful, as he tends to avoid any unnecessary tricks or effects, but makes good use of all the immense host of musicians that Bonnie dragged into the empty summer camp on Lake Minnetonka to help her carry on the musical tradition. And this is important, because Raitt sees to it that the album never becomes a pure guitar celebration — pianos, harmonicas, flutes, saxes, even a tuba, comically-importantly puffed into by Freebo on ʽBig Roadʼ, are just as important to make this whole experience into a celebration that is as much «blues» as it is «vaudeville», not to mention «jazz» or «R&B» or «folk-based singer-songwriting, California-style», all one.

Under this sauce, style becomes far more important than substance: I'd like to complain that Bonnie's folksy ʽThank Youʼ is not very memorable, and that the straightforward blues covers where she is being «tough» (ʽMighty Tight Womanʼ) hit harder than the easily-dissipated ballads, but that impression would probably apply to anybody, be they as talented as Ms. Raitt or much less talented. The truth is that Bonnie intuitively gets where it's at: she is able to present herself as a strong, independent character, but does that in the same restrained, self-contained, «polite» manner as her pre-war idols. This is an attitude that does not work wonders for short-time enter­tainment value — not surprisingly, the album failed to chart — but might command certain respect in the long run.

From a certain point of view, this is Bonnie Raitt at her very best; with a song selection like that, when «old masters» are only marginally offset by contemporary singer-songwriters, Junior Walker on harp, and production that cleverly updates the old honky-tonk without succumbing to the usual 1970s clichés (like drowning everything in a sea of syrupy strings, for instance), if you don't like Bonnie Raitt, you won't like Bonnie Raitt, and if you don't get Bonnie Raitt, there is no stopping you from completely despising her for everything she's done once she stopped drinking, put out Nick Of Time, and became the roots-rock-spokeswoman for people without a proper sense of humor. But you know, it can actually be fun trying to get Bonnie Raitt, at least, in that period of hers where she still had some sort of meaningful agenda, rather than just wanting to hang out with all the other cool people. Thumbs up.

Bob Marley: Rastaman Vibration

BOB MARLEY: RASTAMAN VIBRATION (1976)

1) Positive Vibration; 2) Roots, Rock, Reggae; 3) Johnny Was; 4) Cry To Me; 5) Want More; 6) Crazy Baldhead; 7) Who The Cap Fit; 8) Night Shift; 9) War; 10) Rat Race; 11*) Jah Live.

Although this record became Bob's big breakthrough in the US, selling lotsa copies and yielding his most popular single in that country (ʽRoots, Rock, Reggaeʼ — supposedly American people were reluctant to buy up reggae singles that did not have the word «rock» in the title), I would say that Rastaman Vibration is somewhat less impressive than the two studio albums flanking it in Marley's discography. Natty Dread was somewhat of a challenge, in that Marley had to prove he still had it in himself to survive without the rest of the original Wailers — and the soon-to-come Exodus would be fueled with mega-ambition, some of it perhaps brewed up in the aftermath of the unsuccessful attempt on Bob's life in December '76.

In comparison, Rastaman Vibration has neither quite the impressive hooks of its predecessor, nor the undeniable grandeur of its follow-up. It is as sharply politicized as ever, perhaps even more ("it's not music right now, we're dealing with a message", Marley himself told interviewers in 1976), and in this intermediate context, such politicization means a certain unity in the groove: every track starts off with more or less the same little explosive drumroll from Carlton Barrett, after which you get more or less the same tempo, more or less the same instrumentation, more or less the same vibe, and more or less the same body temperature. Throughout.

This does not mean it ain't a nice enough vibe or temperature. By now, Marley has fully mastered the art of capturing the listener's attention with a bare minimum of means — his punch is econo­mic and simplistic, but it is hard not to feel it every time. Even when the music really occupies second place next to the message — ʽWarʼ is little more than just a famous UN speech by Haile Selassie set to a rhythmic pattern — just by simply repeating the mantra "everywhere is war, me say war" at the end of each paragraph, Bob makes his point (but note how he has this trembling wave of sadness inserted, just so you know that it is not his declaration of war, but rather his constatation of other people making war on his people: a defensive, not aggressive stance).

