Buddy Holly: The Buddy Holly Story, Vols. 1-2

THE BUDDY HOLLY STORY, VOLS. 1-2 (1959/1960)

Vol. I: 1) Raining In My Heart; 2) Early In The Morning; 3) Peggy Sue; 4) Maybe Baby; 5) Everyday; 6) Rave On; 7) That'll Be The Day; 8) Heartbeat; 9) Think It Over; 10) Oh Boy; 11) It's So Easy; 12) It Doesn't Matter Any­more.

Vol. II: 1) Peggy Sue Got Married; 2) Well... All Right; 3) What To Do; 4) That Makes It Tough; 5) Now We're One; 6) Take Your Time; 7) Crying, Waiting, Hoping; 8) True Love Ways; 9) Learning The Game; 10) Little Baby; 11) Moondreams; 12) That's What They Say.

As every respectable conspirologist is aware of, or should be aware of, if he is in need of respec­ta­bility, what happened on February 3, 1959, was that Roger Arthur Peterson, piloting the Beech­craft Bonanza N3794N, was discreetly bribed by one Paul McCartney, a suspicious (but hand­some)-looking British teenager seriously envious of the songwriting abilities and competing good looks of Buddy Holly, to crashland the Bonanza in some swamp, ravine, or cornfield, an opera­tion carried out successfully, although, to this very day, no one knows why the pilot never thought of his own survival, or where Paul McCartney got the money. But at least this is a more fun conspiracy to think of than blaming the FBI / CIA, as usual. (Those, of course, were too busy anyway setting Chuck Berry up with an underage waitress at the moment).

Whatever the circumstances, the bad news were that Buddy (along with Ritchie Valens of ʽLa Bambaʼ's fame and J. P. Richardson of ʽChantilly Laceʼ's fame) was, indeed, dead, and that we were therefore deprived of satisfying our curiosity as to where his talent would have led him in the golden decade of rock music. The partially consolatory news were that, prior to dying, he left behind an impressive stockpile of unfinished recordings — one that would keep the small market satisfied for years and years to come, even though most of the recordings had to be tampered with in order to acquire «commercially viable» form, and the tamperings were not always up to par (a rather unpleasant side of the music business here, with the same story to be repeated a decade later for the prematurely departed Jimi Hendrix).

The vaults were opened less than a month after the funeral, although the first installation was modest: The Buddy Holly Story consisted almost entirely of A- and B-sides released during the artist's lifetime, with only one exception (ʽIt Doesn't Matter Anymoreʼ / ʽRaining In My Heartʼ only came out at about the same time as the LP). Less than a year later, in response to the high chart performance of the album, Vol. 2 followed — an entirely different story altogether, consis­ting mainly out of «from-the-vaults» stuff, much of it coming from Buddy's last acoustic session on December 8, 1958, where he was laying down demos, armed with nothing but his voice and guitar. Naturally, it was deemed that the sound had to be brought up to standards, and... well, at least those results were significantly better than some of the sacrileges to follow.

Since the two LPs have this fundamental difference, it is a bit of a cheat to write about the first and second volumes in the same review, but, actually, an entire half of the songs on The Buddy Holly Story proper were already present on LPs released in Buddy's lifetime, and mentioned in earlier reviews, which would make a separate entry a little superfluous. Out of the other six, the cover of Bobby Darin's ʽEarly In The Morningʼ is fun, but not particularly interesting, being es­sentially a re-write-lite of Ray Charles' ʽI Got A Womanʼ; ʽThink It Overʼ is a bit of 12-bar blues redone in a pop format, cute, catchy, but achieving pop perfection only a little bit later, in 1961, when Ernie Maresca and Dion recast it as ʽThe Wandererʼ; and ʽHeartbeatʼ shows some Cuban influence in its melody, even though Buddy's vocals remain quite steadfast in «folk-pop» territory, making for a fun contrast.

The veritable masterpiece here is arguably ʽIt's So Easyʼ, which very much sets the standard for the «inventive upbeat guitar-based pop song» of the next decade: catchy (and multi-part) chorus, multi-part verse, highly melodic solo, and a certain vocal/guitar unity, working towards making the listener feel alright. Not to mention the Crickets' usual roughness-round-the-edges to put a dense checkmark in the «for rebellious teenagers» rather than «for respectable middle class audi­ences» square — those ragged guitar licks are definitely for kids, not their parents.

By the time of his final official sessions, however, Buddy was showing some disturbing signs of agreeing to «water down» his sound: not only was ʽIt Doesn't Matter Anymoreʼ written by Paul Anka (not particularly frightening, since the song is very much in the folk-pop idiom and could just as well be sung by, say, the Everly Brothers), but it also featured the orchestral overdubs of Dick Jacobs, while ʽRaining In My Heartʼ, with the same orchestration, was credited to the song­writing team of F. and B. Bryant, resident hitwriters for the same Everlys. Jacobs' arrangements are careful and moderately tasteful, with interesting and memorable parts written for the harp, but Buddy's vocals are too weak to properly handle the demands of either song — he does his best, yet he still has to strain and stretch on all the complicated bits — and it only goes to show that, songwriting being his greatest gift, he has very little business integrating his own persona into songs written by other people.

This is why Vol. 2, almost entirely consisting of Buddy originals (with the exception of Bobby Darin's rather inane ʽNow We're Oneʼ and Norman Petty's overtly sentimental ballad ʽMoon­dreamsʼ, exacerbated with a wannabe-Heifetz salon violin solo), is, in a way, more con­sistent than the hit-laden original, and perhaps even more indicative of those artistic roads that Buddy might have followed. Granted, ʽPeggy Sue Got Marriedʼ was a rather silly idea for a follow-up to ʽPeggy Sueʼ proper (although back in 1958-59, the habit of releasing an inferior «sequel» that had the same melody as the major hit was still an absolute commonality). But its follow-up on the re­cord is ʽWell... All Rightʼ, a song so ahead of its own time that it would sound perfectly in its right place a whole decade later when Blind Faith integrated it on their own self-titled album — a successful attempt on Buddy's part to add a «thoughtfully mature» component to the usual «teen­agers in love» subject. Not only is the melodic structure here highly unusual even for the folk-pop standards of the era, but there is also an attractive philosophical ring to the way Buddy mumbles "we'll live and love with all our might... our lifetime of love will be all right", indicating that "those foolish kids" might actually be far more ready than their own parents.

Another well-known highlight here is ʽCrying, Waiting, Hopingʼ, a song particularly famous for its clever overdubbing by the rest of the Crickets, who had to work with Buddy's demo and fill in the «echo» vocals for the title, one of the few «post-Buddy» creative decisions on his work that has become universally accepted even after the original demo had surfaced — probably because without the echo vocals the little ladder that Buddy has constructed in the place of the vocal me­lody seems to be naturally lacking several steps, which his co-workers are only too happy to be able to fill in. This particular tune the Beatles did not improve on, when they played it live on the BBC — maybe because they highlighted the wrong George on it (Harrison, whose vocal perfor­mance was quite flat compared to Buddy's, instead of Martin, who may have given them a few clues on how to gloss it up properly).

A deeper dig will, however, also uncover less familiar highlights — such as ʽLearning The Gameʼ, with its melancholy-meditative flair, ʽTake Your Timeʼ, with an inventive organ backing (probably posthumous as well), and ʽThat Makes It Toughʼ, with another strained vocal delivery, but curious in how it borrows the basic structure from generic country and tries to fuse it with the grandiose flair of anthemic pop balladry.

In between all of these, the two volumes of Story do an excellent job of showing just about all of the man's strong and weak points alike — where the man comes from, where he's been to, and where he would be a-headin' if fate had been kinder. Speculating on the issue is useless; there is no evidence that, out of all the early heroes of the rock'n'roll era, Buddy could have been the one to overcome the «Fifties' Curse», but it is also true that, of all his contemporaries, he showed the least interest in clinging to an established formula, experimenting with words, chords, and moods to the bitter end, and not letting success go to his head. Would that have helped him retain vitality and relevance in the British Invasion era? I guess only Paul McCartney can tell.

