The Avalanches: Wildflower

THE AVALANCHES: WILDFLOWER (2016)

1) The Leaves Were Falling; 2) Because I'm Me; 3) Frankie Sinatra; 4) Subways; 5) Going Home; 6) If I Was A Folkstar; 7) Colours; 8) Zap!; 9) The Noisy Eater; 10) Wildflower; 11) Harmony; 12) Live A Lifetime Love; 13) Park Music; 14) Livin' Underwater (Is Something Wild); 15) The Wozard Of Iz; 16) Over The Turnstiles; 17) Sun­shine; 18) Light Up; 19) Kaleidoscope Lovers; 20) Stepkids; 21) Saturday Night Inside Out; 22) Frankie Sinatra (extended mix).

Perhaps the weirdest thing about The Avalanches' second album and the 15 (!) years that separate it from the first one is realizing that The Avalanches did not, in fact, break up over any significant time period in the interim. They'd always been a fairly loose collective, and the only current members are the core duo of Robbie Chater and Tony Di Blasi, while other people came and went, but there never really was a specific timeframe in between 2001 and 2016 when The Ava­lanches officially «did not exist» — so one cannot technically call Wildflower a «comeback», especially given the fact that some of its tracks had been conceived as early as 2000.

So — fifteen frickin' falls, a period over which most of the band's original adolescent fans gradu­ated from college, got themselves steady jobs, got married, settled down, grew some new or shaved off some old facial hair, only to wake up one fine morning and learn that there was also a parallel reality in which nothing has changed: Wildflower not only picks up from exactly where Since I Left You had, in fact, left us, but it goes on to walk a crooked mile in order to leave us, one hour later, at the exact same starting point once again. As if you needed one more argument to show how little has changed in the world of music since the 21st century introduced us to the concept of Artistic Deep Freeze, the Avalanches are here to teach us a lesson in how «it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place», to quote a truly immortal line.

To be fairly honest, if this reaction can be called «enjoyment», then I «enjoyed» Wildflower ab­so­lutely no less (and probably no more) than I did with Since I Left You — a reaction that could hardly be said to agree with the overall critical and fan response to the record, where most people said that it was sort of okay but no Since I Left You. The reason for that seems to be on the sur­face: Since I Left You struck a chord with its novelty factor — few, if any, people up to that point made plunderphonics sound so fun, so light, so danceable, so accessible, and yet so absolute in terms of focus and dedication. There was a certain inspirational whiff to it that may even have led some people to entertain odd thoughts about how this would be the future of music, etc. But now that fifteen years have passed and, while sampling as such remains firmly embedded in our conscience as one of the most heavily (ab)used modern musical means, plunderphonics remains on the fringes of that conscience — and it kind of looks like it was a dead end after all. A fun dead end to find oneself in every once in a while, but hardly one where you can give a slight tap to the magical wall at the end and find yourself in musical nirvana.

But perhaps this assessment — «nice, but nothing particularly new or mind-blowing» — is un­fair, and all it takes is a few attentive listens to uncover progress? Well, they do seem to be a little more open to integrating some new sounds in the patchy canopy of old: for instance, rappers Danny Brown and Biz Markie came along for some of the sessions to record vocal parts for several tracks, along with a few other less familiar faces. Indeed, Wildflower goes much heavier on the raps than its predecessor, though it hardly ever feels like a hip-hop record because its «plunderbase» is so much more antiquated than is typical of sampling in hip-hop. That's pretty much the only substantial difference — other than that, Wildflower offers you still the same dizzying kaleidoscope of instrumental and vocal overdubs that find their sources in little-known old vinyl grooves. You will get educated, for sure, as they revitalize long-forgotten niceties: ʽBecause I'm Meʼ, for instance, is all based on loops from ʽWant Adsʼ by The Honey Cones, a cool dance-soul number from the sunniest corner of 1969 (sold a million copies back in the day, by the way, but who remembers that now? Well — The Avalanches do!), while ʽFrankie Sinatraʼ exploits Wilmoth Houdini's ʽBobby Sox Idolʼ and reminds you of how ironically fun classic calypso music could be back in the day, with Danny Brown supplementing Houdini's trembling croak with his own humorous take on the Frank Sinatra thing ("Like Frank Sinatra, bitch, do this shit my way" — welcome to 2016, ladies and gentlemen).

