Beyoncé: Beyoncé

BEYONCÉ: BEYONCÉ (2013)

1) Pretty Hurts; 2) Ghost/Haunted; 3) Drunk In Love; 4) Blow; 5) No Angel; 6) Partition; 7) Jealous; 8) Rocket; 9) Mine; 10) XO; 11) Flawless; 12) Superpower; 13) Heaven; 14) Blue.

Here is a question. If the first three or four albums released by an entertainer like Beyoncé, despite having their «moments», never really made you believe in the entertainer as «artist», what would it take, then, to trigger that belief? Would it be downright impossible, or might there ever be a chance of her sliding into a different, more respectable paradigm? After all, people have managed to escape the machine before, or, at least, operate with their head slightly sticking out of the window. And now, with the money made and the fanbase established and the name in lights all over the world, why not go for a small push-up of your reputation among the «highbrows»? Not a bad idea at all — but how?..

Clearly, this was a subject of deep worry for Mrs. Carter herself, and she embarked on the task with plenty of verve. The self-titled record — «rebooting the franchise!» — came out without a single warning, unexpected and unpublicized, dropped as a package of 14 audio tracks and 17 accompanying videos on iTunes and sending a perfectly predicted shockwave through the fan­base. Physical copies of the album then arrived in an unusually minimalistic shape (the Kazimir Malevich Estate probably settled out of court), with none of the glamor that usually surrounds such releases (to be fair, there is plenty of glamor in some of the accompanying videos, but I guess the day we get to see Beyoncé without makeup is the day that her crypt is excavated by archaeologists, and it wouldn't be a pretty sight anyway). And, most importantly, the songs were almost «artsy» in their stubborn refusal to be dominated by dance grooves — dark, soul-probing exercises in emotional expression of the everyday cares, troubles, worries, comforts, and orgasms of a grown woman: wife, mother, and superstar all in one.

So we should all «buy» it, right? The final act of humanization, in which the blue-haired fairy comes down from the sky and gives Pinocchio his well-deserved emotions chip? Having already sat through a whole sack of five-star reviews beginning with constructions like «who would have thought that...» and exclamations like «HOLY COW!» and statements like «finally, Beyoncé comes up with an album worthy of her talent» and suchlike, and, more importantly, having pati­ently endu­red three complete listens to the record, I still would not want to be too hasty about that. Miracles do not happen, and the whole enterprise, to me, smacks of just another well-calculated move — «we got the average Joes hooked up, now let us conquer the demanding critics». Well, congratulations, Mrs. Bey, you and your team got really smart this time: save for a few renegade dis­senters, well within the statistical margin of error, congrats on a decisive victory.

In fact, I wouldn't mind joining the saluting crowds as well — the only problem is that, three lis­tens into the record, I still cannot remember a single tune. Removing the hot dance grooves also means removing the hooks, and removing the hooks means that the album is fueled exclusively by «soul» and «atmosphere», yet where are the musical innovations that make the «atmosphere» even marginally interesting? All I hear is same-old same-old: same programmed drums, same electronics, same adult contemporary sonic backgrounds, sometimes interspersed with same lone­some romantic piano pop melodies. «Sonically experimental», Pitchfork called this record, but where are these «experiments»? Oh, that's right, the proper context was «her most sonically ex­perimental to date». This puts stuff in a different light. Maybe twenty years ago this kind of re­cord, minus the benefits of cutting-edge production à la 2013, might have been called «experi­mental» — as it stands, its only braveness is in that it does, indeed, sound significantly different from the lady's previous albums. Different, for sure; but better? Not certain.

As far as my opinion is concerned, it is not with the music that Mrs. Carter has managed to sway the critics (who, as a rule, do not even begin to discuss the actual music, and I can empathize, since there is very little to be discussed in the first place), but with the attitude. For that, she must be given credit. Briefly stated, there are few records in the world that manage to share lines like "each day I feel so blessed to be looking at you / 'cause when you open your eyes, I feel alive" (explicitly addressed to her daughter) and "daddy what you gon' do with all this ass up in your face?" (explicitly addressed to her husband), fortunately, not within the same song, or she'd pro­bably have child protective service on her back in an instant.

Actually, some do, but very, very few make an active point of it. Beyoncé essentially comes across as a sort of concept album — an «honest» glimpse into the life of someone who has to combine several distinct personalities, not in an artificial Sasha Fierce-like way, but out of pure necessity. First, there remains the glamorous star personality (ʽFlawlessʼ); second, there is the lady of the family, committed to behaving like an angel in the spirit and like a slut in the body; third, there is the responsible loving mother; fourth, there's all sorts of interactions between the three (ʽPartitionʼ, which fuses the public star with the private slut and feels no remorse). I'd be lying through my teeth if I said that this whole concept were completely fake, primitive, and de­void of interest. I'd also be improperly insinuating if I said that Beyoncé's almost «salivating» depiction of sexual scenes with her husband (ʽRocketʼ is the quintessential example, but it's really all over the place) betrays an unhealthy fixation and should rather have been left in their bedroom — I mean, it's a world of free choice, and if you invite me in your bedroom, it'd probably be im­polite to refuse the invitation. I'd probably even fall into the perennial trap if I started doubting the album's feminist stance — since almost every second song here can be interpreted both as an anthem to the equality of the sexes or to sexual objectification of woman, that'd just lure us into another round of the never-ending, long-boring discussion.

All this, yes, and much more, but in the end, all it really does is distract us away from the musical qualities of the album. And the good musical qualities, as far as I can tell, are limited to a tiny handful of non-trivial vocal modulations (usually on the ballads: ʽHauntedʼ, ʽHeavenʼ, and ʽBlueʼ all have their moments), which are still heavily set back by unimaginative arrangements (usually confined to ideas like «okay, let's make the synth loops on ʽHauntedʼ sound real dark, bass-heavy, and distorted, it's a sound that's been used fifty billion times already, but we do need to focus on "dark", right?»). Say what you will, but Beyoncé is simply not enough interesting either as an «artist» or as a «human being» to save it all just on the strength of conceptuality and atmosphere. She is nowhere near «proverbially dumb», of course, but neither is she some sort of modern day Kate Bush, Joni Mitchell, or even Lauryn Hill. In pitching for this sort of maturity, she over­stepped her boundaries, and made a record which, while striving to be «respectable», has ultima­tely landed in the area of «dull». As entertainment, this does not even begin holding a candle to B'Day; as «serious art», I have a hard time understanding why I should be spending my time trying to digest it as such.

Naturally, for someone whose musical world does not extend far beyond the likes of Beyoncé, The Black Album might be a spiritual revelation — more power to you if it helps you become a better human being, or solve your conjugal sex problems, or whatever else. But it'd be even better if it helped such people understand that there might be a better musical world out there some­where: like Amazon.com says, «if you liked this album, you might also like...» — not making any suggestions here, of course, just a small hint at the reason for which I am giving the album quite a violent thumbs down here. And this does not negate the fact that she does have a very cute, adorable daughter, or that having wild sex with Jay-Z cannot serve as a basis for writing exciting songs. It can! It just didn't, that's all.

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Ayreon: The Theory Of Everything

AYREON: THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING (2013)

CD I: Phase I: Singularity: 1) Prologue: The Black Board; 2) The Theory Of Everything, Part 1; 3) Patterns; 4) The Pro­di­gy's World; 5) The Teacher's Discovery; 6) Love And Envy; 7) Progressive Waves; 8) The Gift; 9) The Eleventh Dimension; 10) Inertia; 11) The Theory Of Everything; Phase II: Symmetry: 12) The Consultation; 13) Diagnosis; 14) The Argument; 15) The Rival's Dilemma; 16) Surface Tension; 17) A Reason To Live; 18) Potential; 19) Quantum Chaos; 20) Dark Medicine; 21) Alive!; 22) The Pre­dic­tion.

