Brenda Lee: This Is... Brenda

BRENDA LEE: THIS IS... BRENDA (1960)

1) When My Dreamboat Comes Home; 2) I Want To Be Wanted; 3) Just A Little; 4) Pretend; 5) Love And Learn; 6) Teach Me Tonight; 7) Hallelujah I Love Him So; 8) Walkin' To New Orleans; 9) Blueberry Hill; 10) We Three (My Echo, My Shadow, And Me); 11) Build A Big Fence; 12) If I Didn't Care.

Brenda's second LP from 1960 was already a much tighter affair: recorded in about six months' time (as opposed to two years), although still in six separate sessions, showcasing the obsessive perfectionism of her Nashville team. In keeping up with the times — and the times were signifi­cantly influenced by whatever Elvis was doing ever since his return from the army — the record moves farther away from the rockabilly spirit: this time, nearly half of the songs are ballads, and the rest drift between soft, careful, politely danceable Brill Building pop and Southern rhythm and blues. There is still a thin rebellious streak running through the record, but it gets harder to discern it behind the layers of conventionalism, particularly in the songwriting.

The album's big hit, in fact, one of Brenda's biggest, was ʽI Want To Be Wantedʼ, an English translation of an Italian pop song — but, fair enough, Brenda did manage to almost completely strip the tune of its theatrical Italian flavor and imbue it with some Nashville tough-girl stuffing instead: where its Italian versions (Tony Dallara, etc.) were troubadourish (wimpy, that is), the new English words ("I wanna be wanted right now, not tomorrow, but right now!") are sung by Brenda with such power that it's pretty easy to see how the song was destined for red-hot number-oneness in an era of sexual build-up — you could almost see the Beatles as a response to this desperate plea for release. The song itself is a trifle, but the interpretation is pure gold.

There is more to that story: the choice of cover tunes also includes ʽTeach Me Tonightʼ (again, sung with such determination that one wonders who'd be teaching whom), and Betty Chotas' ʽJust A Littleʼ with a decidedly hooliganish drawl in the chorus. I am not implying that the whole album goes like that, or even that these particular songs have a notably stronger erotic effect than so much competition at the time — but I am implying that some of this stuff must have sounded fairly risqué for a 16-year old (even if the exact age still remains undetectable on the record), and that thinking of This Is... Brenda in these terms adds some much-needed thrill.

Particularly since she is still too young to bring in any sophisticated nuance: the purely romantic ballads, such as ʽPretendʼ and ʽIf I Didn't Careʼ, suffer from too much formula, and when it comes to covers of well-known songs, there is not much she is able to add to the legacy of ʽBlue­berry Hillʼ (the speeding up and the playful hiccup are not much help), or to Ray Charles' ʽHalle­lujah I Love Her Soʼ (except to change the «her» to «him»). They're fun (good songs that are very hard to spoil in the first place), but never essential.

Musically, we are offered the same expert Nashville backing here as usual, with more strings and less guitar work than I'd like to hear and only one truly inventive, «muffled» sax solo from Boots Randolph on the ʽLove & Learnʼ shuffle. Still, this is all generally within the pop-rock formula of the time, with tight limits set on sentimentality quotas — it is only the lack of one or two outstan­ding displays of fast-paced joyful aggressiveness, like ʽDynamiteʼ, that are indicative of the curve having narrowly passed its peak; and even without a ʽDynamiteʼ to its name, This Is... Brenda is one of the girl's best and naturally deserves a thumbs up.

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Architecture In Helsinki: In Case We Die

ARCHITECTURE IN HELSINKI: IN CASE WE DIE (2005)

1) Neverevereverdid; 2) It'5!; 3) Tiny Paintings; 4) Wishbone; 5) Maybe You Can Owe Me; 6) Do The Whirlwind; 7) In Case We Die; 8) The Cemetery; 9) Frenchy, I'm Faking; 10) Need To Shout; 11) Rendezvous: Potrero Hill; 12) What's In Store?

Maybe they did not follow the optimal strategy (as in, «hire a responsible songwriter»), but there has been a strategic change all the same, and a good one: push up the energy level. The creative, joyful, intelligent kids of Fingers Crossed, sitting in their living-rooms and making psychedelic paintings on wallpaper, are now running out into the yards, so that they can take part in active games and dispel the «lonesome nerd» tag that one could very easily have attached to them just two years ago. In other words — In Case We Die, we are going to leave behind a pretty lively trace of our former existence.

All the basic ingredients remain the same: Architecture In Helsinki are still an eight-piece band, with brass and string instruments mattering as much as, if not more than, acoustic and electric guitars, friendly electronics, and the male / female contrast between core members (Cameron Bird and Kellie Sutherland). Just like before, they are unwilling to learn to seriously play those instru­ments, although they do try to attack the songwriting task with a little more responsibility; just like before, they seem to regard their mission as that of building a powerful kaleidoscope of color­ful sounds, preferring to quickly abandon any idea before it actually starts working, rather than stick around it for too much time. Fairies dancing at the bottom of the garden, right?

Even the bell chime that opens the album is soft and kiddish — nothing like the deep, chilly toll of Lennon's ʽMotherʼ or AC/DC's ʽHells Bellsʼ — and what it sets out to announce is a small, cutesy «twee-symphony» (ʽNeverevereverdidʼ), spreading its three parts (rhythmless atmospheric intro; slow, slightly dissonant, march; fast, exuberant kiddie song) over five minutes and stating all the important points in the process. The build-up, climax, and release are quite thoughtfully controlled, and if I had been more in love with the essential ideology of the band, ʽNeverever­everdidʼ would probably be the perfect AiH composition for me. «Yes for toddlers», perhaps. The major problem is that a real toddler would be unlikely to appreciate this twee-symphony, and it is not clear whether it truly deserves to wake the internal toddler lurking inside the grown-up lis­tener, because all of this supposedly innocent, free-flowing joy emanating from the song still feels a little forced and artificial.

ʽIt'5!ʼ (sic), compressing its point to two rather than five minutes, is also a perfect encapsulation of the band's pseudo-message. Minimalistic, very loosely joined at all of its harmonic hips, with lyrics that make neither literal nor coherent figurative sense, and a vocal hook that transforms indie mumble into cheerleader scream — it will either lure you in with its absurdist naïveness and baby innocence, or deeply offend you by not making artistic sense. On the other hand, there is no use getting offended at a bunch of silly prancing on the lawn, particularly since there is nothing to suggest that the band regards its art as something more deep and meaningful than that.

What really does sadden me is that, with such a vast amount of different people, instruments, and musical ideas at their disposal, the mood and emotional impact are so similar on just about every track — so much so that commenting on individual tracks seems essentially useless, even if this does happen to be the band's best album. Admittedly, ʽDo The Whirlwindʼ has a gruffer keyboard tone than usual, and is almost on the verge of becoming a gutsy «electrofunk» number (I detect a little bit of Prince influence here), but even that gets scrambled midway through, as the vocals shift from stern to sissy, and chimes and cellos chase the dance beat away. Everything else stays firmly within the confines of the exact same fairyland playground. («Playful pop majesty» was the expression used by the All-Music Guide reviewer, which I heartily disagree with — playful, definitely, pop, most likely, but there is about as much «majesty» in this album as there usually may be perceived in a typical infant).