On the really obscure side, ʽSubwaysʼ will teach you about the 1980 EP by "Chandra", a pre-teen artist who might be regarded as sort of Eighties' equivalent to Rebecca Black (no, really, I mean it: the original ʽSub­waysʼ is such an embarrassing piece of pseudo-New-Wave/disco-mash-up that it is almost ama­zing how The Avalanches managed to take out a couple lines and make them sound alarming and troubled); and on the «null void» side, ʽThe Noisy Eaterʼ features a hilarious live recording of ʽCome Togetherʼ as performed by the choir of Kew High School in the band's own native Melbourne, mashed with a Biz Markie narrative about a «noisy eater», with language stuck midway between British folklore and gangsta rap. Sounds intriguing, doesn't it? Well, I can tell you that the surrealist absurdity of it all does come through, and I'd be lying through my teeth if I said this wasn't at all entertaining. Plus, there's always the game challenge — how many of these bits and pieces will you recognize on your own? I totally suck at this, but I was at least proud of my Beatle-lore when my ears perceived a snippet from the carnivalesque Lowrey organ of ʽBe­ing For The Benefit Of Mr. Kiteʼ on ʽFrankie Sinatraʼ, or the vocal harmony bit from Ram's ʽUncle Albertʼ on ʽLiving Underwaterʼ (alas, Spirit's ʽWater Womanʼ that constitutes the backbone of the track was stuffed way too deep in my memory to resurface on its own).

So yes, it's all fun. They have a good ear for «tasty bits», and if there's a lesson in here that even bad-to-mediocre obscurities can have moments of impressive musical dynamics that might very well work outside of the original context — count me in. The problem is, it still does not work anywhere other than in its own post-modern frame, and aren't we living in a post-post-modern frame already? (Or perhaps even «post-post-post-modern», I've honestly lost count...). Fifteen years have not taught these guys how to plunder their phonics in a way that would truly create an alternate psychedelic reality to which I could, you know, relate or something. There's a lot of fussiness here, for sure, and meta-melodicity, and even some atmospheric warmth, considering how they usually concentrate on life-asserting dance-oriented R&B and sunshine pop for their sources, yet none of this makes the resulting collage properly meaningful on an emotional level, once you've savored the joke.

To be honest, I cannot blame them for not having made much pro­gress because I fail to see how it is even possible to make any progress in this direction — al­though, on the other hand, maybe if they had introduced some jarring mood shifts (for instance, added a «dark side» to the bubbly psychedelic frolicking by plundering, oh, I dunno, some death metal archives?), this could help focus our attention? Whatever. In any case, I'd be very surprised if somebody (Danny Brown fans excepted) honestly and flatly preferred Wildflower to Since I Left You — ultimately, it just feels like a bonus hour for those who thought that 2001's Australia summarized the highest points of Western civilization as we knew them. For everybody else, it's mostly a good way to remem­ber Wilmoth Houdini — and Chandra.

Anathema: The Silent Enigma

ANATHEMA: THE SILENT ENIGMA (1995)

1) Restless Oblivion; 2) Shroud Of Frost; 3) ...Alone; 4) Sunset Of The Age; 5) Nocturnal Emission; 6) Cerulean Twilight; 7) The Silent Enigma; 8) A Dying Wish; 9) Black Orchid.

And here we have it — a big step forward, as the band gets rid of its lead vocalist and opts for a less clichéd, more ambitious sound. Technically, The Silent Enigma may still be labeled as doom metal, but now it has a significant soft component as well; and guitarist Vincent Cavanagh, taking over the vocal duties, largely dumps the cartoonish guttural growling (possibly just be­cause he was not able to master the technique, but thank God for that anyway) and sings in a vari­ety of tones that range from stone-cold, half-spoken recitals to snarling screaming: still theatrical­ly exaggerated, but at least somewhat relatable, if you make a strong effort to believe that here before you stands a demonically possessed lyrical hero from the Middle Ages.