CD II: Phase III: Entanglement: 1) Fluctuations; 2) Transformation; 3) Collision; 4) Side Effects; 5) Frequency Mo­dulation; 6) Magnetism; 7) Quid Pro Quo; 8) String Theory; 9) Fortune?; Phase IV: Unification: 10) Mirror Of Dre­ams; 11) The Lighthouse; 12) The Argument; 13) The Parting; 14) The Visitation; 15) The Breakthrough; 16) The Note; 17) The Uncertainty Principle; 18) Dark Energy; 19) The Theory Of Everything, Part 3; 20) The Blackboard (Reprise).

Well, I guess that if it was inevitable for a concept album about «the theory of everything» to be produced in the first place, it might have also been inevitable that Arjen Lucassen would have to be the mastermind behind it. Let's face it, after all the Universal Migrators and Human Equa­tions there was simply nowhere left to run but to the very top of the tower. This is the album to end all albums, the ultimate in the ultimate, Ayreon's Lifehouse, Topographic Oceans, and Mahler's 9th all rolled in one. A single listen to all four sides in a row will give you the intellect of a Stephen Hawking, two listens will empower you to rule the world, and a final third run will, beyond all reasonable doubt, allow you to reweave the fabric of the universe at your whim. But remember — only supreme, absolute concentration will get you anywhere with this, and it takes intellectual skill, psychological training, and a really high degree of tolerance for kindergarten-le­vel sci-fi anecdotes to immerse yourself, freely and lovingly, in the world of Ayreon.

I must say, though, that I honestly admire how high the man has managed to raise the stakes. The very fact of The Theory Of Everything being yet another double-CD rock opera is not surpri­sing, but this may be the most cohesive, story-dependent, and ideologically ambitious project in Ayreon history so far, and among the usual horde of guests to help the artist bring it to fruition, there are no less than four prog veterans: Rick Wakeman plays piano throughout and has an «old school» synth solo on ʽSurface Tensionʼ, Keith Emerson has an astral Moog solo on ʽProgressive Wavesʼ, Steve Hackett adds a guitar solo on ʽThe Partingʼ, and John Wetton sings the important part of The Psychiatrist. Not to mention, of course, all the innumerable singers and players from newer, somewhat less legendary prog and metal outfits (Dream Theater, Nightwish, Lacuna Coil etc.) — ol' man Lucassen has lost none of his supernatural gravitational charisma.

The story itself needs no retelling and can be partially deduced from simply glancing at the song titles — speaking of which, the «songs» themselves are really just small individual parts of four lengthy suites («Singularity», «Symmetry», «Entanglement», «Unification»), with track separa­tion engineered the way it is usually done with classical operas in the CD age. The story seems to be drawing its inspiration as much from A Beautiful Mind as it does from Tommy, and has all the complexity, originality, and general appeal of a second-rate comic book. The lyrics are best left alone, and I mean it, really. Let me just give you a couple samples: "(Prodigy:) A grand design in all its majesty / Vibrating strings, quantum gravity / Why was I chosen? / What does it mean to me? / Tell me why!" Or this: "(Rival:) One day I'll show them / I am the genius / One day the whole world will know / One day I'll show them / Who he really is / One day they'll know". Per­sonally, I think there'd have been no harm in jettisoning a few of the guest musicians and using the money to hire a good librettist instead. But it's really all about the music, right?

Well, here comes the nasty part. The music behind all this is... sort of a very typical, very smooth, very predictable Ayreon sound. Not particularly heavy, although some tracks are well within the limits of «power metal» stylistics; highly influenced by Celtic and other folk traditions; well stocked up on electronics, since a proper, well-behaved «theory of everything» should be able to look both to the past and to the future; professionally-impeccably played and sung. But, just like on the previous Ayreon album, there are no musical ideas here that would justify the «progres­sive» tag — some of the riffs may be «new» from a purely technical point, yet the ideology be­hind them is strictly conservative. If there is any bar at all to be raised on The Theory Of Every­thing, it is only the self-satisfaction bar. It may well be so that, listening back to those tapes, Lucassen finally said to himself — «here is the album I've always aspired to make, where every­thing is in its right place and all the ingredients are mixed in just the right proportions». So now you, the listener, can simply chuck all the previous Ayreon albums out the window and satisfy yourself with this one. Heck, maybe you can chuck all your albums out the window, period — this is The Theory Of Everything, after all, isn't it?

My biggest problem is with the «rock opera» approach: all the pieces being so short, it is hard to get focused on any particular one. In the classical paradigm, even the most story-dependent, plot-driven operas usually have their individual overtures, arias, and interludes that stand out like par­ticularly bright brushstrokes on a monotonous canvas. Here, apart from one or two recurrent themes (like the Jethro Tull-style guitar/flute title theme), the trivial plot overshadows everything, and, since it is downright impossible to empathize with the grossly cartoonish «characters» that would probably be rejected even by Japan's cheesiest anime studios, the «extra-melodic» factors do not compensate for the auxiliary nature of the music. Which is a pity, because somehow I feel that at the core of this sprawl, lies a potentially decent 40-minute instrumental album, with frien­dly guest contributions from Wakeman, Emerson, and Hackett, a few memorable themes, and re­latively tasteful arrangements that combine impressive playing technique with moral restraint, not letting the whole thing run into an Yngwie Malmsteen flying circus extravaganza. But the «rock opera to end all rock operas» fetish just does not let me verify this.

It must be said, however, that finally we have a musical composition named ʽString Theoryʼ that is entirely dependent on... guess what? Yes, that's right, the entire world of science has spent half a century wondering when exactly the essence of the theory would finally be encapsulated in a ninety-second string quartet retelling. Two problems, though: (a) the track also relies on synthe­sizers, ruining the purity of the experiment; (b) where the hell is ʽSuperstring Theoryʼ, with all the guest musicians pulling out their violins and finally delivering that «lost chord» which Pete Townshend himself was unable to find?

Granted, I even feel a little sorry that such an ambitious project, upon completion, has largely remained limited to specialized audiences and publicity sources — even the All-Music Guide has failed to provide an appropriate review, and the record has mostly been picked up on by various metal-oriented magazines, which is not justified at all, since it is not at all a metal album. Then again, there is no use pretending, either, that a rock album called The Theory Of Everything can be perceived as anything other than (a) intentionally humorous or (b) unintentionally ridiculous, and since Ayreon is very rarely (a), that this here is most likely a case of solid (b). The only thing that, from my point of view, excuses Lucassen is that the man combines the qualities of a fana­tical whacko and a hard-working professional. And, from that angle, The Theory Of Everything is one of the whackiest and the most professional records he ever made. The kind of crap that you just don't come across on a daily basis — like a white rhino's, or something like that.

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Big Black: Songs About Fucking

BIG BLACK: SONGS ABOUT FUCKING (1987)

1) The Power Of Independent Trucking; 2) The Model; 3) Bad Penny; 4) L Dopa; 5) Precious Thing; 6) Colombian Necktie; 7) Kitty Empire; 8) Ergot; 9) Kasimir S. Pulaski Day; 10) Fish Fry; 11) Pavement Saw; 12) Tiny, King Of The Jews; 13) Bombastic Intro; 14) He's A Whore.