Still, by speeding up the tempos (ʽThe Cemeteryʼ), introducing a wee bit more screechy / croaky electric riffs (ʽFrenchy, I'm Fakingʼ), and stirring up inevitable memories of SMiLE (to which this album relates like a clumsy, inexperienced, but admiring and aspiring younger brother), In Case We Die manages to wrench out a thumbs up — want it or not, it has its own face, and that face is curious to look upon, even if it is so hard to decide whether you like it or not, or whether it is a natural face or the result of one too many plastic surgeries. Perhaps if Frank Zappa wanted to deconstruct Mother Goose, the end product would look something like that — then again, know­ing Frank, it probably wouldn't: In Case We Die is much too safe, too clean, too sterile for the likes of real naughty music revolutionaries.

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Barenaked Ladies: All In Good Time

BARENAKED LADIES: ALL IN GOOD TIME (2010)

1) You Run Away; 2) Summertime; 3) Another Heartbreak; 4) Four Seconds; 5) On The Lookout; 6) Ordinary; 7) I Have Learned; 8) Every Subway Car; 9) Jerome; 10) How Long; 11) Golden Boy; 12) I Saw It; 13) The Love We're In; 14) Watching The Northern Lights.

Did the departure of Steven Page make any difference? Frankly speaking, Page and Robertson seem to have always been very much alike in form and spirit — nothing like a John/Paul or a Mick/Keith dichotomy here, which was really a weakness for The Ladies: you had to be a serious fan to understand the difference in seasoning that each of the two brought to the table. If any­thing, it was Kevin Hearn who used to be responsible for a differently colored streak, that of instantly likeable innocent sentimentality, and he was the one that didn't quit.

In short, the loss of Page could be expected to bring about a slight drop in quality control, at worst. Instead, it brought about the worst that could ever have happened — «MATURITY», as some of the critics called it, almost happy to notice that, finally, the Barenaked Ladies have shed off their goofy, oddball image, stopped pranking around like overgrown kids, and started writing and recording really serious, responsible, intelligent material that would probably help their fan­base mature and become serious and responsible as well.

Unfortunately, critics tend to have short memories — and it's hard to blame them, given the ever-growing waves of new artistic material engulfing them every day — so their basis for comparison must have been (a) the latest of the Ladies' oeuvres, which was Snacktime!; (b) ʽOne Weekʼ; and (c) maybe some of the earliest goof-off songs like ʽBe My Yoko Onoʼ, because the first cut is the deepest and suchlike. What they did not remember, as it seems, is that the Ladies' first concentra­ted attempt at achieving serious maturity was already on their very second album, and that, since then, the general tendency was rather predictable: the more serious they got, the more tedious and generic their records tended to sound (Born On A Pirate Ship? Barenaked Ladies Are Me?) — the more they indulged in their prankish side, the more smart and sympathetic they managed to come out (Stunt / Maroon, Barenaked Ladies Are Men).

My confession is as follows: as I reached the middle of ʽYou Run Awayʼ, I was almost ready to cry — not because the song was so emotionally moving, but because it was already more or less obvious how miserable my next fifty minutes would become. The song is not particularly awful or anti-melodic or anything: it simply bears the thickest, densest stamp of «generic indie» to ever come from these guys. It sounds like a perfect soundtrack element to a Nora Ephron movie — echoey, soul-probing pianos, confessional, slightly trembling vocals, gradual build-up towards a rock guitar explosion, the works. It is something that would be completely natural for a prover­bially mediocre outfit like the Dave Matthews Band. It is something I have no interest whatsoever in hearing from The Barenaked Ladies, and do not, for the life of me, understand why should anybody else. And this is only just the beginning.

In Robertson's defense, I must say that the heavy riff-rockers on the album do not usually produce the same feeling of hollowness and fakeness. ʽSummertimeʼ starts out unimpressively, but gets better as the power-pop elements start coming through; the pissed-off rant ʽI Have Learnedʼ is acceptable alt-rock, stuck somewhere in between Pearl Jam and Alanis Morissette in spirit, but with classier production (and in the Ladies' case, «classier» always means «closer in form to the band's garage / glam sources of inspiration»). The fake-o-meter usually starts convulsing on the balladeering front — ʽOrdinaryʼ, ʽThe Love We're Inʼ, all that stuff. But this does not mean that the heavy riff-rockers will want to continue to keep you company once the album is over — the riffs themselves don't have anything particularly unusual or stunning about them.

In disasters like these, you can usually count on Kevin Hearn to come in with something idiosyn­cratic, but not this time. ʽAnother Heartbreakʼ has a pretty vocal part (I continue to insist that Kevin has always been the most expressive vocalist of the bunch), but the song quickly descends into clichéd distorted indie-rock. ʽJeromeʼ is a somewhat visionary landscape, a melancholy tri­bute to the departed Old West that somehow ends up cluttered with too much percussion. And ʽWatching The Northern Lightsʼ is an atmospheric conclusion to the album that matches its title rather well — the repetitive, reverb-delay-filled arrangement and trance-inducing vocals really create the impression of lying on one's back and watching them Northern Lights. But, once again, this sort of lazy ambience is simply not what one expects from this kind of band. They will not be stealing any bread off of Enya's plate, anyway, so why bother?

In the middle of all this, there is exactly 1 (one) «goof-off» number on the entire record: ʽFour Secondsʼ is an absurdist vaudeville number that sounds like Tom Waits adapted for toddlers (an outtake from Snacktime!, perhaps?). Its uniqueness works well in terms of memorability, but it can hardly hope to turn the tide, surrounded by all that run-of-the-mill alt-rock stuff — in fact, it only makes matters worse, reminding of the true call of the Ladies. That true call is to play the smart, sarcastic, snappy fool, not to try and turn into a «guitar rock band with soul», a market niche where competition is hot and the Ladies are not welcome at all. Thumbs down.

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Bathory: Octagon

BATHORY: OCTAGON (1995)

1) Immaculate Pinetreeroad #930; 2) Born To Die; 3) Psychopath; 4) Sociopath; 5) Grey; 6) Century; 7) 33 Some­thing; 8) War Supply; 9) Schizianity; 10) Judgement Of Posterity; 11) Deuce.

This is where we hit total rock bottom: think Requiem, but without all the good riffs. Keeping the tempos, Quorthon completely jettisons any attempts at decent songwriting — most of this stuff is headed straight for the moshing pit and nowhere else. Perhaps the idea was that Requiem did not manage to be nearly as extreme as Quorthon envisaged it, so he gave us something even more blunt, minimalistic, and «parodic» in the bad sense of the word.

If it can be any consolation, the vocals are cleaner this time, closer in execution and effect to classic early Bathory than the «gargling-one's-own-vomit» approach of Requiem. On the other hand, the lyrics have deteriorated beyond repair: ʽ33 Somethingʼ is Quorthon's «tribute» to the execution of serial killer John Wayne Gacy, about which he must have read in the papers circa 1994, and if the «song» is supposed to make one experience disgust towards the killer, it fails — by offering neither a hint at melody nor a glimpse of truly scary imagery. "Blooded hole, twisted soul, eat my shit, suck my dick", goes the refrain. Okay then.