This bit of trouble determining whether he is on the attack or on the defense ain't accidental: there is always some sort of vague mystique, incomprehensibility, ambiguity, associated with Marley — like all great people, he was not that easy to pigeonhole. Another good case is ʽPositive Vib­rationʼ, with another unforgettable chorus hook (the "Rastaman vibration ye-e-ah, positive..." bit) that is nevertheless offset by the positively threatening bassline, which makes it seem as if the man is harassing you into "making way for the positive day" (at certain points, when they begin asking you "are you pickin' up now?", the melody once again goes straight into ʽHow Do You Sleep?ʼ territory — terrifying, almost!). He'd probably deny any such intention, but the fact is, even when Mr. Marley seems to be spreading that positive vibe, the music is anything but shiny and happy. Gloomy reggae, not some kiddie-happy ska here that Paul McCartney appropriated for ʽOb-La-Di Ob-La-Daʼ (now that was some «positive vibration» indeed).

On ʽRoots, Rock, Reggaeʼ, the band's mantraic declaration — "play I some music, dis-a reggae music" — is, in itself, stern and war-like: for Marley, new trends in music should necessarily be accompanied with new trends in spirituality, and he is unwilling to offer the people just the music without the message. The trick is that he is singing "we're bubblin' on the top one hundred / just like a mighty dread" with the same intonation he normally uses to describe the sufferings of his people in and out of slavery, and this works: you might think you're just boppin' and hoppin' around to a nice little rhythm, but in reality you're, like... joining The Cause! And the funniest thing of all, the single did get into the top one hundred, so it's not just you.

On the whole, though, Marley raises his voice noticeably high only once here — not on ʽCrazy Baldheadʼ, as one might think, whose basic seemingly-aggressive message ("we gonna chase those crazy baldheads out of town") is delivered in a surprisingly peaceful tone instead, but rather on ʽWant Moreʼ, a song that seems to be usually overlooked in the huge Marley catalog, yet it is really the strongest precursor here to the Moses-and-Aaron-rally of Exodus, with the sharpest, shrillest riff on the album, well matched with Marley's «driven-to-the-edge» point: "you get what you want, do you want more?..." "You think it's the end, but it's just the beginning" is one of the most threatening moments here in Wailers history, so do not overlook it.

Like most of Marley's output, this record almost automatically gets a thumbs up regardless of specific criticisms — not out of an act of boring political correctness, but more like a recognition of a steady genius, capable of delivering gripping material even in a temporary state of «musical inertia», so to speak. (Technically, Rastaman Vibration is somewhat innovative in that it intro­duces synthesizers into the Marley sound, but this is really so peripheral that I almost forgot to mention it in the first place). No fan, after all, could properly call himself a fan without having grooved heavily to the sounds of ʽPositive Vibrationʼ or without witnessing the peaceful consta­tation of ʽWarʼ (as opposed to, for instance, the gross misuse of the song by Sinead O'Connor, whose radical stance makes Bob Marley look like Rush Limbaugh in comparison). But in a larger context, somehow, many of these tunes seem a bit like... peanuts, maybe, for the real level of Mr. Marley and his team.

Blue Öyster Cult: Cult Classic

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: CULT CLASSIC (1994)

1) (Don't Fear) The Reaper; 2) E.T.I.; 3) M.E. 262; 4) This Ain't The Summer Of Love; 5) Burning For You; 6) O.D.'d On Life Itself; 7) Flaming Telepaths; 8) Godzilla; 9) Astronomy; 10) Cities On Flame With Rock'n'Roll; 11) Harvester Of Eyes; 12) Buck's Boogie; 13) (Don't Fear) The Reaper (instrumental); 14) Godzilla (instrumental).

Yes, you have heard all these songs before, and no, this is neither a live album nor a greatest hits compilation. These are re-recordings. That is right, straightforward re-recordings of BOC classics, engineered at several different studios in New York City in early 1994 by three original members of the band (Bloom, Roeser, and Lanier) and the band's then-current rhythm section (Jon Rogers on bass and Chuck Burgi on drums). Not «reinventions» or «special guest mixes» — just really rigid, rigorous, note-for-note re-recordings of the original songs.