And by «fucking», Steve Albini, of course, conveys all the possible meanings of the word, literal as well as figurative. The album title may sound a little exploitative these days, but it fits the music, the lyrical subjects, the atmosphere fairly well — at the very least, it's a much more appro­priate title than Songs About Making Love or Songs About Sleeping Together, which wouldn't be a Big Black-ish title at all.

Ideologically, the record never departs far enough from the internal logic of Atomizer, the basic formula remaining the same — jarring, aurally disturbing guitar tones, deranged vocals, and sto­ries of various types of sick fucks (particularly truckers — Albini seems to have a special bone against the honest trucker, as if he'd spent all his childhood being molested on the highway). But since these stories come in all sorts of different varieties, this keeps the moods and melodies fresh and diverse enough to make up for another thirty minutes of stimulating musique-noire entertain­ment. Even though this time around, there is no central masterpiece like ʽKeroseneʼ to act as a reliable anchor, and all the dirty vignettes just roam around in a slightly disconcerting manner.

At least one of the creative decisions is quite bizarre, but fascinating: I have no idea how the band came around to covering Kraftwerk's ʽThe Modelʼ, a song that originally made perfect sense as a part of The Man Machine, with its electronic equation of a glamor model with a human robot — here, electronic futurism is replaced with BDSM guitars, so that the story of the submissive model ends up on the same plane of being as the story of the fornicating tru­cker and the story of the Colombian necktie. Additionally, we get good proof that Albini's «clang guitar» can be used fairly well to play pop-style lead melodies, even if the whole thing is more of an ironic experi­ment than a serious attempt to branch out.

Slightly more serious are some experiments on the second side of the album, which Albini would later describe as relative failures, at least in relation to the more spontaneous, free-flowing, punky songs on the first side. In particular, ʽKitty Empireʼ stomps along like some sort of arrogant «pro­gressive hardcore» epic, taking the life experience of «King Cat» as a likely allegory for some­thing less cuddly and cutesy and pinning it to a slow-moving, grinding industrial nightmare that gradually builds up in intensity, then cuts out abruptly just as you were beginning to hope for an apocalyptic climax. But as «epic» as it tries to be, the song is just too monotonous to overwhelm the senses — and no matter what they say about him, «King Cat» just does not sound like a scary enough personage to perfectly match the brutal repetitive riff pattern of the song. Maybe ʽGoblin Empireʼ might have been a better fit, but that'd be too much fantasy for these guys.

Much more effective, I think, is ʽFish Fryʼ, also on the second side, which contains the album's most daring piece of art news — a story of a murderer hosing his truck after chucking the dead body out in a nearby pond — and sets it to one of the album's most head-wrecking melodies, where Albini's mutilation of his high strings is like a manipulation of sharp psychedelic needles twitching in your brain; even by Big Black's usual standards, the song is an impressive bit of psychological-physiological torture. Lyrically less explicit, but musically even crazier, though, is ʽErgotʼ, where Albini is trying to provide the musical equivalent of a particularly violent on­slaught of St. Anthony's Fire — you'd have to consult an actual sufferer to understand how close he got to achieving the right effect, but if you listen to this stuff loud enough in headphones, twitching and occasional spasms are near-guaranteed.

That said, it is terribly hard to dedicate space, time, and opinions to individual songs on here, even if most of them do have their own individuality — like the seven deadly sins, or the indivi­dual members of the Manson Family. So let me just conclude by saying that, on the whole, the album is a little deeper, a little more ambitious, a little more image-risking than its predecessor, but possibly not quite as directly hard-hitting, either. And that's good — considering that Big Black only managed to release two original studio albums, this gives a good opportunity for the fans to live their lives fighting over which one is closer to «the true Big Black». Personally, I can­not decide, so I just give the whole album another thumbs up, despite the fact that I'd certainly refuse to answer the question «do you really like Songs About Fucking?» in a straightforward manner — it's a trick sort of question.

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Billy Joel: Cold Spring Harbor

BILLY JOEL: COLD SPRING HARBOR (1971)

1) She's Got A Way; 2) You Can Make Me Free; 3) Everybody Loves You Now; 4) Why Judy Why; 5) Falling Of The Rain; 6) Turn Around; 7) You Look So Good To Me; 8) Tomorrow Is Today; 9) Nocturne; 10) Got To Begin Again.

One would be hard pressed to think of a more confused and silly-running beginning of a profes­sional career than Billy Joel's. So you have just formed one of the strangest combos in rock music and released one of the most maligned and ridiculed albums of all time, and you really have no one to blame for that but yourself. So what is your next move? Naturally, to elope with the wife of your drummer (Elizabeth Small / Joel, whom Billy would marry in 1972 and divorce ten years later when she got too old for him, a process that he subseuqently put in replay mode). When this, too, somehow failed to bring him artistic success, Billy started feeling like a brokedown table — and drank a whole bottle of furniture polish to remedy the situation.

Had he succeeded in that, B. J. would have forever remained in our hearts and souls as the «Meat Locker Hun», a perennial scarecrow to shoo novices away from dangerous musical excesses and distorted organ overdosing. Fortunately, the good fairy intervened at the last moment and turned the furniture polish into a 20th century equivalent of Brangäne's Love Potion: overnight, Billy woke up with a sick stomach and the tender, sentimental spirit of a romantic balladeer. No more ridiculous «hard rock» for yesterday's Hun — in July 1971 he was back in the studio, recording his first «proper» album for the soft-rock / folk-pop market.

Cold Spring Harbor is kind of a special record in the hearts of some of the fans. Although it is not really «transitional», since it pretty much lays down all the foundations of the Billy Joel for­mula for centuries to come, it still has its own distinct personality — the relative sparseness of arrangements, where, all too often, it is just Billy and his piano, sets it apart from the full-band style of Piano Man and subsequent releases, so we have sort of an Intimate Portrait of the Bud­ding Artist here. Or maybe it's just the fact that he still got his moustache, I'm not really sure. In any case, there are backing musicians (such as Richard Bennett, Neil Diamond's resident accom­panyist, on guitar; Emory Gordy Jr. on bass, etc.), but they are really only there to save the record from becoming too monotonous.

Of which there is a serious danger, since Billy's commitment to modern-day troubadour aesthe­tics is fairly unidirectional. Completely jettisoning his «psychedelic rock» persona, he now declares an open love for sweet piano pop in all of its forms — hearkening back to pre-war vaudeville and Hoagy Carmichael as much as being influenced by Carole King, Paul McCartney, and that whole newly nascent merger of pop, folk, country, and watered-down rock which, by 1971, had already became one of the most popular types of music in mainstream entertainment. Furthermore, Billy selects the «starry-eyed», «heart-on-sleeve» attitude rather than the self-consciously ironic or hyper-intellectualized approaches — nothing that would particularly appeal to fans of, say, Randy Newman or Joni Mitchell.

Under these conditions, the only thing that can save one's music is raw talent — playing, singing, composing, or, better still, any of these combined. The problem is that, on all these scales, Cold Spring Harbor registers as «okay». In the playing department, Billy's self-taught technique is impressive (he certainly spent far more time practicing than McCartney), but not enough to put him over any particular top — the instrumental ʽNocturneʼ, for instance, is not likely to make Chopin roll over, making its point with persistent repetition of the theme rather than throwing in any intricate variations. As a singer, he certainly earns more respect here than with Attila, and his tones and phrasing suit his melodies fairly adequately (it would have been much worse if he'd tried to pull off a Neil Diamond), but the voice lacks «that certain something» to carve out its own niche — as much as I like to poke fun at something like Neil Young's whiny soundwaves, they at least have their own personality, whereas the presence of any sort of «personality» in the ballads of Cold Spring Harbor (or any of its follow-ups, for that matter) is under doubt.