One does not have to go much farther than the song titles — ʽPsychopathʼ, ʽSociopathʼ (back to back!), ʽSchizianityʼ — to understand what it is all about: a dumb experiment in going to sonic and verbal extremes, perhaps (who knows?) consciously aimed at offending and alienating Quor­thon's heavily expanded fanbase. In the process, lines are completely blurred between heavy me­tal and hardcore (much of this record could have very easily come from the hands of, say, Agno­stic Front), but not in a triumphant synthesis of the genres, rather in a catastrophic meltdown of both. A few of the songs slow down the tempos (ʽCenturyʼ, ʽSchizianityʼ), but then they end up sounding like derivative and cumbersome attempts to revive the old New Wave of British heavy metal — not as utterly dumb, perhaps, but just as forgettable.

Biggest surprise, and most decent entry on the album, is a cover of ʽDeuceʼ — yes, the KISS song, possibly thought of as another ironic slap in the face to the fans: Bathory's evil / brutal sound used to be as far removed from the glam-rock theater of KISS as possible, yet here is Quorthon coming out of the closet, confessing his loyalty not only to the old-school thrash masters (which could be understood), but to the make-up wearing poseurs as well. As an expectation-breaker, the gesture could actually be adorable — if not for the fact that the cover is all too faithful, yet all too per­functory, carrying over neither the caveman cockiness of Gene Simmons, nor the garage crude­ness of early KISS guitars (for that matter, cold as I usually am towards KISS, ʽDeuceʼ is one of their greatest songs, and nobody has ever played it quite like those guys).

In short, another failure — experimental failure, to be precise, not a corny «sell-out» or anything, just firm final proof that not everything Quorthon tried to do turned to gold. Black metal, yes; Viking metal, for sure; but troglodytish thrashing — no. (I almost caught myself trying to type in something like "the guy was just too intelligent to properly get this style", but then realized I have way too little knowledge about Quorthon's degree of intelligence to make this into even a purely hypo­thetical statement). Thumbs down, and it would be easy to pretend that this album never actually happened — after all, «failed experiments» do not have to be considered as a natural part of the artist's general curve.  

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Barclay James Harvest: Ring Of Changes

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: RING OF CHANGES (1983)

1) Fifties' Child; 2) Looking From The Outside; 3) Teenage Heart; 4) High Wire; 5) Midnight Drug; 6) Waiting For The Right Time; 7) Just A Day Away; 8) Paraiso Dos Cavalos; 9) Ring Of Changes.

There is practically nothing that could be called «synth-pop» on this album, but neither is there anything that would even remotely qualify for a «rock» sound. Acoustic guitars, keyboards, and orchestration fully dominate the proceedings: Ring Of Changes is Barclay's mellowest album since the very beginning, and that says a lot, considering how mellow they had been since 1974. In a way, this is even curious, because the record goes against the grain: in 1983, «mellow» usu­ally meant stuffing your songs with bland synthesizer tones that reached all the way to heaven, not placing your trust in old-fashioned cellos and violins.

Much of the credit for this must proba­bly go to the band's new producer, Pip Williams, who was previously mostly known for produ­cing a long bunch of Status Quo records — but who also helped relaunch the comeback of The Moody Blues. And, supposedly, once he had helped the «rich man's Moody Blues» get back on their creative feet with Long Distance Voyager and The Present (the only two of their Eighties' records that could at least partially match the quality of the old days), it must have been only natural for him to go across and try and do the same thing with the «poor man's Moody Blues».

The beginning is weirdly promising: a baroque chamber music passage instead of the expected synthesizers. Midway through, the strings turn Hollywoodish, though, and then sink into the background as ʽFifties' Childʼ finally takes shape as a typical BJH number: soft, romantic, thinly intellectual, mildly nostalgic, just a teeny bit touching while it's on, and completely forgettable when it's off. The vocal melody in some respects seems like a variation on the already not-too-awesome ʽHymnʼ — and the message is of comparable profundity: ʽLove was a lesson we tried to learn / There were no exams to pass or failʼ. With each passing year, as nostalgic tributes to Sixties' idealism keep multiplying and, consequently, depreciating in net value, there is less and less motivation to be interested in this one.

But you know what? Easily the best thing about ʽFifties' Childʼ is its bassline — all of a sudden, Holroyd's lines start drawing more attention to themselves than whatever Lees is doing, because the guy suddenly gets the urge to make them as melodic and expressive as possible. Maybe he had some serious Sgt. Pepper inhalation or something, but the way he explores all possible swerves from the basic rhythm is really the only thing that prevents me from falling asleep to Lees' soft preaching. And later on, it turns out that this is not an exception: about half of the songs here have excellent basswork: ʽHigh Wireʼ, ʽJust A Day Awayʼ, ʽMidnight Drugʼ... we probably have Pip Williams to thank for putting these parts so high in the mix, but, whatever be the situa­tion, Ring Of Changes is the first album in the BJH catalog that made me aware of Holroyd's above-average talents as bass player.

Holroyd is also responsible for the most memorable, if also most repetitive and unadventurous, bass phrase on the album — the pulsating loop that drives the title track, which is itself an anthem to the endless cycle of life, going on for way too long (unless the underlying message is that the endless cycle of life is a continuous bore, which would be at least worth considering) but cleverly arranged, with the bass loop, the grumbling electronic bleeps, and the strange Eastern-vibe strings combining in a unique manner. The bass loop and the bleeps might illustrate the relentless cogs of life locked in an endless grind, but the psychedelic strings?.. Makes one wonder.

As for the rest of the songs, they're okay — on the whole, less satisfactory than Turn Of The Tide because of the lack of a rock sound (not a single uplifting Lees solo!), but, as usual, melodic and somewhat memorable for those who will stand several listens. Occasionally, they do begin to sound like late period Bee Gees (ʽWaiting For The Right Timeʼ — strange that Les held back on singing this one in falsetto, all the other adult contemporary ingredients already present), but on the whole, the 1970s folk-pop vibe is still prevalent, and as long as they manage to hold out against mainstream Eighties' values, BJH are still a listenable outfit.

One last particular mention: the orchestration on ʽParaiso Dos Cavalosʼ, John's hyper-sentimental ode to a horseback vacation in Portugal, is absolutely marvelous — formulaic and a little cheesy, perhaps, but the New World Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by David Katz, gives the song a far more uplifting and grandiose flavor than its main melody. Probably an accident — on the whole, the orchestral arrangements on the album are not too adventurous — but every happy ac­cident on a late period BJH album counts, because that's what a typical late period BJH album usually is: mush and mediocrity with an occasional tasty treat for the seeker.

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Blodwyn Pig: The Basement Tapes

BLODWYN PIG: THE BASEMENT TAPES (1998)

1) The Modern Alchemist; 2) Mr. Green's Blues; 3) It's Only Love; 4) See My Way; 5) Blues Of A Dunstable Truck Driving Man; 6) Baby Girl; 7) The Leaving Song; 8) I Know; 9) It's Only Love; 10) See My Way; 11) Blues Of A Dunstable Truck Driving Man; 12) Hound Dog; 13) Drive Me.