Beyoncé: Dangerously In Love

BEYONCE: DANGEROUSLY IN LOVE (2003)

1) Crazy In Love; 2) Naughty Girl; 3) Baby Boy; 4) Hip Hop Star; 5) Be With You; 6) Me, Myself And I; 7) Yes; 8) Signs; 9) Speechless; 10) That's How You Like It; 11) The Closer I Get To You; 12) Dangerously In Love 2; 13) Beyoncé Interlude; 14) Gift From Virgo; 15) Work It Out; 16) Bonnie & Clyde '03; 17) I Can't Take No More.

The key to investigating the music of R&B's biggest star of the 21st century (118 million solo albums sold, not counting Destiny's Child? don't you people have to eat sometimes?) is in trying to forget that this music was actually written /where not sampled/, pilfered /where sampled/, per­formed /where not programmed/, and digitalized /where programmed/ by a live human being. Un­less you are her father, mother, close relative, hairdresser, or Jay-Z, you should not think of «Be­yoncé», the sonic/visual package, as a live human being, and try to ignore any encountered at­tempts on her part to induce you into accepting her as such — any such attempt would be merely a ruse, hindering you from admiring the perfectionist gloss of the package.

Not being even close to an expert on modern R&B, not to mention hip-hop, not to mention their overtly mass-commercial varieties, I have relatively few points of reference, but as far as I can tell, there was nothing particularly groundbreaking or unpredictable about Dangerously In Love, an album that consciously took few chances, as its basic goal was to test the water and find out if it was warm enough for Beyoncé Knowles to be accepted as a major solo performer in her own right. After all, one member of Destiny's Child can only save up one third of the collective sex appeal of Destiny's Child — unless, of course, the fission process would convert a bit of lost mass into a shitload of nuclear energy. Which is what happened officially, as Dangerously In Love out­sold all three Destiny's Child albums put together, for what reason, one can only guess, but something tells me the musical factor was far from the most significant. I mean, golly gee, just look at that album sleeve...

...anyway, where were we? Oh yes, human being issue. Well, it goes without saying, I think, that Beyoncé is rather non-descript in terms of vocal cord operations: her singing is a purely technical process, as she neither has bedazzling technique, nor unbeatable power, nor a unique tone or phrasing (as compared to plenty of other R&B divas), nor the kind of emotional depth that only a tiny handful of these divas possess (most notably, the prematurely departed Aaliyah, who actually did sing like a live human being). But on the other hand, she plays it smart here, almost completely re­jecting the dreaded melisma, mostly staying away from over-emoting, and some­how managing not to get on your nerves even while executing the «soulful ballad» parts (these are usually the worst with that kind of people). In other words, the robot is endowed with some taste, meaning that we have come quite a long way from when people, overwhelmed with hap­piness at the in­vention of the emotion chip, used to stuff three or four in every available slot (poor Mariah Carey was a particularly unfortunate victim of «overchipping»).

Music-wise, somebody once noted somewhere that Beyoncé is «only as good as her samples», and I concur: the sample-heavy tracks, such as the lead-in energy dispenser ʽCrazy In Loveʼ (borrowing a pompous brass riff from a long forgotten Chi-Lites track), are generally more im­pressive than either «original» ballads or such complete dross as the attempt to resuscitate, in a duet with smooth talker Luther Vandross, Roberta Flack's old hit ʽThe Closer I Get To Youʼ (if this is a Beyoncé-approved idea of a tribute to the «retro» vibe, it only shows how seriously out of touch the lady is with the entire old school). But ʽNaughty Girlʼ is an interesting experience of fusing an «Eastern» flavor with a bit of Donna Summer (ʽLove To Love You Babyʼ); and ʽBaby Boyʼ continues the trend with sitars (?) and swirling, quasi-psychedelic vocal overdubs. Even­tually, the album degenerates into a cesspool of sterile ballads that work only under the condition that you do accept the singer as a human being — but, since everything is relative, such a deci­sion could be interpreted as your agreement to join the same robot army.

Actually, in terms of pure robotics (aerobotics?), the best song on the album is the one that did not even make it to the regular US edition — ʽWork It Outʼ was on the Goldmember soundtrack and, fortunately, it works pretty well outside of the annoyingly silly Austin Powers context, a nice clavinet-horns groove that Stevie Wonder might have approved, although Beyoncé does not quite have the vocal power to light that fire high up to heaven (she does come close with her funny "come on child, blow your horn now!" exortations).

In the end, Dangerously In Love is a generic album that nonetheless shows some promise: the problem is that Knowles loves her experiments as much as she loves her clichés, because it is the latter, not the former, that keeps the cash flowing and the fanbase multiplying progressively — and, say what you will, a rational experimenter always needs a bit of financial back-up to ensure the safety of the outcome. In this particular case, the outcome is a thumbs down, but at least half of the record is listenable, and ʽCrazy In Loveʼ, ʽWork It Outʼ, and ʽNaughty Girlʼ may even be salvageable. As it often happens, Dangerously In Love sold more than any subsequent Beyoncé record despite being one of her weakest offerings — but this only seems to confirm the old rule that the more people buy the music, the more they do not listen to the music.

Check "Dangerously In Love" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Dangerously In Love" (MP3) on Amazon

Belle And Sebastian: Write About Love

BELLE AND SEBASTIAN: WRITE ABOUT LOVE (2010)

1) I Didn't See It Coming; 2) Come On Sister; 3) Calculating Bimbo; 4) I Want The World To Stop; 5) Little Lou, Ugly Jack, Prophet John; 6) Write About Love; 7) I'm Not Living In The Real World; 8) The Ghost Of Rockschool; 9) Read The Blessed Pages; 10) I Can See Your Future; 11) Sunday's Pretty Icons.

Like all Belle & Sebastian albums, and especially like those Belle & Sebastian albums where Murdoch's melancholic personality is not so overreaching that it eventually gets on your nerves, Write About Love is immediately likeable; so likeable that most people have probably formed their comfy opinions about it just by looking at the by-now traditional color palette and typescript of the album sleeve. In terms of general curve, though, I find this a relative disappointment after the double sunshine-through-tears pop shot of Dear Catastrophe Waitress and The Life Pur­suit. It is just as easy to like, yes, but not as easy to get into on a deeper level, and, unlike its pre­decessors, Write About Love seems to suffer quite a bit from indie clichés.

The band has once again enlisted Tony Hoffer as producer, but this time production values are notably different — Murdoch retains the fully-arranged pop gloss of the previous records, yet strives to bring it up to date with more «contemporary» standards. Already the first twenty se­conds of ʽI Didn't See It Comingʼ arouse suspicion: a wispy electronic cloud of noise, expectable, perhaps, from any neo-psychedelic artist, but since when have Belle & Sebastian ever expressed a penchant for trippy electronics? The electronics are then joined by some decidedly modernistic beats (I'd almost say they were pre-programmed, but maybe Colburn had finally graduated from the Human Metronome school); a distant, echoey lead vocal by Sarah Martin; and, eventually, a series of synth loops and solos that have no function, as far as I can tell, other than stating: "No, no, you don't get it — there's nothing we actually have against being hip with today's kids, we just wanted to put it off until everybody were back in the synthesizer business!"

Like Apples In Stereo, for instance. The difference is, somehow, that Apples In Stereo, with the release of New Magnetic Wonder, managed to make their music more interesting by incorpora­ting electronic elements, as this allowed them a sort of «sprawl» they could never afford before. Murdoch, unfortunately, has incorporated those elements without accompanying them by any sig­nificant musical shifts. It used to be Belle & Sebastian, now it's «Belle & Sebastian with synths». The retro vibe is canceled (unless, like some critics, you prefer to think of it as a replacement of the Seventies' retro vibe by the Eighties' retro vibe), and, more importantly and painfully, much of the Belle & Sebastian vibe has been canceled, too. If ever you need to show to some friend what it is that makes Murdoch such a standout artist, please do not even think about enticing the victim with Write About Love — it is about as indicative of Murdoch's personality as Tunnel Of Love is of Bruce Springsteen's, to quote a random example.