What remains are the melodies themselves: Billy's chief claim to fame — yet they, too, give the impression of «competence» rather than «genius». A song like ʽShe's Got A Wayʼ has all the ex­ternal signs of a gorgeous love ballad, but falls quite a few slices short of a loaf, earning the liste­ner's love with atmosphere rather than chord sequences or elegant, admirably symmetric const­ruction of the vocal melody. You'd think there'd have to at least be some sort of an explosion in the bridge / refrain, but there is none, other than a slight pitch rise on the final "...I get turned around", which is basically just a simple cop-out of an unsolved problem, so it seems. The result is a «pretty», not too annoying, tune that never truly reaches for those strings that lead directly to the seat of emotions — and I'd probably rather take something as simple as Paul McCartney's ʽWarm And Beautifulʼ (a little-remembered tune from Wings At The Speed Of Sound) over this, as well as just about any other ballad on the album.

As it happens, Cold Spring Harbor wouldn't even begin making it into my personal Top 100 chart for 1971 (to be fair, nor did it with the general public at the time, although Billy himself used to ascribe this to an unfortunate incident in which the tapes were slightly sped up during the vinyl transfer, making him sound like a bit of a chipmunk — since the reissue, this has been cor­rected, but who really knows? maybe the record was more fun that way). In fact, it is a record that almost invites you to despise it: mediocre, generic, striving for lofty heights with trivial means, and I have not even begun to talk about the lyrics. (ʽTomorrow Is Todayʼ is said to be Billy's re­collection of the furniture polish incident — "Made my bed, I'm gonna lie in it / If you don't come, I'm sure gonna die in it" is quite a furniture-polish-level couple of lines, to be sure).

Still, somehow, somewhere, just like Attila ended up surprisingly better than its reputation, Cold Spring Harbor also exudes a certain mystical charm that prevents me from cringing all the way through. Maybe it's a matter of production — all this minimalist flair, with minimal orchestration (Artie Ripp, the guy responsible for the speeding-up mistake, originally added orchestration to ʽTomorrow Is Todayʼ, but Billy later removed it). Maybe it's because some of the simple little vocal hooks — very simple little hooks — that Billy adds to sapfests like ʽYou Can Make Me Freeʼ or ʽTurn Aroundʼ are delivered in an accordingly simple manner: no pomp means no hate. But most of all, maybe it is because Cold Spring Harbor is very much a «homebrewn» affair: unlike, say, a Neil Diamond album or a Carpenters album, you do not get the feeling of The Big Corporate Machine backing up Billy's moustache. It's his own game here, sincerely conceived and honestly laid down. «Poor man's Paul McCartney / poor man's Elton John», for sure, but at this stage, this is at least an honestly poor man trying to lay down his feelings as best he can (and doing tolerably well), not a spoiled ugly millionaire divorcing his third wife.

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Blue Cheer: Live & Unreleased '68-'74

BLUE CHEER: LIVE & UNRELEASED '68-'74 (1968-1974; 1996)

1) Summertime Blues; 2) Out Of Focus; 3) Doctor Please; 4) Fighting Star; 5) Adventures; 6) Make It To The Party; 7) New Orleans; 8) Ace In The Hole; 9) Punk.

Naysayers may say their nays in their gayly ways, but Blue Cheer are still sort of a «legend», and every «legend» presumably deserves a set of archive releases, and any set of archive releases is worth at least a brief mention and a sample, and I assume that Live & Unreleased '68-'74 is as good a sample as any to try and convince the audience that nobody really needs to hear, own, or seriously discuss Blue Cheer archive releases. But sure, they deserve all the archive releases they can get, if somebody is willing to invest.

This package, released quite a while ago, is bluecheerfully messy in that it combines two abso­lutely different things — three live performances of Vincebus Eruptum material by the original Blue Cheer, and then a set of six studio tracks that were recorded, but left in the can by a short-lived version of the band in 1974, which included Ruben de Fuentes on guitar and Terry Rae on drums. Apparently they just happened to find themselves in a studio one day without a record contract, and twenty-two years later, we were informed.

The live tracks (first two taken from the Steve Allen TV show, third one God knows from where) are played very close to the studio arrangements, although ʽDoctor Pleaseʼ is further extended by two more minutes of noise, chaos, and feedback: dynamic and spirited, but adding nothing to the studio experience, while the sound quality is totally abysmal. Best thing about the whole deal is Steve Allen announcing, "the Blue Cheer... run for your life!" at the end of the first track — a com­mentary that says it all, whether you want to take it seriously or sarcastically.

Surprisingly, sound quality does not get any better on the studio material from 1974, suggesting that the tapes had spent those twenty-two years in somebody's damp basement, or maybe Dickie was using them as wrap-ups for his personal stash. The material does, however, fill in an im­portant know­ledge gap: as you remember, Oh! Pleasant Hope ended the band's early career on an unusual «roots-rock» note, while The Beast Is... Back reinvented them more than a decade later as a heavy metal outfit — this particular pit stop shows that already by 1974 Peterson had completely cleared his head from all that «folksy» nonsense, returning to a heavy, pub-rock ori­ented sound that recalls Slade or early Rocka Rolla-era Judas Priest. From here, it would only be a matter of adding an extra layer of distortion and glossy pop metal production to get to the even­tual sound of The Beast.

However, the songs themselves are uniformly dull — uninventive blues-rock with just enough competence to make it listenable, but nothing to make it stand out from all the competition. The cover of ʽNew Orleansʼ does not work at all, because combining the song's original party cheer­fulness with an aggressive hard rock sound makes as much sense as trying to put salt in your chocolate — and it is still more memorable than all the other tunes put together, although, gran­ted, the impression may be exacerbated simply because of the dreadful bootleg-quality murk of the sonic flow. At any rate, it is hardly the fault of Ruben de Fuentes, who seems to honestly try to get the best out of his typically mid-1970s hard rock guitar. But whatever be the situation, Live & Unreleased is clearly recommendable only for the staunchest fan of the band; for everybody else, it is as good a thumbs down as any.

Bob Dylan: Knocked Out Loaded

BOB DYLAN: KNOCKED OUT LOADED (1986)

1) You Wanna Ramble; 2) They Killed Him; 3) Driftin' Too Far From Shore; 4) Precious Memories; 5) Maybe Someday; 6) Brownsville Girl; 7) Got My Mind Made Up; 8) Under Your Spell.

It would take more time to type up the names of all the musicians responsible for this record than to listen to all of its thirty-five minutes — two ominous signs for Dylan, whose best records have always tended to be recorded over brief periods, with minimal staff, and run for far longer than the usual 40-45 minutes; the «country-western» period of 1968-70 being a notable and perfectly intentional exception. But Knocked Out Loaded is not even a proper album, in a way. It con­sists of outtakes from previous sessions, throwaway pieces hastily and fuzzily knocked out (loaded) with members of Tom Petty's band during rehearsal breaks on the True Confessions tour, and a random selection of covers by various people, without any organizing principles or quality con­trol. Whatever in the world made Bob want to put this stuff out as his next LP is beyond me. Out-of-control drug and alcohol consumption on the tour seems to be out of the question, but so far, this sounds like the optimal explanation anyway.