Blodwyn Pig belongs to that slightly irritating kind of bands whose official catalog of archival re­leases has managed to surpass in quantity (but definitely not in quality) the number of their ori­ginal LPs. This is probably due mainly to the activities of Mick Abrahams, or perhaps the band was blessed with a small, but energetic fan club — in any case, there is at least half a dozen CDs on various labels out there, collecting all sorts of outtakes, rarities, and live performance recor­dings, most of these in really bad quality. It would hardly make any sense to list them all, but a couple might be worth a brief mention.

First, there is this collection, somewhat arrogantly called The Basement Tapes even though not only does it not even begin to approach the relative importance of Bob Dylan & The Band's famed release — to the best of my understanding, it wasn't even recorded in any sort of basement, unless, of course, the BBC Studios put Blodwyn Pig on their special «basement list» reserved for second-rate artists. Basement or no basement, though, at the very least this is one of the cleanest-sounding archive releases for Blodwyn Pig, which is already reassuring.

The recordings are divided into three unequal parts. The first three tracks, with the original lineup, were made in 1969 for the Top Gear program. The next eight tracks date from the band's brief re­union in 1974 and thus happen to be the most historically important, since that lineup, which hap­pened to include former Jethro Tull drummer Clive Bunker instead of Ron Berg, left behind no original studio recordings — these eight tracks all come from John Peel's and Radio 1 Live In Concert BBC archives. Finally, as an odd postscriptum, two more tracks are tackled at the end that were recorded by Abrahams and his backing musicians as late as 1990 — prior to the recor­ding of Lies, but long after the world had forgotten that «Blodwyn Pig» used to be the name of a band and not some special Welsh recipé for pork roast.

The 1969 tracks do not deserve much special mention, other than to say that ʽMr. Green's Bluesʼ is a slightly revised version of ʽUp And Comingʼ, with a long spoken rant on John Peel occu­pying what used to be the wordless instrumental section. The rant is funny ("my friend John Peel is a vegetarian, he's got the greens, and that's why he got the blues, 'cause he's got the greens, he don't eat no meat y'all"), but not funny enough to make history: ʽThe Modern Alchemistʼ is far more impressive, but, unfortunately, not too different from the studio version.

The 1974 lineup is more interesting: in addition to two rather scorching versions of ʽSee My Wayʼ, they actually try out some new material, such as the nifty folk-blues acoustic number ʽBlues Of A Dunstable Truck Driving Manʼ, done by Mick in the Piedmont tradition; and the len­gthy jazz/blues/folk suite ʽI Knowʼ, conceived in the overall style of Getting To This, but less diverse and evocative than ʽSan Francisco Sketchesʼ. In any case, Mick's speedy 'n' greedy solo­ing on ʽSee My Wayʼ is arguably the most spark-sending part of these sessions.

Finally, the new tracks are — not exactly an embarrassment, but an incongruent oddity. They give the album a certain «then & now» flavor, but at the expense of common sense: why exactly is Mick covering ʽHound Dogʼ, and remaking it as a generic modern blues-rock exercise in the process? And why does the «original» ʽDrive Meʼ sound like somebody's semi-successful attempt to remake Aerosmith's ʽLast Childʼ, changing a few chords, but carrying over Brad Whitford's sleazy-echoey guitar tone?

Oh well: at the very least, The Basement Tapes has the crazy audacity to provoke these ques­tions, so it is probably not a complete loss. That said, I wish I could say that the record was re­commended strictly for diehard Blodwyn Pig fans, but it is hard for me to picture a real, life-size diehard Blodwyn Pig fan — although somebody must have probably bought the album when it came out originally, or maybe Mick just has a large, extended family. Anyway, it's not at all a bad listen, and the sound quality is as good as it usually gets with BBC standards.

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Bob Dylan: The Freewheelin'

BOB DYLAN: THE FREEWHEELIN' (1963)

1) Blowin' In The Wind; 2) Girl From The North Country; 3) Masters Of War; 4) Down The Highway; 5) Bob Dy­lan's Blues; 6) A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall; 7) Don't Think Twice, It's All Right; 8) Bob Dylan's Dream; 9) Oxford Town; 10) Talking World War III Blues; 11) Corrina, Corrina; 12) Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance; 13) I Shall Be Free.

Common knowledge has it that The Freewheelin', released in May 1963, singlehandedly trans­formed pop music into a serious occupation. The album was loyally recorded in a folk paradigm (with one exception, all the songs strictly respect the Holy Trinity of Bob's voice, Bob's acoustic guitar, and Bob's harmonica), but inspired legions of rockers all the same, including the Beatles, who immediately turned Dylan into an object of worship and began writing songs like ʽI'm A Loserʼ, expanding their active stock of English words and idiomatics.

Common knowledge does not lie — not in this particular case, at least, since the enormous influ­ence of The Freewheelin' on so many things that came after it is well-documented in numerous sources. However, common knowledge may also do the album a disservice. Once it came out, it was mainly the words that caught everybody's attention. The melodies were well played, but they were familiar — just about all of these songs were based on traditional patterns, which Dylan simply expropriated for his own needs: typical behavior for old-school blues and folk troubadours, perhaps, but not something that was expected of the emerging modern-day singer-songwriter. The vocals were... well, you know: «atypical», to say the least. The words — this was stuff that mat­tered. And it did not even matter so much what exactly these words were, but the very fact that, somehow, they seemed sharp, deep, and acutely relevant for 1963 made The Freewheelin' into this cult classic, and then, into one of the most respectable LPs ever released.

But you probably know all that. The real question is — how does the album hold up after all these years? Hundreds, thousands perhaps, of colorful rock poets have emerged since then, some of them shamefully derivative, some, on the other hand, proudly standing up to Bob's verbal talents. The historical importance, once so evident and overwhelming, has receded inside text­books and critical best-of-ever lists. The melodies have been bested, the phrasing has found its rivals, and, for what it's worth, one can always find these songs performed by more skillful voca­lists in improved arrangements — starting with Peter, Paul and Mary's ʽBlowin' In The Windʼ and ending with Elvis' ʽDon't Think Twice, It's All Rightʼ...

...and this is where we have to make a serious comment. In general, the world of those who know something about Dylan in the first place is divided in two sections: the «Dylan For Dylan» sec­tion prefers Bob's own original versions, whereas the «Dylan For Others» section prefers liste­ning to Bob's oeuvres done by those artists who embellish them with intricate arrangements and, most importantly, «clean vocals». Dylan or Joan Baez? Dylan or The Byrds? Dylan or Manfred Mann? Dylan or The Hollies? Dylan or The Band? Dylan or Hendrix? Dylan or Rod Stewart? Dylan or Joe Cocker?... and the list goes on. And considering that Dylan's «composing genius» is questionable, to say the least (more on that later), and also con­sidering that we do not really listen to pop music for the words, no matter how fascinating their combinations might be, this adoption of his songs by other artists basically means that the «Dylan For Others» party can get along very well by drop-kicking Dylan altogether.