Which is not to say the songs are bad or anything. Most of them are okay, the kind of sweet, smooth, edgeless indie pop you hear in mainstream music stores or youth cafés. They have vocal hooks, sometimes they have sympathetic instrumental passages as well. But the essence of the album is exemplified by the ballad ʽLittle Lou, Ugly Jack, Prophet Jonesʼ, a duet between Mur­doch and invited guest star Norah Jones: tender, bitter, lite-ly depressed, gallantly dressed in acoustic and electric guitars and several layers of keyboards (organs rather than synths) — and sleepwalking all the way, right down to the final "what a waste, I could've been your friend", de­livered with all the obligatory husky aspiration ("...your frie-HH-ee-HH-ee-HH-ee-HHnd-HH!") you'd expect not just from Norah Jones, but from any song in this particular style. For more of the same, check ʽCalculating Bimboʼ, equally tender and equally yawny.

You know something's wrong when the «standout» track on the album turns out to be something as atypical as a Stevie Jackson lead vocal on ʽI'm Not Living In The Real Worldʼ, which sounds like a tribute to Manfred Mann with its harmonies, singalong choruses, and general exuberance. And even so, it is hardly one of the better tracks on the album — whether it stands out for good or for bad is quite debatable. Then again, I have no idea what those «better» tracks would actually be. ʽI Want The World To Stopʼ? Catchy, but too A-Ha-ish. I'd rather take Morten Harket in per­son than an unintentional Scottish copy. ʽI Can See Your Futureʼ? Those trombones have too much of a generic mariachi flavor, Sarah Martin does a fairly cringeworthy arranging job. Call me too picky, but with the possible exception of that first track, whose chorus hook ("but we don't have the money...") I cannot help but find stirring, there is not a single song on here I'd vote for when it comes to assembling the Golden Fund.

So, if taken on its own, Write About Love is nice enough, but in the overall context, it is nothing short of an embarrassing disaster. Of course, change is always risky. When Murdoch decided it was time for a change on Dear Catastrophe Waitress, he took a gamble and hit the jackpot — the combination of bitter-sneery lyrics with sunshine pop riffs and rhythms worked like a charm. Now the bell of change has struck again, and by deciding to «modernize», the man has simply capsized the ship, drowning the message and blandifying the music to nothingness. As of 2010, this is the last album of original Belle & Sebastian material released so far; we may only hope that the bell of change will ring again for Murdoch before the decade is out. In the meantime, let us hope this thumbs down exerts its rightful voodoo effect on the man.

Check "Write About Love" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Write About Love" (MP3) on Amazon

Bauhaus: Go Away White

BAUHAUS: GO AWAY WHITE (2008)

1) Too Much 21st Century; 2) Adrenalin; 3) Undone; 4) International Bullet Proof Talent; 5) Endless Summer Of The Damned; 6) Saved; 7) Mirror Remains; 8) Black Stone Heart; 9) The Dog's A Vapour; 10) Zikir.

Was there any sense in Bauhaus reuniting, this one last time (or so they insist, at least), to write up and produce a brand new studio album? A reunion tour for nostalgic reasons is one thing, but the band as a creative unit was so definitively tied in to the early Eighties, it is almost impossible to imagine how they could have made up for all that lost time. It's not as if, during their relatively short career, Bauhaus showed no will for or capacity of evolving — it's just that they didn't have the time to completely break out of the stereotypes, and a 2008 album that would have had to pick up from where Burning From The Inside had left us twenty-five years earlier might easily have been a misguided embarrassment — curious, perhaps, but embarrassing all the same.

Indeed, when Go Away White made its first rounds, some of the reviews were mighty skeptical — comparing the band to a «stately stone mausoleum», for instance, not particularly relevant, not to mention necessary, in the 21st century. A moot argument, that, for if the 21st century did not need stately stone mausolea, all of them would have been demolished long ago anyway. In fact, the band itself takes care of that argument right away: the very first track is ʽToo Much 21st Cen­turyʼ, on which Murphy complains that "they all wanna be something better", and that there is "too much fake... too much to take". Not a particularly fresh or original complaint, but one to which I can always relate, and delivered with so much energy and conviction that the listener has to take it seriously. Bauhaus have returned to take one last look at this world, decide that it ain't worthy, and then go away forever, like the Angel of Bethesda, appropriately photographed from the back for the spooky album sleeve.

But when they do take that one last look, they do not take it quite the same way as they used to. Self-produced as usual, the album does make use of improvements in technology — the mix is crisper, subtler, more aurally satisfying than on any old Bauhaus record, with each of Ash's over­dubs, effects, atmospheric layers etc. perfectly discernible, and Haskins' drums retain their gothic sternness without having to depend on epoch-bound electronic enhancements (although, where they find it more to the song's benefit, the drums are still electronic, especially when they drift into mystical atmosphere, e. g. on ʽThe Dog's A Vapourʼ). Another difference is that Ash has de­veloped a taste for distortion, and many of the riffs that push the songs forward have a brawny crrrrunch that was not at all typical of early Bauhaus, with the exception of a few special show-stoppers like ʽStigmata Martyrʼ. ʽToo Much 21st Centuryʼ, in fact, kicks off with a rumbling riff that borders on heavy metal (one tone lower and that'd be it), and ʽInternational Bullet Proof Ta­lentʼ rocks as hard as if they'd let the Young brothers guest star — again, not something you'd want to directly associate with «classic» Bauhaus.

Comparisons aside, though, it mostly works. Murphy's voice alone, retaining all of its tombstone solemnity of yore and even lowering it just a wee bit more due to age reasons, is enough to make one suspect that these guys, or at least their frontman, are still living in the past, but they succeed in making this «peek from the grave» thing into an interesting experience. The first half of the al­bum is, in its essence, almost completely sarcastic — instead of plunging you into a phantasma­goric setting à la ʽBela Lugosi's Deadʼ or revving you up for breakneck dancing with the spirits à la ʽIn The Flat Fieldʼ, Murphy uses the potential of his musicians to grin and jeer at the uncon­scious evil-making of the modern world. This prevents the songs from becoming too haunting or en­snaring, but helps enhance their intelligence quotient.

ʽAdrenalinʼ, for instance, is far from the best song the band has ever come up with, but its superimposition of bubbling-buzzing high-pitched guitar and distorted bass over Murphy's sar­cas­tic lyrics about how «adrenaline» (in this modern world of ours) is the answer to all the problems is one of the smartest ideas in Bauhaus history. And when they throw in a one-finger-on-the-pia­no bit in the middle of the song, it is almost like a tribute to John Cale and his production of ʽI Wanna Be Your Dogʼ — a hidden (unintentional?) reference to those heroes of long ago who, too, found themselves stuck in the ambiguous position of enjoying the temptations of the modern world and hating them at the same time.

As the album progresses, though, the sarcastic riff-rockers become fewer in numbers and eventu­ally give way to atmospherics — beginning with the psychedelic oratorio of ʽSavedʼ (where the state of being «saved» is made equivalent with «unconscious») and reaching its culmination with the final double-punch of ʽThe Dog's A Vapourʼ and ʽZikirʼ. The first of these is unquestionably the highest point of the album, a complex, multi-layered midnight concoction with Ash and Mur­phy at their very, very best. When the sirens and banshees make their major strike at 4:12 into the song, it produces the eeriest, most jump-starting effect since ʽSwing The Heartacheʼ did some­thing similar (but on a much humbler sonic scale: ʽThe Dog's A Vapourʼ, in comparison, would be on the level of Mahlerian polyphony).

The fact that this is a «Bauhaus»-type record indeed, and not just a combination of whatever the individual musicians were doing at the time, may be seen from the fact that Murphy's Islamic (more precisely, Sufi) adherence is mostly saved until the last track, ʽZikirʼ, a three-minute-long atmospheric fadeout that reflects his past experiments with Turkish music, but does not fling them too abruptly in the listener's face. It is, indeed, quite impressive that, despite the huge artis­tic differences that continued to accumulate between Peter and the rest of the band, and despite some hard times that they had to endure together in the studio, they were able to bring the project to completion and release the record — a little less tolerance, and none of this would happen. As it is, Go Away White is clearly not the record by which this band will be remembered in history, but it is an adequate, respectable, and enjoyable epilog. One of the worst things about Burning From The Inside was that ʽHopeʼ as the final Bauhaus song was as confusing and fake as it could be: it had to take them a quarter century to rectify that mistake, but better late than never, and for that alone, Go Away White would already be eligible for a thumbs up. As it happens, it never once makes a false move, even if only a few of the moves it makes deserve the status of a «classic Bauhaus moment», ʽThe Dog's A Vapourʼ being transparently the No. 1 candidate.