Without Sly and Robbie at the wheel, the record sounds less electronic and «plastic» than Em­pire Burlesque, but its heavy reliance on synthesizers, echoes, and monotonous paid-by-the-book gospel background vocals, somehow ensures that everything is even more tired and boring than it used to be. The rock'n'roll numbers have no drive, the ballads have no feeling, and the melodic hooks are not even an active topic. You'd think that a Dylan/Petty collaboration, of all things, could have gone down real well (especially in the light of the Traveling Wilburys' revival just a couple years later), but ʽGot My Mind Made Upʼ turns out to be just a semi-improvised blues-rock jam without any redeeming qualities, other than maybe some nifty, but noisy acoustic slide playing, and even that is dissolved in the grayish production.

At least once the whole story borders on the ridiculous: Dylan covering Kris Kristofferson's fresh­ly written ʽThey Killed Himʼ, a young-adult retelling of the uneasy common fates of Mahat­ma Mohandas Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and Jesus Christ Superstar. The song is trite from each and every point of view, melody and lyrics included; at least in the days of Self Portrait, Bob used to come up with interesting rearranging and artistic twists to justify inclusion of such material, but this is downright crazy — why take a bad song and cover it if you do absolutely nothing to compensate for the corny atmosphere? Then again, it was barely a year since Bob took part in the ʽWe Are The Worldʼ embarrassment (although that one at least made some sense in that some of the money went to charity; ʽThey Killed Himʼ will only begin making sense when Bob decides to throw in an extra verse on Kenny, but I don't know how well he gets along with South Park these days).

The one song that, in stark contrast with the rest of this «album», has usually gotten rave reviews was ʽBrownsville Girlʼ (formerly ʽNew Danville Girlʼ, as the tune dates back to the Empire Burlesque sessions). Its format is certainly unusual — not only does it return us to Dylan's «epic» length that we haven't really seen since the days of ʽJoeyʼ, but it also features alternating, «clashing» sets of lyrics that revolve around several sets of memories, one of which involves a movie starring Gregory Peck; ironically tinged «taunts» from Dylan's backup singers from time to time; and some sax solos that add some sort of muscular Springsteen grandeur to the procee­dings. In a different age, this could have worked. Unfortunately, the sound of the song is just as colorless and mucky as everything else on here — big stupid drums, meaningless guitar and key­board rhythms, echo and reverb all over the place, and a bombastic chorus whose bombast is only slightly louder than the bombast of everything else, so do not really hope for a grappling build-up effect. It is certainly an intriguing tune when compared to everything else around it, but truly that is not saying much.

Thumbs down, of course, although calling this «the worst Dylan album ever» or at least a wor­thy candidate and shooting fat fish in a tiny barrel would be acts of comparable importance — like I said, this isn't even a proper «album», more like an uninteresting drunk escapade of which Bob himself might not be retaining any particular memories. Had he ever stated that the songs were released by Columbia without his approval (again!), I think nobody would have a hard time believing him. Like that silly album from 1973, it is best to forget Knocked Out Loaded, as an object that adds nothing credibly positive or starkly negative to the man's legacy. Even the album sleeve is probably the silliest picture in Dylanology.

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Buddy Holly: Down The Line

BUDDY HOLLY: DOWN THE LINE (1948-1959/2009)

CD I: 1) My Two-Timin' Woman; 2) Footprints In The Snow; 3) Flower Of My Heart; 4) Door To My Heart; 5) Soft Place In My Heart; 6) Gotta Get You Near Me Blues; 7) I Gambled My Heart; 8) You And I Are Through; 9) Down The Line; 10) Baby, Let's Play House; 11) Moonlight Baby (Baby, Won't You Come Out Tonight); 12) I Guess I Was Just A Fool; 13) Don't Come Back Knockin'; 14) Love Me; 15) Gone; 16) Gone [alternate take]; 17) Have You Ever Been Lonely [alternate take]; 18) Have You Ever Been Lonely; 19) Brown-Eyed Handsome Man; 20) Good Rockin' Tonight; 21) Rip It Up; 22) Blue Monday; 23) Honky Tonk; 24) Blue Suede Shoes; 25) Shake Rattle and Roll [partial]; 26) Bo Diddley; 27) Ain't Got No Home; 28) Holly Hop.

CD II: 1) Last Night [undubbed]; 2) Not Fade Away [partial alternate overdub]; 3) Peggy Sue [alternate take]; 4) Oh Boy! [undubbed]; 5) That's My Desire; 6) Take Your Time; 7) Fool's Paradise [alternate take]; 8) Fool's Paradise [undubbed master]; 9) Fool's Paradise [alternate #2 undubbed]; 10) Think It Over [take 1]; 11) Think It Over [take 2]; 12) Think It Over [take 3]; 13) Love's Made A Fool Of You [undubbed]; 14) That'll Be The Day (Greetings To Bob Thiele); 15) That'll Be The Day (Greetings To Murray Deutsch); 16) That's What They Say (With Fragment); 17) What To Do; 18) Peggy Sue Got Married; 19) That Makes It Tough; 20) Crying, Waiting, Hoping; 21) Learning The Game; 22) Wait Till The Sun Shines Nellie; 23) Slippin' And Slidin' [slow version #1]; 24) Slippin' And Slidin' [slow version #2]; 25) Slippin' And Slidin' [fast version]; 26) Buddy & Maria Elena Talking In Apartment (Dia­logue); 27) Dearest [fragment]; 28) Dearest; 29) Untitled Instrumental; 30) Love Is Strange; 31) Smokey Joe's Café.

While this package is not completely-thoroughly exhaustive, as any serious Holly fan will tell you, it contains everything and much more than the «average Joe», interested in taking a serious glance at Buddy's underwater part of the iceberg, would ever want to hear. In fact, everybody's best bet at a comprehensive Buddy-shrine would probably be to own one of the larger, multi-disc collections of «official» stuff, and this double-CD package of rarities (many of them officially released for the first time here) as a supporting companion.

All the tracks are arranged here in strict chronological order — to such an extent that Disc 1 is properly «The Formative Years» and Disc 2 is «The Blossom Years» (just two of them, really, from early 1957 to early 1959). Sound quality ranges from unlistenable, especially on the earliest recordings, to decent on the later ones, but most importantly, everything is undubbed — inclu­ding «The Apartment Demos», which, up until 2009, could only be heard in their original form with the aid of your local friendly bootlegger. Not that a song like ʽCrying, Waiting, Hopingʼ is really supposed to be so very much better in its demo form than in the studio-completed Crickets arrangement (with «echo» vocals and everything) — but it goes without saying that one should have free access to the original artist version as well.

The first disc is interesting mostly in «journey» terms. The first track is a home recording of a 12-year old Buddy playing guitar and singing Hank Snow's ʽMy Two-Timin' Womanʼ — the voice not yet broken, a delightful kiddie soprano that duly disappears five years later on the second track, ʽFootprints In The Snowʼ. Recording quality for these home tapes is abysmal, but it's a mi­racle they exist at all — apparently, Buddy borrowed a wire recorder from a friend who worked in a music shop for the Hank Snow cover, and the results managed to survive.

Later on, several tracks document the «Buddy & Bob» duo — a bunch of country and bluegrass tunes that, as a rule, are rather facelessly played, sung, and recorded, but hardly «bad» for high school entertainment level (it seems that most of them were self-penned as well, scoring them additional points for derivative creativity). The transition occurs by the time they reach the last of these: ʽDown The Lineʼ, which gives the name to the entire compilation, is where they make the definitive move from country-western to rockabilly aesthetics (odd as it is, the song has nothing to do with Roy Orbison's own ʽDown The Lineʼ, which would only be released one year later, in 1956 rather than June 1955). No wonder — Elvis had just left the building.