The stark-raving «Dylan For Dylan» section has some problems, too: much too often, its mem­bers regard Dylan covers as watered-down, dumbed-down for mass consumption, «prettied up» and losing their essence as a result. This is true in that, once a Dylan song becomes a Dylan cover, it usually ceases to be a Dylan song — I have never heard a single Dylan cover (at least, not by a major artist) that would honestly try to preserve the exact spirit of the original. But instead of complaining, it is much more healthy and pleasing to admire how much additional potential there is in all these songs — and how smoothly they yield to musical reinterpretation, be it the epic hard rock thunderstorm of Hendrix's ʽAll Along The Watchtowerʼ or the smooth reggae wobble of Clapton's ʽKnockin' On Heaven's Doorʼ.

In other words, I not only refuse to join either party, but I would strongly admonish everyone else to merge the ranks as well, regardless of whether this means learning to enjoy and respect the simple, acces­sible pleasures of Dylan covers, or — something that is usually more difficult for people — learning to understand and soak in the uniqueness of Dylan originals. In which tasks we should all take our lessons from the musicians themselves. The Byrds loved ʽMr. Tambourine Manʼ so much that they covered it, and Dylan loved their version in return (although his famous comment of "wow, you can dance to it!" may, of course, be interpreted ironically — but then, back in 1965 everything that came out of Dylan's mouth had to have an ironic twist).

But let us get back to business. ʽBlowin' In The Windʼ and ʽA Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fallʼ, the two major anthems of Freewheelin', are somewhat similar in structure — based on the old folk «listing» principle, the former keeps asking one meaningless question after the other, while the latter keeps piling up one loose impression and reminiscence after the other. There is a striking contrast here — the amount of briefly skimmed themes and topics is staggering, yet the manner in which they are skimmed (feeble acoustic picking and mumbled vocals) is almost humiliatingly unassuming: Dylan's lack of a strong singing voice is turned to his utter advantage, as he sings about these issues the same way an old hobo could be begging for a drop of whiskey.

On the other hand, he does sing, and the serious singing tone, devoid of hiccups, gulps, and other ways of overstating his purpose, that he had previously only shown on ʽSong To Woodyʼ, is well represented on both of the anthems. And in all honesty, the more I listen to them, the more I am becoming convinced that it is a marvelous singing tone for these kinds of songs. At this stage in his career, Bob prefers to leave his «eccentric» vocal tricks for his lightweight material — the heavyweight stuff, on the other hand, is given over to his world-weary, prophetic persona, which is at the same time skeptical and idealistic: "the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind" sounds hopeful and reassuring for one moment, then bitter and disillusioned for the next one. That is one damn fine nuance that Peter, Paul and Mary were not able to transfer to their inter­pretation — nor, for that matter, was anybody else.

ʽDon't Think Twice, It's All Rightʼ is an early example of Dylan's misogynistic persona — and, since he still had rather small means of overcoming his shyness, probably the least irritating and the most motivated for those who can be bothered by such things. The message is offensive ("you just kinda wasted my precious time" is, come to think of it, a far meaner thing to say than to just call her a fuckin' bitch), but it is delivered in such soothing packaging — the hyper-tender style of acoustic plucking, the soft murmuring that culminates in a most nonchalant, blurry recital of the last chorus line, the overall almost lullaby-style atmosphere of it all — Dylan's evil magic at work: you end up emotionally sympathizing with the protagonist despite understanding precisely well that he's really a doggone bastard.

His theatrical nature does show up a little bit — especially in the way that he so carefully articulates the final "-d" in the incorrect verbal form ("...the light I never know-eD"). Sure, he just wants to emphasize the formal rhyme with "road", but the trick has the effect of aligning the guy with the low-class language fuddlers: «uneducated, but experi­enced through trouble and toil, and endowed with natural wisdom». How do you condemn a guy like that? You don't — you have no choice left but to empathize.

The other two well-known highlights of the «grim» part of the album have not become household staples, for understandable reasons — ʽGirl From The North Countryʼ would soon be over­shadowed by Simon & Garfunkel's ʽParsley, Sage...ʼ, since it is really a courteous, troubadourish song that lended itself better to Paul and Art's formally beautiful, elegiac arrangement; and ʽMas­ters Of Warʼ was just too brutal and straightforward in its onslaught (Dylan himself occasionally expressed surprise at his being able to explicitly wish for somebody's death in a song — not that he would ever change the lyrics in concert, I think).

Which should not detract from their virtues: ʽGirl From The North Countryʼ has all the tenderness of ʽDon't Think Twiceʼ without the sarcasm and woman-bashing — not that Bob's intonations convey the slightest superficial trace of sadness or longing for the girl, it is the song of somebody who has long since accepted and made peace with his lonesome fate. And ʽMasters Of Warʼ, although it openly steals Jean Ritchie's arrangement of the traditional ʽNottamun Townʼ (even­tually costing Bob $5,000 in cash), does that for a good reason — its dirge-like repetitive struc­ture is perfect for a solemn curse, no matter how crudely leftist that curse may be (not that the actual lyrics necessarily have to have a leftist interpretation — a war is always a war, and the song does good by not naming specific names, preserving its relevancy).

A curious fact, rarely commented upon by reviewers, is that The Freewheelin' gradually lightens up as its unusually bulky fifty minutes roll by: starting off with the solemn and the serious, after ʽBob Dylan's Dreamʼ it takes a sharp turn into the lightweight and comical — the last five num­bers are a downright playful sequence, and the idea to put them all together was right there from the start, even before censorship forced Bob to drop some of the politically loaded songs (like ʽTalkin' John Birch Bluesʼ) and replace them with something less «actual». Of course, ʽOxford Townʼ is really about racism, and ʽTalking World War III Bluesʼ is quite apocalyptic in its basic dream message, but the former is still shaped as a humorous folk song, and the latter is a talking blues, where humor is an essential component. And the whole sequence ends with ʽI Shall Be Freeʼ, which already contains no social undercurrent whatsoever (well, almost: that verse about President Kennedy and what we need to make the country grow has always seemed to me as one of the smartest observations on 1960s society in general).

This gradual transition from the solemn to the sacrilegious is really the main thing that makes The Freewheelin' matter as an album — otherwise, it would simply be an early acoustic hit col­lec­tion. Not being too diverse in its melodies and certainly not being diverse in its arrangements (it is almost too easy to overlook the fact that ʽCorrine, Corrinaʼ was recorded with a full backing band, what with its overall quiet sound agreeing so smoothly with the rest of the album), The Freewheelin' has more emotional diversity in its overall 50-minute palette than Woody Guthrie (no offense meant) had in his entire career. Dylan the prophet, Dylan the accuser, Dylan the hardened loner, Dylan the visionary, Dylan the bluesman — and, at the same time, Dylan the social satirist, Dylan the snappy joker, Dylan the musical-slapstick clown. Too bad Dylan the surf-rocker and Dylan the smooth teen idol missed the boat, but there is a physical limit, I guess, on different types of personalities one can handle at the same time.