PS. Funny bit of trivia: out of several indignant one-star reviews of this album on Amazon, at least one explicitly states that «this is not Bauhaus, this has more of a Love and Rockets feel to it» and at least another one states with the same forcefulness that «I have not heard Bauhaus, I have heard a Peter Murphy solo album here». Count me happy on this.

Check "Go Away White" (CD) on Amazon

Big Star: In Space

BIG STAR: IN SPACE (2005)

1) Dony; 2) Lady Sweet; 3) Best Chance; 4) Turn My Back On The Sun; 5) Love Revolution; 6) February's Quiet; 7) Mine Exclusively; 8) A Whole New Thing; 9) Aria, Largo; 10) Hung Up With Summer; 11) Do You Wanna Make It; 12) Makeover.

What a sweetly awful album — well worth hearing, actually, if only to procure oneself a prover­bial example of how everything can go utterly wrong when one thinks way too much about getting everything just right.

When Chilton and Stephens were making Third, they may have been wasted, but one thing they were not trying to consciously make was a «Big Star recipé». The album simply reflected the state of Alex Chilton's head at the time, give or take a few neurons. Fast forward to 2005 now, by which time a revamped, strictly nostalgia-oriented «Big Star», consisting of Chilton, Stephens, and two members of The Posies, a new-school US power pop band with plenty of their own en­tertainment value, had been touring the local circuits for more than a decade, concentrating al­most exclusively on a #1 Record/Radio City setlist. With the Big Star legend riding strong and re-gaining in popularity among the hipster crowds, somebody must have come up with the idea of giving people a little bit more of what they want — and this is how In Space, a collection of 12 bona fide power pop songs co-written by Chilton, Auer, and Stringfellow, was born.

First things first: do not believe those that say «this does not sound like Big Star at all!» (and pay even less attention to those who retort with «well, times change, don't they, why should you ex­pect this to sound like the Big Star of old?»). Because In Space does sound very much like Big Star. The idea was, by all means, to make an album that sounded very much like Big Star, and since it is not tremendously difficult to make an album that sounds like Big Star, unless you are a complete musical moron, there was no way In Space would not end up sounding like Big Star. Pop rhythms; guitars that glitter and jangle; guitars that play colorful distorted pop rhythms; psy­chedelic vocal harmonies; lyrical themes of sun, summer, and sentimentalism; occasional break­throughs into more rocking territory; retro-oriented production values — what have I missed?

The correct criticism to make is not that In Space «does not sound like (classic) Big Star»; the correct criticism is that it tries too hard to sound like classic Big Star, and concentrates so much on the form that it totally forgets about substance. The absolute majority of these songs — nay, all of these songs, without a single exception — are melodically bland, three-times derivative, and completely devoid of any artistic sense. Ballads, pop rockers, hard rockers, whatever, every­thing here is a cliché, pulled out of the dusty storage box full of Beatlisms, Beachboyisms, and, somewhere at the bottom, Marcbolanisms and a few other ism-ism-isms. Sometimes those isms are fully intentional, which does not make them any better: for instance, ʽTurn My Back On The Sunʼ begins with a «deceptive» quotation from ʽWouldn't It Be Niceʼ, which would be acceptable if the song itself were any good, but it isn't, so it wouldn't.

As for original hooks, there simply aren't any. None whatsoever. Which is actually quite amazing: so maybe Chilton's gift for songwriting had gone down the drain as a combined result of too much stress in the 1970s and largely laying off the business in the subsequent decades, but Auer and Stringfellow weren't too bad as main songwriters for the Posies — so I will just have to assume that they inadvertently drove their songwriting instincts into the wall when operating un­der the self-imposed command of «write a Big Star album». For every song that is crafted even a wee bit more exquisitely than the average mass (ʽLady Sweetʼ has a whiff of genuine elegance about it), they compensate with something honestly terrible (ʽLove Revolutionʼ is one of the chee­siest chunks of pop-funk ever put to tape by a non-R&B artist; even if it were intended as a parody, its immediate effect is simply that of a bad song) — but the average mass sim­ply elicits no emotional response whatsoever. Dull, empty shells of songs, which neither the nice guitar tones nor the pretty harmonies can help to save — even though I am fairly sure that it is exactly the nice guitar tones and pretty harmonies that have tricked many a power pop fan into accepting or even admiring In Space, as seen from multiple Web reviews.

Do not waste money on this pathetic cash-in, if it can be helped at all; most likely, the very exis­tence of this album will go down in history as just a minor unfortunate footnote to the legacy of Big Star. My biggest regret is that Chilton did not live long enough to remedy the situation — in 2010, he died of a heart attack, remembered, respected and loved by all those who (I hope) were willing to look past his latest failure, a disgraceful thumbs down if there ever was one. Take a lesson here, kids, and don't ever let nostalgia rule the day when it comes to writing music. Influ­ence — yep, inspiration — for sure, but never nostalgia. It'll only make you look stupid.

Check "In Space" (CD) on Amazon
Check "In Space" (MP3) on Amazon

Blue Cheer: Blitzkrieg Over Nüremberg

BLUE CHEER: BLITZKRIEG OVER NÜREMBERG (1989)

1) Babylon; 2) Girl Next Door; 3) Ride With Me; 4) Just A Little Bit; 5) Summertime Blues; 6) Out Of Focus; 7) Doctor Please; 8) The Hunter; 9) Red House.

Blue Cheer never released a live album in their heyday, largely because the heyday turned out to be so short — by 1969, it was all over, and live albums, even for hard-rocking bands, were not yet seen as an obligatory part of one's portfolio back in 1968. «Better late than never», thought Peterson, and, four years into Blue Cheer's «comeback» as an odd hybrid of nostalgic late Sixties pothead rock and contemporary glam metal, decided to set up some professional recording equip­ment for the band's live show at the Rührersaal in Nüremberg, Germany (October 10, 1988). Whether the choice of a German audience was accidental or intentional (a special affinity for the country that gave us Accept and the Scorpions?) is not clear, but there is an obvious connection between the players and the fans, who do not even seem offended when told by Dickie about the planned title for the upcoming album. Nothing like a nice little Blitzkrieg for the Germans... oh, never mind. It does have a nice ring to it, though.

Once again, however, this particular «Blue Cheer» is just Dickie and his revolving door: no Paul Whaley and not even a Tony Rainier in sight. Instead, guitar duties are handled by Duck Mac­Donald, known mostly for always willing to lend a helping hand to defective reunions of old heavy rock bands with color-based names (in addition to Blue Cheer, he would also tour with Black Sabbath and Blue Öyster Cult); the drummer, if anybody is interested, is Dave Salce, and he does a fairly decent job reproducing the percussive madness of Whaley, but his fills are less unpredictable and not so much all over the place.

The setlist continues the trend already set on The Beast: as the only original member to deter­mine what is properly Blue Cheer and what is not properly so, Dickie performs only songs from the first two BC albums and The Beast (but it is interesting that, out of the new material, he chooses Rainier's compositions rather than his own ʽNightmaresʼ). Which is understandable if you want to limit your live material to loud crunchy rockers, but even so, The Original Human Being is quite unjustly given the finger. There is also a tribute cover of Hendrix's ʽRed Houseʼ, done surprisingly close to the spirit of the original, even if MacDonald cannot restrain himself from throwing in some histrionic hair metal vibrato cliché every now and then.

The most memorable thing about the album, though, is arguably the small bits of stage banter delivered by Peterson — always sounding a little drunk, a little stoned, a little wasted, a little toothless, a little bit too old to rock'n'roll, but ultimately quite sympathetic: nice simple old guy with a bit of street wisdom tucked under his belt for good measure ("we're gonna do a song called ʽSummertime Bluesʼ... and believe me, there is no cure, I've been looking for twenty fucking years!"). He has a pretty hard time coping with vocal problems, particularly on fast numbers such as ʽGirl Next Doorʼ where he clearly lacks the necessary strength to muster the appropriate roar, but even if he did have laryngitis or something, on most of the classic numbers the gurgling in his throat only adds to the overall ragged punch of the material. And he certainly has no problems holding down all the basslines on which the tightness and general well-being of the songs depend from start to finish.