From there onwards, the rest of Disc 1 mostly consists of Buddy hitting on everyone: Elvis, Chuck, Little Richard, Bo Diddley, etc., gradually groping for his own style, but certainly not finding it all at once — he even goes as far as to cover Clarence "Frogman" Henry's ʽAin't Got No Homeʼ, despite having no qualification whatsoever to match the Frogman's vocal «talents», but it's actually a good thing, since no one would probably want to see Holly stuck in the role of a voice clown, mimicking little girls and lonely frogs all his life.

As Disc 2 rolls along, we finally emerge from the stage of «intriguing historical document» and get rewarded by demos, alternate versions, and rehearsal takes of the real classic stuff. Some of these are a bit of an overkill, e. g. three consecutive versions of ʽThink It Overʼ — a classic num­ber all right, but not exactly a ʽStrawberry Fields Foreverʼ for us to be so much interested in the slowly unfurling story of its creation. But the acoustic «Apartment Demos», without any echo effects on Buddy's voice or electric rhythm parts obscuring the man's original melodies, are quite a treasure — the only thing I am not sure about is the inclusion of three and a half minutes of conversation between Buddy and his wife in the same apartment, which I tend to skip because it makes you feel uneasy, like spying on the man's underwear. Studio chatter during work hours is one thing, but this here is kinda personal. (Besides, Maria Elena's croaky Puerto Rican laughter is only marginally more irritating than Buddy's Texan guffaw, if you'll excuse me for these slurry particularities). Additionally, there is a fast version of ʽSlippin' and Slidin'ʼ here, showing that Buddy probably gave up on the bad idea of slowing down the song before forgetting about it al­together; an undubbed ʽLove Is Strangeʼ, notorious for having once served as Buddy's last «ori­ginal» minor chart entry as late as 1969; and even a cover of ʽSmokey Joe's Caféʼ, showcasing the man's interest in the comical (Robins/Coasters) side of Atlantic R&B — or maybe just in the songwriting talents of Leiber & Stoller.

All in all, for «historical and cultural significance», this package gets a natural thumbs up, but do keep in mind that its «entertainment value» is limited — I seriously doubt that anybody would want to listen to the first disc more than once, and the «golden core» of the second disc altogether takes up about twenty minutes, not more: the rest is all alternate takes, false starts, jingles, and oddities. On the other hand, considering that Buddy's artistic evolution was arguably one of the most interesting musical stories of the early rock'n'roll movement, there is hardly another Fifties' rock'n'roller of the same caliber that would be more deserving of such an intelligently assembled package. And, come to think of it, was there another Fifties' rock'n'roller that had the luck to be captured on tape at the tender age of twelve?

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Beyoncé: 4

BEYONCÉ: 4 (2011)

1) 1 + 1; 2) I Care; 3) I Miss You; 4) Best Thing I Never Had; 5) Party; 6) Rather Die Young; 7) Start Over; 8) Love On Top; 9) Countdown; 10) End Of Time; 11) I Was Here; 12) Run The World (Girls); 13) Dreaming; 14) Lay Up Under Me; 15) Schoolin' Life; 16) Dance For You.

Beyoncé Knowles may be dumb, but she's not stupid. Or vice versa. Whatever. In 2010, she pub­licly confessed to «killing Sasha Fierce», saying that she was mature enough to merge both per­sonalities — a glamorized way of admitting that the whole idea just sucked, I think, and that the producers did a boring job on the first half and a muckjob on the second. To atone for somebody else's sins, she now decides to move from «conceptually serious» to «spiritually authentic». A right decision if there ever was one, but... too late, too late.

The main ideology behind 4 was to make a good old-fashioned R&B album. Not a sampler's de­light, not an electro-pop extravaganza, not a technofest, but a record that would actually bring in some refreshing retro flavor. You know — real musicians blowing real horns, strumming real guitars, a real emotional singer channeling that gospel spirit to hit high notes at full power, that whole deal. The one that made a star out of Aretha Franklin and... uh... Diana Ross? Tina Turner seems a little too far out for Beyoncé's careful imagemaking. «Wild wild» does not get you nearly as many fans, in terms of sheer quantity, as «gentle wild».

However, as you may well guess, there are several problems here that are really hard to beat. First, the trendy keyboards, digital procedures, loops, overdubs, Jay-Z raps, and unbearably repe­titive choruses are not really going anywhere. Understandably, Beyoncé did not want to make a thoroughly «retro» album, but rather one that would look forward to the future by means of looking back at the past — a sensible decision for any progressive artist, provided the futuristic component is every bit the worthy rival of the nostalgic layer. But what good is it when a typical­ly Seventies' piano melody is married to a programmed beat and an assortment of carefully sliced, wrapped, and weighted vocal strips?

And the worst thing about it, she can get it right when she really puts her heart into it. ʽLove On Topʼ may be utterly derivative of Stevie Wonder in the verses (and of the Jackson 5 in the chorus, for that matter — her pitch on "you're the one I NEED!" is just plain old little Michael), but it may be the only Beyoncé song in the world that I can freely enjoy from first to last note, with a wonderful groove and chorus that give off happy shiny vibes without sounding too self-conscious or self-important. The song could use a little less obviousness in the production department, for sure (those bass keyboards are way too adult contemporary, although Stevie did use a lot of them in the 1980s), but in terms of melody and sheer emotion, it is beyond any complaints I could think about. The build-up, the come-down, everything perfect.

On the other hand, this is the same album that gave us ʽRun The World (Girls)ʼ, which might just be the worst, tackiest, silliest idea for a single — further developing the «aerobics-as-art» line of ʽSingle Ladiesʼ, only this time in an even more repetitive twist, and with a martial rhythm to boot: G.I. Beyoncé and her Girl Squad taking over the world. As «music», the song is a non-song; as «groove», the song belongs in the gym at best; as «feminism», I'd rather have Ani DiFranco, un­less this is actually supposed to be parodic (at least the video for the song definitely bordered on parody, going completely over the top with all of its «military» imagery).

The rest of the record fluctuates between these two points, never quite reaching the same high or sinking to the same low (although the power ballad ʽI Was Hereʼ, donated by none other than the Wicked Witch of the West herself — Diane Warren, sounds just like any other Diane Warren song). The songs that are intentionally retro-oriented are generally listenable — ʽ1 + 1ʼ works as an old torch ballad, tastefully arranged (pipe organ!) and interestingly sung, with Beyoncé taking cute little falsetto «dips» at line ends. But they are actually in the minority. More often, the «ret­ro» feel ends up confined to a few lyrical lines, like the James Dean reference in the appropriately lifeless ʽRather Die Youngʼ, or the "killing me softly" reference to Roberta Flack on ʽCount­downʼ, otherwise just a robotic dance groove.

Retro references aside, 4 gets a special reprimand for containing some of the lady's worst lyrics ever — every time she lays it down on Jay-Z, we get deeply poetic lines like "still love the way he rock them black diamonds in that chain", and songs like ʽPartyʼ do nothing but solidify the stereotype of «spoiled rags-to-riches mentality» for the general public. You have to appreciate, of course, the lady's being so honest with us — her and her folks are rich, posh, decadent, loving it, and giving the people exactly what they want. But for every ounce of real feeling that a song like ʽ1 + 1ʼ is working its ass off to generate, a song like ʽPartyʼ produces two ounces of disgusted counterfeeling. And what is the point of turning "Who run the world? Girls!" into a mind-numb­ing mantra, if on approximately half of the rest of the tunes she is explicitly "giving you my life, it's in your hands"? "Not only are you loyal, you're patient with me, baby"? ʽDance For Youʼ is neither feminist nor «humanly» sexy — above all else, it sounds like a properly wound-up auto­maton for mechanical sexual satisfaction. (At least Prince could make it sound humorous).