The album cover deserves a special mention, too — the photographer did a marvelous job of capturing Bob in a downright awkward pose, where he looks like an authentically autistic dude, used to spend most of his life in dark corners, whom his girlfriend just finally happened to drag out in the street to take a brief walk, clinging on to him so tightly not so much out of general pas­sion, but more out of fear that he'd run away at the first occasion (which he eventually did a year later, breaking up with the unfortunate Suze Rotolo out of general immaturity of character). On subsequent covers, he would usually stare at you with either contempt, condescension, or, at best, curiosity (at the general stupidity and backwardness of the human race, no doubt) — on The Freewheelin', he is much too shy to look you in the eye at all.

This shyness permeates the entire LP, as Bob never engages his listeners in bloody fights (even the vicious punch of ʽMasters Of Warʼ is directed somewhere in the open air, unless you are in a position to take it personally). There is, consequently, a thick demarcation line that separates The Freewheelin' from everything that came after it — the «certified genius» and «generation spokes­man» tags that were slapped on to Bob in the wake of the enormous success of the album had an irreversible effect on his persona, and so Freewheelin' remains the only fully original Dylan album to not bear the traces of this pressure. In a way, this is the only «pure» Dylan album out there, written and recorded by a shy, but talented little kid from Hibbing, Minnesota. Later on, the shy little kid was crowned king — and has behaved like a king ever since then. Young king, old king, active king, lazy king, acting king, king in (temporary) exile, whatever: he would al­ways be up there and you would always be down here, in some way. On The Freewheelin', he is not a king yet — he's out in the street with a girl on his arm. When would there be another time he'd allow himself to be photoed with a girl on his arm? Thumbs up for Suze Rotolo and her charming, if doomed, little smile.

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Brenda Lee: Brenda Lee

BRENDA LEE: BRENDA LEE (1960)

1) Dynamite; 2) Weep No More My Baby; 3) Jambalaya (On The Bayou); 4) (If I'm Dreaming) Just Let Me Dream; 5) Be My Love Again; 6) My Baby Likes Western Guys; 7) Sweet Nothin's; 8) I'm Sorry; 9) That's All You Gotta Do; 10) Heading Home; 11) Wee Wee Willies; 12) Let's Jump The Broomstick.

Unlike later albums, this self-titled release was actually recorded over several different sessions that took place between 1958 and 1960 — which is a good thing, since rock'n'roll was still a hot thing on the charts and in people's minds when the sessions began, and, consequently, Brenda Lee is the rockiest, liveliest set of songs in the lady's career. Hard as it is to believe for those who have some idea of a faint outline of Brenda's career, only one of these twelve songs is a sentimen­tal ballad — and it happens to be her signature tune at that. The rest is either rockabilly or dance-oriented country-western, with a little bit of twisting and New Orleans for extra diversity.

Several of the tracks had been earlier released as singles, and are presented here in remade ver­sions: ʽJambalayaʼ, for instance, which was Brenda's first nationwide success at the age of 11, is slightly sped up and nourished with some King Curtis-style sax, while ʽDynamiteʼ, the single that got her the famous nickname, is embellished with extra strings and backing vocals. Needless to say, the originals are a bit rougher and tougher, but these versions are still quite wholesome, and hold up well on their own: Brenda's pirate snarl on the "jambalaya, crawfish pie and filet gumbo" line used to literally send shivers down my spine, and still does — it probably does take a 13-year old to produce that kind of effect.

But it is really ʽDynamiteʼ that exemplifies early Brenda Lee — way down in history, way before there ever was a ʽBaby Hit Me One More Timeʼ, there was this little girl, much younger than Britney, who bellowed "If I might do all the things / I'd love to do tonight / Then I would love you dear / With all my might... I just explode like dynamite!" and you were almost ready to com­mit a capital crime by actually believing what she sang. Of course, the arrangement is very inno­cent, done in gentle Nashville style, and the kid-rock melody is vaudeville-turned-rockabilly, but the song is still a significant milestone — no other white girl, not even Wanda Jackson, who was Brenda's chief (and only?) competitor at the time, could afford to let herself that loose back in the late Fifties. And there is nothing in the song that would diminish its freshness and excitement today — this is not simply some sort of «American Idol» thing, it is a daring, bravura per­for­mance that could not have been the result of merely memorizing a set formula.

Unfortunately, ʽDynamiteʼ did not do as well on the charts as ʽI'm Sorryʼ, which first gained po­pularity as a B-side, then rose to #1 as an A-side, and eventually became the song to be forever associated with Brenda. It is a decent ballad that she honestly pushes towards greatness — where her earliest songs, for understandable reasons of age, valued adrenaline over depth and subtlety, this lost love confession prompted her to add dynamics and flexibility, and I guess it does mark the transition from child phenomenon to mature artist. But the fact that ʽI'm Sorryʼ became the first song to make her a household name also resulted in the inevitable — a tendency to drift far­ther and farther into syrupy ballad territory, and away from the rockabilly turf that gave her birth and nurtured her to this maturity.

But we are running ahead here, because, like I said, most of Brenda Lee is still deep in kick-ass territory, or, adjusting to the circumstances, in «pat-ass» territory. Most of the songs are contribu­ted by outside songwriters and are derivative to the core, but that does not matter as long as the source inspiration was fun in the first place, and it was: ʽLet's Jump The Broomstickʼ clearly owes a lot to Little Richard's ʽSlippin' And Slidin'ʼ, and it is nice to hear Brenda pay this kind of tribute, even if the cumulative effect is (predictably) a little less overwhelming. (The song was covered a decade later by Sandy Denny, who managed to make it bluesy and ominous instead of whirlygig-funny — a curious feat).

Other highlights include ʽMy Baby Likes Western Guysʼ, where the protagonist complains about her lover's Western TV show obsession impeding the lovemaking process (it is a funny song, be­lieve me, though not quite on the Coasters level); ʽSweet Nothin'sʼ, credited to Ronnie Self, the author of ʽI'm Sorryʼ, and giving Brenda the opportunity to sound a little foxy; and ʽThat's All You Gotta Doʼ, the former A-side of ʽI'm Sorryʼ, which is just a sweet fast pop-rocker — sort of Motown-lite that the early Beatles would have loved. As for lowlights... well, some of the tunes are less memorable than others — that is to be expected — but there is hardly a single song on here that wouldn't be fun at all, or would have Ms. Lee try and perform something way beyond her reach or understanding.

I would go as far as suggest that, for 1960, Brenda Lee constitutes an essential listen. Even if we want to believe that the teen phenomenon was completely «manufactured», there is nothing on the record itself to suggest that. The music is nowhere near groundbreaking, but it is consistently fun, and to have an underage female rocker shake your world in an age when most of the male «veteran» rockers were giving up their positions must have been awesome: yes, the arrangements are wimpy, but they are not completely smooth and sterile — and that voice is anything but wimpy. Thumbs up without further questions: for those who prefer to deal in original LPs rather than compilations, Brenda Lee is the real deal about this girl.

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Architecture In Helsinki: Fingers Crossed

ARCHITECTURE IN HELSINKI: FINGERS CROSSED (2003)

1) One Heavy February; 2) Souvenirs; 3) Imaginary Ordinary; 4) Scissor Paper Rock; 5) To And Fro; 6) Spring 2008; 7) The Owls Go; 8) Fumble; 9) Kindling; 10) It's Almost A Trap; 11) Like A Call; 12) Where You've Been Hiding; 13) City Calm Down; 14) Vanishing.