Throw in a good setlist, decent sound quality, and MacDonald's general willingness to play Se­venties-style rather than Eighties-style on the extended instrumental sections of ʽRide With Meʼ and ʽDoctor Pleaseʼ, and Blitzkrieg turns out to be much more enjoyable as could be expected on the average from such a setup. Thumbs up; heavily recommended for Blue Cheer fans and hard rock lovers in general.  

Bob Dylan: Shot Of Love

BOB DYLAN: SHOT OF LOVE (1981)

1) Shot Of Love; 2) Heart Of Mine; 3) Property Of Jesus; 4) Lenny Bruce; 5) Watered-Down Love; 6) The Groom's Still Waiting At The Altar; 7) Dead Man, Dead Man; 8) In The Summertime; 9) Trouble; 10) Every Grain Of Sand.

Now this is more like it. Having gotten Saved out of his system, Bob must have felt redeemed enough to revert, partially at least, to his old fulminating self. Shot Of Love still has occasional gospel overtones, but for the most part, it does what the old man does best — bring down the haughty, send up the arrogant, snatch the ground from under the feet of the self-assured. Paradise may be beautiful, but it is not up to Bob Dylan to convey that kind of beauty; he is much better off pouring molten gold and lead down the poor sinners' throats.

Fed up with Dylan's in-yer-face Christianity, «progressive» musical press pretty much shredded the album — which, I think, had much more to do with it being yet another religious follow-up to Saved than to any sort of fair assessment. In fact, if you removed one or two of the most lyrically obvious numbers, the album wouldn't even present itself as a specifically «Christian» statement: religious, yes, moralizing, for sure, but none of that stopped the same progressive art critics from endorsing the folk revival scene twenty years back, which was as religious and moralizing as they come, by the very nature of its object. No, it just had to be the same gut level «oh no, not another piece of that what-can-I-do-for-you crap» reaction, I think.

Because, even though Shot Of Love is nowhere near a «great» album and lacks even the con­centrated, focused attack strength of Slow Train Coming, it is at least a properly «Dylanish» al­bum, written and recorded in a way that is consistent with the idea of Dylan as an artist rather than Dylan as a gospel preacher. Religious imagery is now interwoven in the songs rather than continuing to serve as a primary focus — modern day intellectuals will go on feeling uncomfor­table about all the references to "a perfect finished plan", of course, but that does not make ʽEvery Grain Of Sandʼ any less of an artistic rather than religious accomplishment.

A distinctive feature of Shot Of Love is its overall rugged-ragged feel: little-known producer Chuck Plotkin, who had formerly worked as recording engineer for Springsteen, replaces master sound man Jerry Wexler at the wheel, and does not much interfere with Bob's demand of spon­taneity and, sometimes, even a little musical chaos. On Slow Train Coming, the prophet of doom was sober, bitter, well-stocked up for battle; on Shot Of Love, the prophet sounds drunk, desperate, and rambling: what, a whole two albums into the prophet's Christian crusade, and the world only seems to have gotten even worse? No wonder somebody is so frustrated that he needs to cure his frustration with a "shot of love". Looking back at Bob's entire catalog, Shot Of Love stands out quite particularly — as a quintessential «panicky» album, with a stronger concentra­tion of nervous hysteria than just about anywhere else.

At the same time, the atmosphere of «religious panic» does not detract Bob from further expe­riments with form and substance: compared to the rest of the Christian trilogy, Shot Of Love is its most diverse representative. Genre-wise, there's some gospel, some pop, some blues-rock, some reggae, some folk balladry, and ʽTroubleʼ, with its jagged lead guitar and minimalist per­cussion, actually suggests that maybe Bob had been listening to some Tom Waits lately (Heart­attack And Vine had just come out, and if you replace Bob with Tom on ʽTroubleʼ, you get a song that fits on that particular record like a glove). Not everything works the way it should, but the important correction has been made — Bob has regained his interest in music, in addition to continuing, but already slightly diminishing, interest in Christ.

For most fans and critics, the main, if not only, highlight on the entire album was its last track, ʽEvery Grain Of Sandʼ, which certainly rides a train of high ambitions — longer, slower, statelier than the rest, a personal, anthemic poem with a haunting arrangement that almost seems to echo ʽSad-Eyed Ladyʼ in its stately cadences. The echo is but a faint one, though: the basic melody is but a variation on the 50s progression, the lyrics are marred by some clichéd application of Bibli­cal imagery where the man once used to be much more imaginative with it, and, worst of all, the major point — that of finding consolation in the Lord's «perfect plan» — does not come across with the sincerity of, say, a George Harrison (to whom I am quite often more than willing to for­give all the clichés since they are delivered with so much genuine devotion — and, fairly fre­quent­ly, melodic bliss). Nevertheless, this song alone, in its execution, is still more atmospheric, personal, and affecting than the entirety of Saved, if a bit too overwrought and undercooked (simultaneously, no less!) as a prayer-anthem.

The real kicker on the record, however, is the title track. Produced by Robert "Bumps" Blackwell instead of Plotkin, it has a distinctly different aura from the rest — a shadowy, echoey, ghostly song, where Dylan rails against nasty garage guitar barrages and gospel back vocals with the la­dies in «fury» rather than «angel» mode. Fleeting visions of ʽGimmie Shelterʼ come to mind, and even though ʽShot Of Loveʼ does not come close to the former's grandeur, there is no denying the atmospheric and thematic connection — here, too, we have a deeply troubled protagonist looking for salvation among a sea of troubles. There are some really vicious lyrics here, bordering on Morrison-esque darkness ("Why would I want to take your life? / You've only murdered my father, raped his wife / Tattooed my babies with a poison pen / Mocked my God, humiliated my friends"), which emphasizes the repetitive counter-plea of "I need a shot of love" even stronger — and the shot itself is never really delivered until ʽEvery Grain Of Sandʼ wraps the proceedings up nine tracks later.

In between, we have some lesser, but still acceptable, tracks, such as the funny, slightly funky ʽHeart Of Mineʼ (a rather ruffled version, selected by Bob only because it had both Ringo Starr and Ron Wood guesting on it, but I kinda like it); the weird, out-of-nowhere eulogy for Lenny Bruce, done in a minimalist arrangement but with the same sentimental affection as was earlier displayed for Joey Gallo; a bit of catchy apocalyptic reggae in ʽDead Man, Dead Manʼ; and ʽThe Groom Is Still Waiting At The Altarʼ, formerly a non-album B-side but eventually included by Bob as a regular constituent in the CD age — screechy 12-bar blues-rock that he hadn't done since God knows when... the only thing lacking is a mighty Robbie Robertson solo, but the song still works, maybe because the very fact of rhyming the song title with "the rock of Gibraltar" is one of those Dylan-only hooks that can make his silliest and/or most generic tracks memorable.

It is quite ironic, really, that Shot Of Love could be dismissed for its ongoing Christian preachi­ness when it was already clear that Dylan was done with, or would very soon be done with, for­mulaic Christianity. Much more important than being the last in his «born again trilogy», Shot Of Love would also turn out to be his last properly produced album in a long, long time, and the last album to consistently feature Dylan in a non-comatose state, where «mumbling» and «whining» would not be the only two switches on the vocal control board. It is an uneven album, it is not locked on greatness, but it lives, breathes, rambles, stutters, falls down, picks itself up again, and throws itself at ya. «Garage gospel» is more like it — from the cloudy chaos of the title track to the drunk Waitsian strut of ʽTroubleʼ, there is really nothing else like this in the entire Dylan ca­talog, so, despite occasional flaws, an unquestionable thumbs up here.

Check "Shot Of Love" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Shot Of Love" (MP3) on Amazon

Buddy Holly: That'll Be The Day

BUDDY HOLLY: THAT'LL BE THE DAY (1958)

1) You Are My One Desire; 2) Blue Days, Black Nights; 3) Modern Don Juan; 4) Rock Around With Ollie Vee; 5) Ting A Ling; 6) Girl On My Mind; 7) That'll Be The Day; 8) Love Me; 9) Changing All Those Changes; 10) Don't Come Back Knockin'; 11) Midnight Shift.