In the end, this is just another failure to break out of the exoskeleton. ʽLove On Topʼ accidentally comes close to artistic escape, and I have learned to really enjoy ʽ1 + 1ʼ, but the rest is too full of clichés and stereotypes, too market-oriented, too safe-playing, and too swamped with legions of faceless corporate «musicians», «songwriters», and «producers» to even begin matching the sur­realist claims made by the artist: "I wanted classic songwriting... bolder than the music on my previous albums... really focused on songs being classics, songs that would last..." — every time I re-read that original statement, the only thing that springs up in my head, for some reason, is the line "me and my boo and my boo boo riding" from ʽCountdownʼ, and I cannot help but wonder exactly how long a line like that would «last» in the musical world. Thumbs down.

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Belle And Sebastian: The Third Eye Centre

BELLE AND SEBASTIAN: THE THIRD EYE CENTRE (2004-2010/2013)

1) I'm A Cuckoo (Avalanches remix); 2) Suicide Girl; 3) Love On The March; 4) Last Trip; 5) Your Secrets; 6) Your Cover's Blown (Miaoux Miaoux remix); 7) I Took A Long Hard Look; 8) Heaven In The Afternoon; 9) Long Black Scarf; 10) The Eighth Station Of The Cross Kebab House; 11) I Didn't See It Coming (Richard X mix); 12) (I Beli­e­ve In) Travelin' Light; 13) Stop, Look And Listen; 14) Passion Fruit; 15) Desperation Made A Fool Of Me; 16) Blue Eyes Of A Millionaire; 17) Mr. Richard; 18) Meat And Potatoes; 19) The Life Pursuit.

Much to the fans' delight, Murdoch is quite compulsive-obsessive about his legacy. Less than a decade after Push Barman liberated them from the necessity of hunting for old, cobweb-covered EPs, The Third Eye Centre accurately dredges up most of the leftovers from the band's «up­beat pop» decade — B-sides, occasional remixes, and the EP Books from 2004. Obstinate observers did notice that the latter EP was represented only partially, and that several other rarities (mostly covers and additional remixes) were not present, either, but these are particularities, and Murdoch and Co. had his reasons. Like Barman, this album was clearly made to be listened to for enjoy­ment purposes, not just as a historical document. But is it enjoyable?

Well, no more and no less than the «average» B&S record. Actually, maybe just a little less, be­cause most of the remixes, curious as they are, have more to do with the tastes and habits of the mixers than with B&S. You want a bona fide techno mix of ʽI Didn't See It Comingʼ? You got it, but you might just as well enjoy the techno-Vivaldi of Vanessa Mae. The Avalanches emerge from their long-term sleep to offer their own take on ʽI'm A Cuckooʼ, replete with flutes, accor­deons, and African tribal dancing: very much what we'd expect from the Avalanches and their passion for collage, but whether this collage makes any sense is debatable. ʽYour Cover's Blownʼ, from The Books EP, is also given here in an oddly sown electro-pop coat that makes all the «modernization» of the Belle & Sebastian sound on Write About Love microscopically unno­ticeable in comparison. But do they really need all those spaceship noises?

Of the «proper» songs, none turn out to be revelations, which is a little sad, because I did hope for at least a few monster pop hooks of ʽThe Blues Are Still Blueʼ caliber; but these are B-sides, after all, carefully crafted and hardworkingly produced, just not inspired enough, or else they'd been A-sides, I guess. ʽTravellin' Lightʼ, for instance, was cut from Dear Catastrophe Waitress — maybe because they thought it was too light: pretty, folksy, cloudy, charming, but a little too smooth in its flow to capture the required attention. ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ is a speedy country-rocker with echoes of Ray Davies and Gram Parsons — nice, but not exactly stirring up any hitherto unknown emotions.

There is a fair share of humorous oddities on the album as well, such as ʽMeat And Potatoesʼ, a generic quasi-doo-wop song with S&M-oriented lyrics, or ʽMr. Richardʼ, a lyrical tribute to Keith Richard in the form of a rock'n'roll arrangement of a Jamaican folk melody (I think). Yes, these guys do have a sense of musical humor, and it is understandable that they prefer their B-sides to be its primary carrier. ʽThe Eighth Station Of The Cross Kebab Houseʼ is also an oddity, but this time, somewhat darker in tone — a brief account of love on the occupied territories, based on the band's trip to the Holy Land, but, for some reason, set to a ska melody.

Overall, this is another essential compilation for the fans, but if you were not head over heels in love with Barman, Third Eye Centre will be even more of a disappointment — particularly compared to the flash and dazzle of the two major LPs that cover its decade (not to mention all the Write About Love outtakes, which couldn't be too good by definition). Still, in case you get this wrong, I give it a thumbs up, because, other than the remixes, I enjoyed every minute of it. A-sides or B-sides, hooks or no hooks, who cares, as long as the band goes on loving their pre­cious instruments with that much love, it is impossible to condemn their recordings. However, they do need to stay as far away from any sorts of electronics as possible.

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Big Black: Atomizer

BIG BLACK: ATOMIZER (1986)

1) Jordan, Minnesota; 2) Passing Complexion; 3) Big Money; 4) Kerosene; 5) Bad Houses; 6) Fists Of Love; 7) Stinking Drunk; 8) Bazooka Joe; 9) Strange Things; 10) Cables (live).

When you follow Bulldozer up with Atomizer, chances are you are not really in the mood for significantly changing your formula. Indeed, the basic ingredients all remain the same: Albini's «clanging» guitar tone as the main attraction, pummeling industrialized beats and tempos as the main framework, and lyrics about perverts and perversions as the main subject of reference. Also, the entire LP runs just over half an hour, which probably is the longest possible time one could listen to this sonic nightmare without getting well-adjusted, numbed down, and bored. In fact, were it up to me, I'd probably cut it down by another five or ten minutes, because the EP format works best with the likes of Big Black.

With the formula set so tightly in place, the overall quality of the album depends on how many different and emotionally evocative riffs / grooves / arrangements the band can offer, and, fortu­nately, Albini's creative juices are peaking — almost every one of these nine songs delivers, one way or another. The central piece, bravely extended to a six-minute running time, is ʽKeroseneʼ; from a classificatory angle, it would probably count as «hardcore industrialized funk», with rela­tively complex (for Big Black) interplay between the bass and guitars and several crescendos that perfectly match the song's lyrical message ("never anything to do in this town... there's kerosene around, something to do... set me on fire, kerosene!"). Few songs have managed to tackle the «violence born out of boredom» topic so efficiently, as Steve's guitar goes from high-pitched, monotonous, whiny funk chords («boredom») to shrill, crackling, ascending lines — musical flames engulfing the listener. Fabulously cool and inventive.

The shorter songs are predictably less ambitious — just state their simple, repetitive points for a brief interval of time to give way to the next sketch in the «Panoramas of Perversion» series. ʽJor­dan, Minnesotaʼ takes on the issue of a 1983 scandal of child abuse in said little town, and I'd bet anything Albini was particularly happy that the little town was named after the holy river, throw­ing the issue of hypocrisy into the mix. The song's main riff has nothing particularly original about it, but sounds double-threatening when played Albini-style, and by the time the song has burst into complete hysteria, with insane screams of «suck daddy, suck daddy, suck daddy!» almost drowning out the guitar background, you may well be itching for a nice hot shower. Ex­ploitative to the core, yes, but effective.