Can an Australian band that calls itself «Architecture In Helsinki» be any good? It probably can, but it better be real good, then, since it takes an awful lot of goodness to redeem the original sin of calling oneself «Architecture In Helsinki» when not only do you not live in Helsinki, but you live so far away from Helsinki, you might as well call yourself «Architecture In Eldorado» and get away with it on a much firmer basis. In other words, these guys are so ferociously «indie-indie» even before you hear them play a single note, they have to work double hard to earn our pardon, and triple hard to earn our admiration.

The good news is that they try, and the bad news is that they do not try hard enough — in fact, their major purpose seems, above all, to demonstrate their sworn allegiance to generic indie aes­thetics. There are five primary and three secondary members in the band, playing everything from guitars to electronics to woodwinds and brass to melodica to xylophone — and, of course, there is not a single professional, let alone virtuoso, musician anywhere in sight. Vocals are democrati­cally divided between boys and girls — and, of course, there is not a single unique vocal tone or style anywhere in sight, although everything sounds pleasant. The songs are short (we don't want to seem too pretentious), the lyrics are psychedelically introspective (we do want to seem magical and mysterious), and the arrangements are multi-layered (the more instruments we play at the same time, the less people will notice that we cannot play any of them).

Did this sound like I just described Arcade Fire? Well, not quite — Arcade Fire are not afraid of letting their songs run for more than three minutes, they do have relatively unique and easily re­cognizable vocal styles, and their lyrics actually make sense and show plenty of aching relevance. Most importantly, Arcade Fire are quite heavily grounded in reality, and these guys are twee-ori­ented, riding on rose-colored clouds until the pants are soaking wet. (To make matters worse, none of this cloud-riding has anything to do with architecture in Helsinki — much of which is conceptually following Saint-Petersburg, and could, with some reservations, be called «light», but not light enough to associate itself with this kind of music).

Nevertheless, Fingers Crossed does manage to give us an interesting, not entirely predictable kind of sound. The overall vibe is that of «little-angelish» innocence, due to all the xylophones, glockenspiels, high-pitched electronics, quasi-surf guitars, and pseudo-pre-pubescent vocals. This is not news in itself, but it is made into news by an unusually equal-rights approach to all the separate elements of the band's sound: retro-pop guitar, futuristic electronics, marching band brass combos, street-player style wind-up instruments, and folk-pop singing. With this particular brand of synthesis, Architecture In Helsinki have no problem carving themselves out their own identity — even if nobody needs it, you can't at least deny it's there somewhere.

Alas, in the end it all fails for one simple — and way too common — reason: not a single member of the eight-piece band happens to be an accomplished, or even simply talented songwriter. This is not avantagarde music: they do know how to put together strings of notes so that they end up with traditional rhythmics, harmony and melody. Throw in the rose-cloudy style of arrangement, and it's all nice and pretty and you sort of begin to feel bad about criticizing this kind of music — as if you were taking candy from a baby or something. But really and honestly, there is hardly a single song on here that has anything memorable about it. It's all atmosphere, from top to bottom, and on a record that presumably consists of two-and-a-half-minute long pop songs, «pure atmos­phere» is like a humiliating rape of your expectations.

The only time where the band did strike a sensitive nerve was on ʽThe Owls Goʼ, whose repeti­tive, childish chorus, sung in feather-light mode by Kellie Sutherland (the band's resident clarinet and God-knows-what-else player), accidentally embottles an ounce of genuine protective tender­ness (it also constitutes a terrific case of misheard lyrics for me — until I looked it up, the line "finding a replacement with a heart sedated" kept coming across as "finding a replacement for the House of David", which, I guarantee it, would give the whole song an entirely different, and far more profound, meaning). In contrast, the verses, sung by one of the band's lead vocalists (pro­bably Cameron Bird, the guitar player), are completely blank and colorless.

Every now and then, something will faintly register on the radar, like a much weaker, fluffier va­riant of Broadcast (ʽScissor Paper Rockʼ, where it is clearly seen how Sutherland can come across as a shallower copy of Trish Keenan), or a watered-down imitation, perhaps a subconscious one, of the kaleidoscopic electronics of Animal Collective (ʽImaginary Ordinaryʼ), or a Beirut-like use of the brass section to generate a meekly East European flair (ʽTo And Froʼ). Nothing in these attempts is offensive or even «pathetic», because it is all so innocent and generally unpretentious: when, at the very beginning of the album, the chorus asks us, "Have we missed an opportunity?" (ʽSouvenirsʼ), you probably wouldn't even want to upset the kids with a straightforwardly nega­tive answer. But — shh, don't tell anybody in the band, but this is exactly what it is about: a missed opportunity.

I know how it could have all worked: had the band refrained from trying to write original songs and, instead, devoted itself to covering superior material, recasting it in this pretty, cloud-a-licious, modestly innovative mold, Fingers Crossed might have passed for a charming and maybe even thought-stimulating curio. As it is, the album earned mixed reviews from the very beginning, and although the band did manage to achieve minor cult status among certain circles of twee-pop lovers, it seems quite just that they never made it to the big leagues.

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Barenaked Ladies: Snacktime!

BARENAKED LADIES: SNACKTIME! (2008)

1) 7 8 9; 2) The Ninjas; 3) Pollywog In A Bog; 4) Raisins; 5) Eraser; 6) I Can Sing; 7) Louis Loon; 8) Food Party; 9) The Canadian Snacktime Trilogy: 1. Snacktime; 10) The Canadian Snacktime Trilogy: 2. Popcorn; 11) The Canadian Snacktime Trilogy: 3. Vegetable Town; 12) Drawing; 13) Humungous Tree; 14) My Big Sister; 15) Allergies; 16) I Don't Like; 17) What A Wild Tune; 18) Bad Day; 19) Things; 20) Curious; 21) A Word For That; 22) Wishing; 23) Crazy ABC's; 24) Here Come The Geese.

«Children's albums» recorded by adult artists more often than not turn out to be fakes — a good excuse for the artist to engage in fluffy silliness while at the same time churning out a product that most children would be, well, too child-like to properly understand and enjoy. In this respect, the Barenaked Ladies are no exception: while I do know personally a small handful of children that would probably enjoy Snacktime! and maybe even get addicted to it, most would probably find half of the record too boring, and the other half too befuddling (not to mention that there are a bit too many references to the Ladies' own childhood — I mean, Grease 2? Come on!). Adult fans of the Ladies, on the other hand, may react to the record just the way a Beatles fan reacts to ʽAll Together Nowʼ, ʽHer Majestyʼ, and ʽWild Honey Pieʼ — with a mix of mild external condescension and subtle internal amusement / excitement.

The idea of making a record specially for the children came from Kevin Hearn, who is respon­sible not only for an unusually huge percentage of the songs, but also for the artwork in the com­panion book. Robertson was in on the idea, but Page was not — he is credited for only five out of twenty-four numbers, and has since admitted that he was simply «along for the ride»; supposedly, his alienation from the affair was one of the factors that influenced his subsequent departure. It is interesting that one of the most «serious» numbers on the record — ʽBad Dayʼ, an introspective acoustic ballad that would have easily fit on any of their «adult» albums — is credited exclusive­ly to Page. Apparently, that was his little act of sabotage for the concept.