Do not ask me the obvious question: I do not have enough information to give a convincing answer. The «polite» version that I have encountered is that the band was trying out those tempt­ing new alleys of digital recording, and wanted to engineer their best songs in a brand new format that breathed modernity and coolness. I myself tend to veer towards the cynical version, though: seeing as how they were dropped from the big Columbia label that must have owned the rights to their old recordings, they simply went to all that trouble for good old financial reasons. After all, if the customer walks into a store and sees an album called Cult Classic and it's got that ʽReaperʼ song on it, how is he going to tell the difference between the original and the copy? He ain't no musical art dealer, he's just a customer.

Therefore, BUYER BEWARE: Cult Classic with all these classic Cult songs is NOT a compila­tion! Others, too, have been part of this fraud program — I vaguely remember Eric Burdon, for instance, re-recording the old Animals classics with a band that had nothing to do with the real Animals — but nobody I know of, at least if you're talking the real great ones, came as close to genuinely duping the consumer as the good old Blue Oyster boys. You have to remember your classics fairly well to understand that something's wrong here.

On the positive side, when it comes to evaluating the material here on its own terms, I would not know where to begin complaining. Re-recordings they may be, but they are surprisingly good re-recordings, and if you ever wanted to have a good case for digital recording over analog, you simply cannot go wrong with Cult Classic. The sound is crystal clear, the mix is as perfect as it could possibly be, and that guitar tone... well, suffice it to say that the opening riff of ʽHarvester Of Eyesʼ simply blows away the original. Thicker, creepy-crawlier, breaking out of the speakers to run you over with its track, leaving behind lifeless pulp with eyes extracted.

I have no idea how they did this, but everything sounds totally authentic, not one bit spoiled by any production excesses — in addition, Bloom's vocals have not deteriorated one bit, and that new drummer guy is every bit as dexterous as Bouchard used to be. It is possible, of course, to prefer the old versions, but it is impossible to deny that they did a fine, fine job copycatting them twenty years later. Oh, and for ʽAstronomyʼ they actually preferred to remake the live version of the song — the one where they added a lengthy coda with a killer solo by Buck Dharma. The one here is not as impressive, but still serves as a very useful tension-builder in a song that I have, until now, tended to underrate.

It is not quite clear how an album like this could merit a thumbs up — but, curiously, I will not recommend it as a representative introduction to the greatness of Blue Öyster Cult for all them youngsters not because it is a «rip-off», but because the youngsters might actually remain un­impressed with the original recordings from the 1970s in comparison, just because of all these vastly improved production values. Originals are originals, and they have their little sonic nuances that, want it or not, probably did get lost in the re-recording process. But it would take us some time to find, properly feel, and describe this, with multiple relistens and stuff — who wants to spend valuable time doing that? I certainly do not — veteran fans of the band, though, unless they believe in such a thing as «desecration», should by all means check this stuff out and try to savor new values quite respectfully applied to the old classics. That said, the band certainly loses points from me if I ever find out that the record, when sold in record stores, did not bear an explicit sticker with the word «RE-RECORDINGS» on it. At least a small one. At least in minu­scule print or something. They obviously handled this whole re-recording business with love and care — so why mix it with customer dishonesty? 

The Bears: Live

THE BEARS: LIVE (2002)

1) Honey Bee; 2) What's The Good Of Knowing; 3) Dave; 4) Robobo's Beef; 5) Mr. Bonaparte; 6) Under The Volcano; 7) Success; 8) Little Blue River; 9) As You Are; 10) Trust; 11) Complicated Potatoes; 12) Figure It Out; 13) Caveman; 14) Man Behind The Curtain.

This album, recorded live at some small club in some irrelevant location on the underbelly of the universe, makes me happy with its tracklist — the three studio Bears albums are given the exact same priorities that I have defined for myself: 7 songs from the best one, Car Caught Fire, 4 songs from the second best (The Bears), and only 3 from the worst (Rise And Shine). Of course, 4 against 3 may not seem like much, statistically speaking, but remember the proportions, too: Rise And Shine was about ten minutes longer than The Bears, so the figures are valid. Also, one might object that the band was simply promoting Car Caught Fire at the time, but, you know, that'd be just guesswork, while here we have a strong factual correlation and all.