Other, ahem, «highlights» for me would have to be ʽFists Of Loveʼ — the subject matter is easy enough to guess, and all the melodic lines have been specially selected and received the Steve Albini Stamp of Approval for Matching Physical Pain; and ʽBazooka Joeʼ, which is about as complex as your average Ramones song, but still generates a certain trance-inducing effect — Steve's «pleading-aggressive» repetitive mantra of "you don't have to be alone Joe... hang with me Joe...", recited over the song's dark rhythm pattern, may act funny on the brain.

The rest of the songs are difficult to describe in any other terms than the ones already used, but what really saves Atomizer from becoming «filler city», even with this short overall length, is that each song works as its own separate anecdote — you are walking here through a picture ex­hibition, glaring at child molesters, bored kids in provincial shitholes, sexual deviants, whore­house clients, corrupt policemen, alcoholics, and racial issues. It doesn't always sound different from each other, but it's one hell of a panorama, and I'd say it elevates the level of social con­sciousness far more efficiently than, say, any given sermon-riddled LP by Bad Religion. Defini­tely not just «gross for grossness' sake», Atomizer never really overcooks its slum-taste pasta, so here is another thumbs up in return.

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Attila: Attila

ATTILA (BILLY JOEL): ATTILA (1970)

1) California Flash; 2) Wonder Woman; 3) Revenge Is Sweet; 4) Amplifier Fire; 5) Rollin' Home; 6) Tear This Castle Down; 7) Holy Moses; 8) Brain Invasion.

From time to time, critics get bored and go on a hunt to find «the worst album of all time». As a rule, the hunt process does not involve the critics specifying what they mean by «worst», so, de­pending on one's own criteria, they might return with either Rod Stewart's Blondes Have More Fun or Sgt. Pepper hanging on their belt — no matter, really, as long as the album seems «out­standingly» something. Outstandingly pretentious, outstandingly unprofessional, outstandingly overproduced, outstandingly conceptually-idiotic, whatever. You cannot take, say, a Backstreet Boys album and declare it the worst ever just because it is so utterly boring. Boring is not out­standing. The album has to scream I'M THE WORST right in your cringing face.

Viewed from that angle, Attila is as easy a piece of game as they come. Recorded in 1970, at the peak or near-peak of trendiness of all things «heavy» and «progressive», it features young aspi­ring keyboardist and singer Billy Joel, his pal Jon Small on percussion, and... that's it. An organ / drums combo, with Billy, like Ray Manzarek, supplying the required bass parts with his second (sometimes third) hand. A unique experiment, to be sure, within the «rock» world at least, and one that would surely have to be loved, if it succeeded, or hated, if it failed. Guess which.

Ever since the album's release, it has quite consistently been featured on all sorts of «worst ever» lists, with its status currently codified by S. Th. Erlewine in the All-Music Guide: «there have been many bad ideas in rock, but none match the colossal stupidity of Attila» — a phrase that, I am sure of it, has increased Attila's popularity twentyfold and sends dozens, if not hundreds, of curiosity seekers and cheap thrill aficionados in search of used copies or faithful uploads of the album on a yearly, if not daily, basis. Who could ever stay away from savoring The Most Colos­sal Stupidity in Rock? The sight of the two thoroughly stoned Huns in quasi-authentic attire alone, standing as they are inside a meat locker, would be enough to ensure proper cult status.

What is more interesting, however, is whether any of these people would actually want to agree with Erlewine's and other critics' assessments. As far as mine is concerned, I find nothing inhe­rently wrong in the «idea» of Attila, and even find a few things to like about how the idea was realized — the one major flaw of the record is its monotonousness, as the same basic emotional state is being generated and explored on virtually every song. For instance, with Billy being a competent organist, you'd think they might have allocated a couple spots for «softer» stuff — mixing in some gospel, soul, or classical influences. In fact, knowing Billy's subsequent reputa­tion, you would probably very much expect a couple spots for «softer» stuff! But no, what you get throughout is «Billy Joel, The Organ Godzilla», and as fun as it may be to watch Godzilla blast its way through several blocks of Manhattan, you'd probably fall asleep midway through, were you forced to watch the beast's entire journey from Battery Park to Isham Park.

That said, it is downright hilarious to see the dinosauric duo open up with a set of distorted, over­driven organ hiccups that clearly mimic the intro to Hendrix's ʽVoodoo Chile (Slight Return)ʼ — but only to serve as the opening fanfare for a song about a... male stripper? Whatever. Along the way, as Billy unfurls the silly saga of «California Flash», he makes his organ squeal, grunt, roar, and make just about every aggressive noise that the poor instrument is capable of when connec­ted to every amp, pedal, and special effect generator that could be afforded by two struggling bar­barian musi­cians operating from inside a meat locker. However, I have no idea what the afore­mentioned Mr. Erlewine is talking about when he speaks of a «wall of white noise» — no matter how much gadgetry Billy has hooked up to his keys, he is most clearly playing them; and, while we're at it, the funky bass riff he blasts out at about 1:06 into the song is awesome.

Fairly often, Attila sounds like Gillan-era Deep Purple with Gillan (and Blackmore, and Glover) removed — similarities between Jon Lord's incorporation, use, and abuse of classical motifs and Billy's «experimental» approach are inescapable, although, to be fair, it must be noted that In Rock, on which Lord finally consented to adopt a heavy distorted sound, was only released a month prior to Attila, and it is not even clear if Billy and Jon knew at all about Deep Purple's ex­istence on the other side of the ocean. In any case, extended organ jamming on tracks such as ʽAmplifier Fireʼ and ʽBrain Invasionʼ is stylistically quite similar to the lengthy escapades one hears from Lord on early Purple jams, and even though Joel's technique and complexity seems to be slightly (but not tremendously) below Jon's, Attila is not to be castigated for being inept or incompetent — both men had enough qualification to work in any second-rate «progressive» band of the time. The question is, with so many first-rate progressive bands around, why would we actually care about their employment?

Ultimately, it all depends on whether you believe that a combo like this could actually «rock». This is, after all, what they set out to do in the first place — «tear the castle down» with «amp­li­fier fire» in an all-out «brain invasion», «Holy Moses»! There is no place for subtlety, spiritual depth, or contemplation here. Even a fourty-minute album by Hendrix himself with that much brawn on the outside would be capable of melting your brains — now what about a fourty-minute album where, instead of inventive electric guitar soloing by one of the most visionary players who ever lived, you get formally competent, but utterly derivative distorted organ soloing by a guy who would later go on to give us... well, you know.

I have read statements that complained how Joel's organ tones on this album gave people head­aches — a little amusing, really, for anybody living in a post-Metal Machine Music world. Much more troubling is to realize that the songs work as «unintentional comedy», reminding one of parodies on the whole «let's rock the classics» movement, like ELP's ʽNutrockerʼ, except that the only people in the world who do not realize the album's parodic value are its very authors. But on the other hand, I also believe that at least half of these songs do feature interesting riffs, and that in terms of composition alone, Attila is hardly worse than a large part of Billy's subsequent output. It's all wasted — on a curious, but inadequate enterprise, but «worst album ever?» Come now, Uriah Heep's Very 'Eavy, Very 'Umble was released at the same time, shared many of Attila's problems (silliness, pretentiousness, extra overdrive) and actually had fewer memorable riffs. Just because the band actually had its own guitar player should not automatically act as a status raiser. And a rotting head on the album cover is not too much of an upgrade over a couple of «Huns» in a meat locker, unless you're a vegetarian and a necrophile at the same time. Oh, and the rating? Well, thumbs down, without any provocative iconoclasm, but a mildly amused one. Still worth a listen, if only to capture just a bit more of that ultraviolet from 1970.