That said, as an adult who can still channel certain childhood memories and feelings, I find my­self along for the ride, too. The quirky, goofy side of the Ladies is not just activated with this pro­ject — it is put in overdrive, almost as if everything that they were holding back ever since it was decided that they should be «serious artists», not a comic act, suddenly broke through the wall and exploded it, as in the finale of a Roger Waters show. The twenty-four tracks in question run slightly less than an hour, with ideas bounced off each other in momentary splashes, and almost everything works — hilarious lyrics, replete with puns, sarcastic jabs at popular culture, and oc­casional edutainment value, set to simple, but catchy kiddie pop melodies.

The base reference point here is «wordplay» — already the opening number, ʽ7 8 9ʼ, illustrates that well enough ("why seven ate nine, nobody knows"), but the peak is reached on one of the last numbers: ʽCrazy ABC'sʼ pokes Bernard Shaw-esque fun at the peculiarities of English spelling and, along the way, introduces the listener, young and old, to words like ʽbdelliumʼ, ʽfohnʼ, and ʽqatʼ, knowledge of which is essential for survival in the Barenaked Ladies' world. (ʽZʼ is, of course, for ʽZed Zed Topʼ, whose music is also briefly referenced in the tune).

Other topics involve ninjas ("they speak Japanese, they do whatever they please and sometimes they vacation in Ireland"), raisins ("raisins come from grapes, I come from apes" — nice subtle anti-creationism indoctrination for the kiddies out there), food (ʽThe Canadian Snacktime Tri­logyʼ has a host of musicians, including Geddy Lee and Gordon Lightfoot, and their children lis­ting their favorite snacks), pencils, allergies, curiosities, wishes, in short, pretty much every single topic that an adult would like his kid to be interested in when his kid is only interested in smart­phones and video games — predictably enough, these are the exact subjects that never crop up in Snacktime!, being way too vulgar to fit in the perspective of Hearn's and Robertson's creative fantasy, stuck somewhere midway in between Lewis Carroll and Alan Milne.

Musically, Snacktime! mostly sounds like a typical pop-oriented Ladies album — lively acoustic strum (ʽNinjasʼ), thick power-pop riffs (ʽWishingʼ), with occasional smidgeons of synth-pop (ʽDrawingʼ), music hall (ʽPollywog In A Bogʼ), and country-western (ʽI Can Singʼ): again, this diversity is more likely to appeal to grown-ups than kids, accustomed to the monotonousness of teen-pop, but then again, we're hardly talking here about competing with the likes of the Mouse­keteers — most likely, the only toddlers to be exposed to Snacktime! must have been the little child­ren of old-time Barenaked Ladies fans.

In any case, goofy and silly as these songs are, they are not altogether insightless, and definitely not uninventive: whatever be, I'd rather listen to this stuff, where Robertson and Hearn are com­pletely in their element, than to Barenaked Ladies Are Me, for instance. With so many ideas to test and produce, not everything here works (I am particularly disappointed by the sentimentally anthemic album closer: ʽHere Come The Geeseʼ is too plain and repetitive to qualify for a true «grand finale», as it was probably thought of), but if everything here worked, the album would have been a downright masterpiece. As it is, it is just a very friendly thumbs up type of album.

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Bathory: Requiem

BATHORY: REQUIEM (1994)

1) Requiem; 2) Crosstitution; 3) Necroticus; 4) War Machine; 5) Blood And Soil; 6) Pax Vobiscum; 7) Suffocate; 8) Distinguish To Kill; 9) Apocalypse.

This has got to be one of the most bizarre twists not just in Bathory history, but in the entire his­tory of heavy metal. Nobody could have expected that — all of a sudden, after one suitably tran­sitional, one fully established, and one somewhat stagnant, but still understandable stylistic fol­low-up, Quorthon completely jettisons the whole «Viking metal» angle, and puts out a bona fide thrash metal album, conforming to all the laws of the genre. Insane tempos, jackhammer riffs, growling vocals, complete disregard for variety, and a running length of 33 minutes.

Now, considering that this was Quorthon, after all, the guy that moved from speedy black-metal satanism to the sacred hammer of Thor in less than half a decade, something radical could have been predicted, but hardly this, an album that shows no traces whatsoever of anything that made Hammerheart so unique. And the really bad news is that there is nothing whatsoever that would make Requiem comparably unique. It has been reported that Quorthon's goal here was simply to pay a brief tribute to some of his early metal influences — to take a break from rolling the epic stone and do something just for the momentary fun of it. Perhaps so, but this neither explains why the trend continued on his next albums, nor makes the whole experience gain in intelligence.

Two things somewhat redeem this strange decision. One, the production continues to be miles ahead of Bathory's early stuff, and Quorthon's guitars produce meticulously differentiated strings of metallic notes rather than the thick black goo of the first three albums. Second, strange as it is, many of the thrash riffs that he knocks together for these songs are fun — slow them down a bit, paint them less black, and you can get a pretty memorable hard rock album. With everything ta­ken at the same tempo (except for the mood-setting intros, which tend to be slow and sludgy), the riffs are very similar in structure and mood, but each single song does have its own riff, with slight variations, and after a couple listens you might even start appreciating the melodic com­ponent — at any rate, these songs are not ultra-quick knock-offs, because you would have to be a musical genius to knock 'em off in a couple of minutes, and Quorthon is hardly a musical genius, but he sure was a hard worker.

So it is not the riffs (which are quite fine for a generic thrash record), nor the solos (which, I do be­lieve, show further improvement in Quorthon's technique) that irritate. Irritating factors involve (a) the drumming: «Vvornth» was fine and dandy working with the slow epic stuff, but with the fast stuff, most of the time he is just too busy trying to stay on time so as to try something intere­s­ting — a regular bane with both thrash and hardcore, making the drumming patterns sound moro­nic instead of properly aggressive; (b) the singing: gone altogether are Quorthon's clean vocals, replaced by sore-throat growling that is not even banshee-style evil like on the early records, just sounds like a freshly excavated zombie from a zombie-trash style movie.

Lyrics-wise, Quorthon moves back to images of gore, violence, and Satanism, occasionally going to such extremes that, once the lyrics sheet is finally pulled out and examined, the parodic status of the album may no longer be doubted — I mean, "the altar covered in lifegiving cum / the smell of forever running wet cunts"? that's not even close to the style of the first three albums, more like Cannibal Corpse or something. But I seriously doubt that somebody will ever want to look at those lyrics with a magnifying glass — in general, my only wish is for this album to have been presented as completely instrumental, in which case we could simply take all these riffs home and stay safe, sound, and undamaged by the expelled shards of Quorthon's Miraculously Self-Regene­rating Larynx.

Thumbs up for the brave decision for a radical change — already the second one in Bathory's his­tory, propelling Quorthon's team to further levels of uniqueness — but much as I like some of these riffs, the experience as a whole is so ridiculous that the same gesture can hardly be applied to the music. Still, nowhere near as bad, mind you, as some of Bathory's disappointed fans, year­ning for another meeting with the Scandinavian pantheon, would have you believe.

Check "Requiem" (CD) on Amazon