Technically, this album should have been listed as Buddy's first: all of the songs here are taken from his first recording sessions for Decca, held at various dates throughout 1956, approximately one year prior to finding success with Brunswick. The story goes that, since Buddy's first singles with Decca flopped and the label was not quite sure what to make of him, they simply did not re­new his contract — but as time went by and he eventually started treading the road to stardom, all these early tunes, including all the flop singles as well as a number of outtakes, were hastily cob­bled together for an LP; easily done since Decca still held the rights to all of them.

In retrospect, the Decca decision was just another silly Decca decision, for which the label is so well-known — but, to be perfectly honest, these earliest recordings are rather suspicious. First and foremost, Side A is almost entirely devoid of originals. Three of the songs are credited to Don Guess, Buddy's buddy and original bass fiddle player, and are little more than average doo-wop (ʽGirl On My Mindʼ) or second-hand rockabilly (ʽModern Don Juanʼ). Much better and gut­sier is ʽRock Around With Ollie Veeʼ, credited to Buddy's original lead guitarist Sonny Curtis — the players get into this one with an almost unexpected ferocity, although flat production and Buddy's vocal limitations remain inescapable curses in this style.

Following Elvis' love for old and recent Atlantic hits, Buddy, too, tried to follow suit by choosing The Clovers' ʽTing-A-Lingʼ, one of the greatest odes to teenage libido of its time, and this time, he even managed well enough to slip into character, with a suitably hysterical vocal tone, but here as well, the attempt to transform professionally synthesized R&B into snappy rockabilly is alto­gether half-hearted — neither the musicians nor the technicians were quite up to the task.

The second half of the album is dominated by the title track, which is the original recording of ʽThat'll Be The Dayʼ — slower, looser, without vocal harmonies, operating at about half the po­tential of the re-recorded version and very well illustrating the difference between early tentative Buddy and later, more self-assured and goal-oriented Buddy. The originals that surround it are decent (the B-side ʽLove Meʼ and ʽChanging All Those Changesʼ in particular), but still do not advance far beyond standard rockabilly or sped-up country-western.

In other words, one would have to be really mean to blame Decca for not spotting the future genius of ʽPeggy Sueʼ or ʽWords Of Loveʼ in these cautious first moves at playing with one's own artistic identity — and, considering that Buddy got his new contract with Brunswick, which was legally under Decca anyway, the industry bosses cannot be said to have treated the boy too cruelly. It does, however, show that Buddy's beginnings were humble; he seems to have had limi­ted aspirations as a songwriter, being quite content with sharing songwriting duties with his fellow bandmates, and only gradually came to realise where his major strength resided. To that end, That'll Be The Day is more of a historical document than a «success» or «failure», and it is also an early precursor to the dark tendency of stuffing way more Buddy Holly down our throats than it would be useful for his posthumous reputation — but, on the other hand, at least these are authentic studio recordings that properly bear the artist's signature: since the album was released while Buddy was still alive, nobody had the nerve to tamper with the tracks.

The Blood Brothers: Young Machetes

THE BLOOD BROTHERS: YOUNG MACHETES (2006)

1) Set Fire To The Face On Fire; 2) We Ride Skeletal Lightning; 3) Laser Life; 4) Camouflage, Camouflage; 5) You're The Dream Unicorn!; 6) Vital Beach; 7) Spit Shine Your Black Clouds; 8) 1, 2, 3, 4 Guitars; 9) Lift The Veil, Kiss The Tank; 10) Nausea Shreds Yr Head; 11) Rat Rider; 12) Johnny Ripper; 13) Huge Gold AK-47; 14) Street Wars/Exotic Foxholes; 15) Giant Swan.

The Blood Brothers' fifth and last album arguably continues their drift towards «accessibility», although for me, that ain't saying much — as usual, I do not «get» these vocals, and think that whatever good or great musical ideas these guys might have, they consistently sabotage them by stubbornly conti­nuing to sing as if hung overnight by their genitals from a palm tree. From that point of view, they give a fairly realistic performance, but it also makes it quite hard to think of their songs as anything other than an exaggerated, ridiculous farce.

Which is too bad, since many of the songs do contain interesting ideas. Young Machetes was announced as a return to the band's «screamo» roots, but in reality it tries to achieve a working compromise between the non-stop fury of their first pair of albums and the experimental develop­ments of the second one — a fairly diverse collection that continues to express the band's disap­pointment with the world and its honest desire to blow it up from the inside in every single way they had tried previously, and a few ones they hadn't, such as the funky keyboard rhythms of ʽLaser Lifeʼ or the moody, almost haunting composition ʽExotic Foxholesʼ, with droning folksy acoustic guitars, bassoons (?) and, most wondrous of all, no vocals, an idea The Blood Brothers should have stuck to with much more enthusiasm, I believe.

There are also inklings of catchiness in some of the riffs (ʽCamouflage, Camouflageʼ) and some of the «vocal» melodies (ʽRat Riderʼ, like a crazy man's take on a nursery rhyme). There is also ongoing social protest (ʽLift The Veil, Kiss The Tankʼ), with even denser strung pearls of meta­phors and allegories ("young machetes in lingerie charm us all into a frenzy") that still resolve in truisms ("death's just death no matter how you dress it up"), but if people need truisms to stop wars, well, the brothers might have a point there. And, as usual, there is a fair amount of advan­ced technicalities for all those who think that catchiness is ever so overrated.

Problem is, none of that matters from a general point of view. Young Machetes may have, for the first and last time, brought The Blood Brothers into the top 100 (probably due to good promo­tion from V2 and the band's continuing capitalization on the anti-war theme), but I just do not see it working as the kind of statement that they wanted to make. Some things are just not compatible — you may play in 13/8 time to your musically knowledgeable friends, or you may shout wake up! to the sleepy world, but if you try to do both simultaneously, your friends might think that you're an offensive idiot, and the sleepy world might want to lock you up.

A good case in point is the epic finale to the album — ʽGiant Swanʼ, an overall good idea marred by uninspiring execution. The lyrics, of an almost totemist nature, conclude the Brothers' vision on a particularly original note — where their ancestors saw the world as a Giant Tree or a Giant Serpent, they have this hallucinatory vision of "ghosts in his wings, his guts are stuffed with pola­roids, and they're all humiliating" and how "he wrote a play and you're the protagonist". The mu­sical buildup goes from solemn dirge to overwhelming noisefest and back, as the Giant Swan completes and restarts its grim cycle of existence. All of this could be fascinating — I find it as ultimately boring as it is respectable, and with the usual mix of vocal ugliness to decisively tilt the scale against these guys.

I do, however, give them full praise for deciding to make this their last record and break up, be­cause Young Machetes makes it very clear that, whatever they had to say, whichever points they wanted to stress, they said, stressed, and finalized it all, and their «intellectual-extremist» shtick had largely failed, although it had its brief moments of curiosity — but no, I could never regard them as any sort of ideological analogy for the Stooges courtesy of the 2000s.

Belle And Sebastian: The Life Pursuit

BELLE AND SEBASTIAN: THE LIFE PURSUIT (2006)

1) Act Of The Apostle; 2) Another Sunny Day; 3) White Collar Boy; 4) The Blues Are Still Blue; 5) Dress Up In You; 6) Sukie In The Graveyard; 7) We Are The Sleepyheads; 8) Song For Sunshine; 9) Funny Little Frog; 10) To Be Myself Completely; 11) Act Of The Apostle II; 12) For The Price Of A Cup Of Tea; 13) Mornington Crescent.

Dear Catastrophe Waitress was so unexpectedly fresh, attractive, and intelligent, that it was only too natural to try the same formula at least one more time. For production, Murdoch turned from Trevor Horn to Tony Hoffer, previously known for producing Supergrass and working as mixing engineer on several of Beck's records — but the particular choice probably does not mat­ter as much as the fact that Trevor Horn's shadow still lurks behind, encouraging Murdoch to add more colors and rhythmic drive to the songs.