Anyway, it is not very significant. What is significant is to understand that the difference between a Bears studio album and a Bears live album is in no way similar to the difference between, say, a King Crimson studio vs. live album. The Bears have pledged to be a pop band — not an experi­mental avantgarde one or even a rock'n'roll one — and they do not see themselves obliged to «rip it up» on stage the way King Crimson could, when they showed the world how this strange, otherworldly, New Wave-influenced music on their early 1980s records could be brought to a boiling point (and bring your brains to the same point in the process). The Bears take things much lighter, and simply give their little fan club a good time.

It is not uninteresting, though, to hear these songs without the heavy «studio tinkering» they had been given, particularly to compare the real old ones with the new arrangements — ʽHoney Beeʼ without all the «twang» effects on the guitars and vocals, for instance; or ʽTrustʼ, which is strip­ped clean of its feedback blasts and given a largely acoustic setting; or ʽFigure It Outʼ, which, due to the band's limited budget, is deprived of its brass section, but Belew and Fetters compensate for this with some wild guitar sparring (with respect for each other's styles — I mean, Belew can probably slaughter anyone in a sparring match, but they make it work instead).

On the whole, there are few major departures from the original structures or moods: other than the acoustic takes on ʽTrustʼ and ʽAs You Areʼ, I have noticed an extended psycho-coda to ʽSuccessʼ — the only place on the album where Belew engages in some serious guitar pyrotechnics, probably to ap­pease those people who only came to the show in hopes to catch a glimpse of the famous mad guitarist — and that's about it. I am also not completely satisfied with the setlist: instead of the sulky ʽDaveʼ, I'd rather have ʽOld Fat Cadillacʼ or any other spritelier number, but they probably had to support the delicate balance between all the songwriters and singers. Still, good songs, good vibe, the audience goes wild (enough to roar in ecstasy, as if this were a stadium show, before the encore, and chant "Bears! Bears! Bears!" after the encore), and the songs are let free to roam outside of their tight studio shells — reason enough to give it a try. "Pop music is not dead!" one of the band members declares as they slip out of ʽMr. Bonaparteʼ, and even though, on a global scale, this is a debatable statement, at least The Bears offer here much more than just empty words in its defense. Thumbs up. 

Blur: Modern Life Is Rubbish

BLUR: MODERN LIFE IS RUBBISH (1993)

1) For Tomorrow; 2) Advert; 3) Colin Zeal; 4) Pressure On Julian; 5) Star Shaped; 6) Blue Jeans; 7) Chemical World; 8) Sunday Sunday; 9) Oily Water; 10) Miss America; 11) Villa Rosie; 12) Coping; 13) Turn It Up; 14) Resigned; 15*) Young And Lovely; 16*) Popscene.

"He's a twentieth century boy / With his hands on the rails / Trying not to be sick again / And holding on for tomorrow". Compare this with Ray Davies' "I'm a twentieth century man, but I don't want to be here", and this makes it obvious what the big difference is between the Kinks and Blur — Ray Davies, sick of today, stares back into the past, whereas Damon Albarn, perhaps equally sick, is still determined to peek ahead into the future. Without this difference, Blur would never have become superstars in the 1990s: «anglophiles» they may be all right, yet their love-and-hate story with England is that of today and tomorrow, not today and yesterday.

Modern Life Is Rubbish came to be seen as the «true beginning» of Blur and one of the first proper «Britpop» records, although I sure as heck wish they'd at least called it «neo-Britpop» or something, because what are we going to do with the Kinks and the Small Faces otherwise? As far as the term itself is concerned, the key change would be seen as lyrical: Albarn borrows the patented Ray Davies trademark of writing small character portraits and impressions of everyday life in contemporary Great Britain, «localizing» his visions of boy-girl and protagonist-environ­ment relationships and, paradoxically, making it easier to empathize for anyone, British or non-British. But there are changes in the music, too, since the album only preserves a few scattered traces of the Madchester / baggy / shoegazing style of Leisure — as a rule, though, the band re­turns to a much more conventional pop-rock sound: traditional structures with improved produc­tion, so that the music can now appeal to their contemporaries and their parents alike.