To the melodies, that is, but not to the lyrics. Murdoch's agenda is now perfectly clear: his world­view has not changed a single bit, but now he is delivering his bitter lambasting of random stereo­types to «happy» melodies rather than «sad» ones, and, whaddaya know, this turns out to be even more effective, or, at least, less predictable and therefore more impressive than it used to. Be­gin with the beginning: The Life Pursuit — great title for an optimistic, hope-inspiring, life-as­ser­ting record. Then it turns out that the three faces on the album sleeve look a little suspicious: lack of smiles and an overall worried / puzzled fa­cial ex­pression from all three does not exactly agree with the idea of «pursuing life».

Then you hear the songs, and waves of bright-pop joyfulness start splashing all around, and sure enough, this is the mellow, but energetic sound of a genuine life pursuit. How could anyone feel anything but warmth and happiness when the Kinks-style riffage of ʽThe Blues Will Be Blueʼ invades the room, and your foot starts a-tappin' and your lips start a-chantin'? Then, after a while, only after you have already fallen in love with the song's lilting melody, you actually start a-thinkin' about what it is that you're chanting — and what you're chanting is a song about how everybody that surrounds you is either a poseur, a hypocrite, or an idiot, how the realization of this simple truth succeeds in driving you crazy, and how the only thing that is permanent is a sense of deep shit. Happy singalong, brother.

Naturally, Murdoch did not invent this style of doing business and, in fact, the Kinks connection is now stronger than ever in this respect as well: I do not know how well acquainted Ray Davies is with the oeuvres of Belle & Sebastian, but I am fairly sure that The Life Pursuit is the one al­bum in their catalog with which he might feel a special bond. Nevertheless, Murdoch is doing this in a manner that is fairly appropriate for 2006, much as Ray sang his happy songs about misery in a manner that was all the rage in 1966, and, most importantly, he is doing this better than any­body else in 2006. Years of experience wear out some artists, but Stuart's microgenius has aged well, and now he is cutting cool tune after cool tune — ʽThe Bluesʼ is an obvious highlight ("I left my lady in the launderette..." might just be this band's catchiest single chorus ever), but so is the funky, organ / fuzz bass-driven ʽSukie In The Graveyardʼ, or the lightly psychedelic, cloud-hopping ʽWe Are The Sleepyheadsʼ with its echoey «child angel choir» harmonies, or the brass-heavy ʽFunny Little Frogʼ, a sarcastic sendup of unconditional love whose main hook consists of wondering how the hell can Stuart forcefully make "know it", "poet", "court", and "throat" rhyme with each other, all four of them, and get away with it.

The most «anthemic» song is saved for next-to-last: ʽFor The Price Of A Cup Of Teaʼ has a murkier, less easily decodable, but just as worriesome message as the rest of them, and it is an absolute blast of syncopated pop perfection — the contrast between the choral declamation of the first line and Murdoch's thin, subtle counterstrike of the second does not just stick in the head, it is almost inspirational, despite the fact that what you are actually getting for the price of a cup of tea is "a line of coke", and that's just the beginning of the story. But it does not finish off the al­bum: the softer, longer, more pensive ʽMornington Crescentʼ does, a mildly haunting ballad that ends with faintly pronounced words that are all too easy to neglect but are, in fact, horrifying: "The possibilities suggest themselves to me... we're a little too free". Bingo, the kid finally hits upon the correct diagnosis. No wonder this music is so damn good — when you know what the problem is, it's all too easy to convert it into solid art.

I have not mentioned neither the ballads nor the hard rockers so far, of which there are several (ʽAct Of The Apostleʼ and ʽWhite Collar Boyʼ respectively illustrating both categories), but this is not where its major musical muscle seems to reside — the major muscle are the upbeat pop songs, since it is them that provide the maximum contrast between the words and the music, and where there's more contrast, there's more strife, more thrill, more Life Pursuit. Is this an improve­ment over Dear Catastrophe Waitress? Not necessarily: although the high points may be a little bit high­er, the overall consistency is about the same level. But it seems to show more confidence and self-assurance, and, above all, understanding of the fact that when you whine through laugh­ter, it is sometimes liable to produce more effect than when you whine through whining. In any case, this is clearly yet another thumbs up; and particular kudos for the boldness with which Stuart comes out to say what he has to say, much of which would be ideologically unacceptable for the average indie kid — which just goes to show that Murdoch, of all people, has managed to outgrow the indie kid complex, and step into a more exquisite, if also provocative, pair of shoes.

Check "The Life Pursuit" (CD) on Amazon
Check "The Life Pursuit" (MP3) on Amazon

Bauhaus: Gotham

BAUHAUS: GOTHAM (1999)

1) Double Dare; 2) In The Flat Field; 3) God In An Alcove; 4) In Fear Of Fear; 5) Hollow Hills; 6) Kick In The Eye; 7) Terror Couple Kill Colonel; 8) Silent Hedges; 9) Severance; 10) Boys; 11) She's In Parties; 12) The Passion Of Lovers; 13) Dark Entries; 14) Telegram Sam; 15) Ziggy Stardust; 16) Bela Lugosi's Dead; 17) All We Ever Wanted Was Everything; 18) Spirit; 19) Severance [studio version].

In 1998, Bauhaus took the world of mascara by surprise — it may have seemed to everyone that Murphy's ways were no longer compatible with the rest of the band (who were doing fine for themselves, under the name of «Love And Rockets»), but time either heals your wounds or emp­ties your pockets, or both, and, anyway, somehow in 1998 the original Bauhaus did come to­gether — and in quite an imposing manner, too. The «punny» album title may seem to indicate that they have finally agreed to settle into the appropriate pigeon hole, but on this particular occa­sion, since the concerts were indeed played in NYC (September 9-10, 1998, at the Hammerstein Ballroom), the title is really perfect for the occasion.

Moreover, the first few minutes of Gotham are suspenseful and breathtaking. Small nuclear blasts of bass rumble set against excited audience screams, gradually increasing in intensity until Ash properly opens up the feedback barrel and sets people flying from their seats — then David J distorts the bass riff of ʽDouble Dareʼ to living-hell status, and finally, Murphy crawls out of the shadows to sing a seriously amended set of lyrics... which is where the fun starts getting colder, since his stage antics had dwindled over two decades, and the scenic delivery is professional, technically perfect, and spirited, but not as bold or exuberant as it used to be.

From there on, it is hit after hit, classic after classic, expertly delivered, meticulously captured, thrilling for the audience of the Hammerstein, and, as it happens with all of Bauhaus' live recor­dings, not particularly rewarding for the casual fan. The tracklist predictably venerates the first record, respects the second, acknowledges the third, and ignores the fourth (with the equally pre­dictable exception of ʽShe's In Partiesʼ) — one surprising omission is ʽStigmata Martyrʼ, a song that always used to be the major highlight of the show, but was inexplicably not performed or omitted from the final recording; and one surprising inclusion is ʽSpiritʼ, heavily rearranged and done largely as a group harmony chant, with Ash's phased acoustic guitar as the only instrument and the entire "we love our audience" part completely melodically re-written so that it now sounds much less ironic than it used to.

The «dark horse» of the album is a cover of ʽSeveranceʼ, a Dead Can Dance cover from 1988's The Serpent's Egg — true to the spirit of Dead Can Dance, Bauhaus, too, do this thing as an at­mospheric mood piece, but neither the live version nor the studio recording, tacked on to the end as a bonus track, manage to be as intoxicating as the band they set out to cover. It is quite natural for Bauhaus to regard Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard as their «stepchildren», what with their first album coming out next year after Bauhaus' demise, as if they inherited that spirit, but in rea­lity the two bands are extremely different, and their material does not crossbreed that easily. Still, a curious intersection here, and if it helps fans of one band to get interested in the other, we will respect the gesture for its promotional value at least.

Other than that, Gotham simply shows that the band had never lost it, or if it did, it found it as soon as it stated a desire to do so. As a bona fide live overview of the band's entire career, recor­ded with excellent quality and featuring the band in top form, it works very well; as a candidate for «Bauhaus' best live album», it does not hold a candle to Press The Eject, mainly be­cause of the absence of ʽStigmata Martyrʼ and because Peter Murphy is not so young and not so crazy any more; as an important historic document witnessing the «restoration of a legend», it has its unde­niable value, and even a certain amount of thrill. And it never hurts to own yet another version of ʽBela Lugosi's Deadʼ — the bats always seem to scurry and shuffle around the ceiling in a musi­cal configuration that is quite different from last time. If anything, it helps not to play those old Bauhaus numbers for so long — gives you an incentive for reinventing some of them a little bit in the meantime.

Big Star: Third/Sister Lovers

BIG STAR: THIRD/SISTER LOVERS (1975/1978)

1) Kizza Me; 2) Thank You Friends; 3) Big Black Car; 4) Jesus Christ; 5) Femme Fatale; 6) O, Dana; 7) Holocaust; 8) Kangaroo; 9) Stroke It Noel; 10) For You; 11) You Can't Have Me; 12) Nighttime; 13) Blue Moon; 14) Take Care; 15*) Nature Boy; 16*) Till The End Of The Day; 17*) Dream Lover; 18*) Downs; 19*) Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On.

Lord knows I am far from the world's biggest Big Star fan, and I am even farther away from be­ing the biggest fan of their third and strangest attempt at world domination, but man oh man is ʽHolocaustʼ a terrific song — one of the most unique and greatest ever recorded. There have been many different ways tried out in the history of pop music to make musical pictures of «human wrecks», and there have been tons of experts on human wreckage, from Ray Davies to John Len­non to Bob Dylan to Pete Townshend etc., but none of them ever scaled such odd depths of, well, let's call it «darkly haunting romanticism», as Alex Chilton on this particular song.

I do not know if this was the first ever usage of the word ʽholocaustʼ in a pop tune, let alone a metaphorical usage: Chilton himself prudently saves it for the last line of the song, as if every­thing that came before was just an atmospheric buildup to the culmination — "you're a wasted face / you're a sad-eyed lie / you're a holocaust" (and thank God the song never became a huge hit, or he would have imminently been forced to eat shit from idiots who would accuse him of calling the Holocaust a sad-eyed lie). Anyway, if it was, it is a well-deserved first, a daring move that is perfectly adequate for such a musically daring composition. The piano/guitar duo alone would be worth any musical prize, as the faraway slide licks, cooing, weeping, or wailing like small packs of seagulls, are upheld by the romantic piano — then there is the grim cello part, hanging over it all like a dark cloud, occasionally spilling some ice-cold rain — then there are the vocals: bitter­sweet, detached, caring and tender on the surface, but emotionally dead deep inside.

When it all begins — "your eyes are almost dead / can't get out of bed / and you can't sleep..." — that is exactly the message that we are getting. Unlike Syd Barrett, Chilton did not drive himself to genuine madness or any drug-induced cerebral coma, but he sings the song as if he were frozen in space, locked forever in a state of semi-functional dismantlement. Was he justified in this? Did the clumsy flop of his previous two albums, in which he had invested so many hopes, really trig­ger this state, or was it an artistic put-on? As usual, it does not matter — what does matter is that his personal troubles unexpectedly uncovered and enhanced his greatest talent, that of creating haunting moods out of incoherent, sometimes downright chaotic musical fragments.

If Big Star's first album opened in «sexually frustrated teenager» mode, and the second album in «idealistically exuberant adult» mode, with both ʽFeelʼ and ʽO My Soulʼ setting much of the tone for whatever would follow, then Third opens in dangerously disturbed maniac mode. Chilton's relationship with Lesa Aldridge, who is the ʽLesaʼ of the song and to whom it is obviously dedi­cated, was said to have been stormy, and it shows: dating a guy who sings "I want to feel you deep inside" with all the passion of a Buffalo Bill from Silence Of The Lambs is not a very wise thing to do. ʽKizza Meʼs schizophrenic piano part is like a bunch of brain cells set in some random Brownian motion, and what does "I want to white OUT!" even mean? In a way, this might really be one of the scariest love confessions ever recorded.

In between ʽKizza Meʼ and ʽHolocaustʼ, opening and closing the first side of Third/Sister Lo­vers as «properly» reconstructed by producer Jim Dickinson when the album was finally released on CD in 1992, lies a small world of weirdness and unpredictability. The recordings themselves were made in 1974, almost immediately after the flub of Radio City, but already after the depar­ture of Andy Hummel; in fact, Chilton did not even think about them as «Big Star» material, which allowed him to break away from the «power pop» formula. But since he did record it with Jody Stephens on drums (and a host of session musicians on bass, extra guitars and keyboards), and since Jody contributed at least one song (ʽFor Youʼ), the name «Big Star» was retained after all — now doubly ironic, since both #1 Record and Radio City at least had some actual «big star potential», whereas Third had no commercial prospective from the very start. Which is exactly what the record executives decided: upon hearing the freshly pressed promotional copy in 1975, they immediately shelved it for posteriority. The album was not released until 1978, on the PVC label, in a differently running track order. Whether it sold more than ten copies, I have no idea.

As far as the first side is concerned, Third fully deserves its cult-legend reputation. Besides the two already mentioned highlights, there is ʽThank You Friendsʼ, which may be one of the finest demonstrations of how important the proper intonation and modulation can be to whatever you are singing — the lyrics per se do not give out a single hint, but just listen to the way Alex sneers at us with his "thank you friends / wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you" and you will almost feel sorry for his so-called «friends». There is ʽJesus Christʼ, where he does pretty much the same thing by sending up the idea of a Christmas carol — although in this case, there are several layers to the song, as if Chilton were truly rejoicing at the beauty of the story of Christ while at the same time satirizing its time-worn clichés and the associated brainless traditionalism. (Nice guitar lines, too ­— the closest they actually get to the good old «power pop» here). There is a faithful, very much à propos cover of the Velvets' ʽFemme Fataleʼ (with pretty backing vocals from Lesa), and an oddly hysterical, near-crying «folk-soul» number (ʽO Danaʼ) with Chilton babbling out non­sense in an utterly heartbroken manner.

Second side of the LP does not hold nearly as many thrills, in my opinion: too often, these termi­nally ill «songs» drift off into pure atmosphere (ʽKangarooʼ), which can still be delightful be­cause of all the odd combinations of different melodic bits played by different instruments (ʽStroke It Noelʼ is like a mix of Vivaldi and acoustic Neil Young), but lack proper hooks and, too often, seem to lack intellectual or even emotional interpretation — as if, at some points during the sessions, Chilton would let his unhappiness, disillusionment, and paranoia completely over­rule his artistic wit and just carry him wherever his subconscious would go, and, despite what we are so often told by music critics, letting your subconscious directly in the pilot seat rarely, if ever, results in solid, long-lasting art. Still, even the worst material on this album, despite sounding like chaotic sketches of bizarrely mixed ideas, is always arranged with taste, and fans of «experi­mental baroque pop», whatever that means, will find everything to their delight.

Rock critics usually love «broken albums» recorded by «broken artists», the madder the better, and consequently tend to overrate Third. Like its predecessor, the album could have benefited from longer sessions, better planning, and more catchiness — none of which would be incom­patible with wallowing in self-pity and reveling in madness. But if you happen to be wallowing in self-pity yourself, and need a trusty companion, Alex Chilton is your man on this happy occasion. Scare away your girlfriend, viciously trash all your friends, insult your religious neighbors, have your mum call for the paramedics — Third does all that and more, and for this psychological help alone deserves a clear-cut thumbs up.

PS. On a further technical note, the CD edition contains five «bonus» tracks, recorded at the same sessions, some of which used to appear before on some of the multiple versions of the album (e.g. ʽDownsʼ and a completely out-of-place cover of ʽWhole Lotta Shakin' Going Onʼ, so very bad that its only function here is that of an oxymoron — find the song that is as far removed, mood-wise, as possible from the overall theme of the album, and throw it in with the rest). Of these, ʽDream Lo­verʼ is of essential value — like a blueprint for about 50% of the total output of trendy indie art-pop bands of the 2000s: twisted, bizarre, moody, pretentious, and if you learn it by heart, you may easily be excused for missing out on the entire career of, say, Deerhunter. Well, yes, I am exaggerating, but you can't really make an efficient point these days without a hyperbole.

Check "Third / Sister Lovers" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Third/Sister Lovers" (MP3) on Amazon