The decision to «go quintessentially British» was brilliant: suddenly it became obvious that Blur had both the songwriting talent and a way to use it for some meaningful purpose. This is what makes ʽFor Tomorrowʼ one of the greatest songs of the decade — the combination of an unfor­gettable melodic hook, a certain nonchalant British cool, and a message with which so many people could identify: "...says modern life is rubbish, I'm holding on for tomorrow". Rummaging around in my mind right now, I cannot come up with any immediate examples of songs that would strike such a fine balance between present-day disillusionment and latter-day optimism. And that la-la-la chorus — simplistic as hell, but so invigorating, doesn't it actually make you want to get off your ass and go do something?

The only problem of Modern Life is that, at this stage, Blur are only beginning to get into that image, and they wouldn't really start to feel completely at home with it until the next album. To put it bluntly, Modern Life is just too damn long: even without any bonus tracks, it runs close to an hour, when records like these should not ever run over 45 minutes. I am almost certain that even some major fans might feel the same way — the difference being in what to cut out to re­duce the factor of occasional boredom. Personally, I would suggest ripping out the three-song streak of ʽOily Waterʼ, ʽMiss Americaʼ, and ʽVilla Rosieʼ if we had to go that way — but perhaps even better still would be to simply reduce some of the songs' running lengths. (One trace of their shoegaze legacy is that they still preserve these lengthy, tedious, «atmospheric» instrumental passages — ʽOily Waterʼ and ʽResignedʼ are the major culprits).

Once you have mentally condensed the record into less of a sprawl and more of a focused, eco­nomically painted landscape, the result commands total respect. The loud rockers with distorted guitars carry vicious fun — ʽAdvertʼ with its snappy "say something, say something else!" chorus (be sure to match the context and listen to it on headphones in the middle of an underground station, with a bunch of idiotic adverts staring you in the face from the other end of the platform); ʽChemical Worldʼ, its ironically swirling harsh riff, and anthemic chorus about "putting the holes in" that you gleefully sing along without the least understarding of what it is supposed to mean; ʽCopingʼ commits a little copyright crime by stealing the major hook from Argent's ʽHold Your Head Upʼ, but does that in good spirit — the hook was rather stern and gloomy for Argent's posi­tive message, and here Blur are using that riff for their psychotic purposes rather than cheer you up, so it's okay. Besides, who in 1993 remembered anything about Argent anyway?

Elsewhere, they go for direct imitations of the old Kinks/Small Faces style — ʽSunday Sundayʼ is essentially Ray Davies with crunchier guitars (but the same brass section), and the tender balla­dee­ring style of ʽBlue Jeansʼ, while melodically different from the usual Kinks patterns, still seems to hearken back to Ray's «child-like» musings. But just because Albarn and Coxon are both naturals, these songs never turn into copycat exercises: it's not as if Coxon spent hours and hours trying to decode the style of Dave Davies, and it's not as if Albarn mutated his voice to shift from his own natural pitch to Ray's much higher one. Maybe Ray Davies could have written the lyrics to ʽColin Zealʼ, which, after all, simply expands on the subject of ʽA Well Respected Manʼ (I am not so sure about the line "He's a modern retard, he's terminal lard", though), but he would have been more condescending and maybe even merciful to his assassinated charac­ter than these young whippersnappers. Fresh blood, you know.

Some of the expanded editions of the album add ʽPopsceneʼ as a bonus track — the band's single from March 1992 that basically announced the arrival of the «new Blur», but flopped and only came to be seen as historically significant in retrospect. I must say, though, that I have never understood what was the big deal with that song, other than it being fast and furious and a little teasing, but the chorus ("hey, hey, come out tonight, popscene, all right") is just plain stupid. In fact, I'd say there is nothing like that song on the album proper (even its tight rockers like ʽAd­vertʼ and ʽCopingʼ make more sense), and all the better for it, so there.

Ultimately, the record certainly deserves a thumbs up, but they are still educating themselves, and there is too much of an inspirational gap between ʽFor Tomorrowʼ and the rest of these songs to make it feel as smoothly accomplished as some of its follow-ups. A «stylistic leap», yes, but not nearly as much a «quantum leap in quality» in between the underrated Leisure and Modern Life Is Rubbish as people often make it out to be, I'd say. Still, the title alone is priceless, isn't it? Such a great discovery for all ages, and yet, seemingly, only been used once so far. I guess if the year 1993 had a legal representative, it'd probably sue Blur for libel.