Not that I am advocating to take this album too seriously: like almost any doom metal, what we have here is an elaborately staged «black mass» performance whose formal aspects (guitar tones, melodic structure, production, overdubbed effects, etc.) are far more alluring than any direct emotional impact. But this particularity only has to be stated once and then discarded as some­thing self-evident — if an album like this truly «rocks your world» and makes you empathize with the protagonist, all I can say is take it easy, brother, we're not quite on the threshold of the Apocalypse yet, and life goes on even after your beautiful long-haired bride, to whom you were going to get married on a lovely, jasmine-scented Sunday morning, expired from bubonic plague while still wearing her wedding dress, and left you forever cursing God's name because that's what everybody does in a situation like this. "My paralysed heart is bleeding", "condemned to misery, restless oblivion forever", "lost deity betrayed my faith", you know the drill.

We'll just push all of that right out of the way and try and concentrate on the music (because, honestly, the album would have worked much better in fully instrumental form). This is where the Cavanaghs begin to develop and exploit some really enticing ideas — ʽRestless Oblivionʼ, for instance, begins with a minute-long soft exposition (a modest and lovely folk-pop guitar melody dominating the waves), then smoothly, but firmly slips into a crushing «ninth-wave-style» metal riff, and then, adopting a weird time signature, begins riding a curious double-tracked guitar sinu­soid that has a certain hypnotic quality to it. With all the interludes and all the alternations be­tween melodic and metallic bits, it's a fairly solid piece of music, with only the silly lyrics and the «possessed» vocals presenting them spoiling the picture (frankly, I'd say that the music on its own does not even properly convey the feeling of bleek despair that the words keep talking about — the melody is disturbing, tempestuous, but not dirge-like, and I'd rather have it left open for free interpretation rather than follow the words directly).

Since the intended mood is quite uniform for all the tracks here, they largely fall into two (and even then, somewhat overlapping) categories — «rowdier» numbers, based on more precisely fleshed-out guitar and bass riffs, and «moodier» numbers, relying more on the atmospherics of multiple sustained notes than on headbanging tricks. Thus, ʽShroud Of Frostʼ is basically just one prolonged guitar wail, with minimal melody and protracted notes that sometimes seem to go on until the amplifier runs out of battery support; unfortunately, since the basic chord sequence is not exactly an emotional rollercoaster, I find the whole thing rather tedious to sit through, and would rather prefer ʽA Dying Wishʼ, which moves along at a higher speed and features a solid chugging riff at its heart (a rather generic one, though, I'm afraid). On the other hand, ʽNocturnal Emissionʼ combines the two aspects well — there's a mournful and menacing bass riff at its core, which is good enough for them to leave it on constant repeat for the last minute of the song as it slowly fades away, but it's not a headbanging riff, more like a hand-of-doom riff.

But on the whole, instrumental and stylistic difference between the various songs is still kept to a minimum, and such little touches of extra color as female dark folk vocals on ʽ...Aloneʼ (the Dear Departed was relieved from post-mortem duty for a bit to make one last phone call to the prota­goinst), or a bass/synth-dominated wordless funeral march on the closing ʽBlack Orchidʼ, do little to change the fact that The Silent Enigma still has tremendous potential to bore you stiff unless you're really really really into the my-dying-bride thing. Consequently, I refrain from giving the record a thumbs up, despite all the good words about certain individual riffs and textures; let us simply agree to call this the band's «teenage» phase, legitimately succeeding its «childhood» phase on Serenades, and then see where it leads to in the future.

P.S. Beautiful album sleeve, though, don't you think?

Cheap Trick: Silver

CHEAP TRICK: SILVER (2001)

1) Ain't That A Shame; 2) I Want You To Want Me; 3) Oh, Candy; 4) That 70's Song; 5) Voices; 6) If You Want My Love; 7) She's Tight; 8) Can't Stop Fallin' Into Love; 9) Gonna Raise Hell; 10) I Can't Take It; 11) Take Me To The Top; 12) It All Comes Back To You; 13) Tonight It's You; 14) Time Will Let You Know; 15) World's Greatest Lover; 16) The Flame; 17) Stop This Game; 18) Dream Police; 19) I Know What I Want; 20) Woke Up With A Monster; 21) Never Had A Lot To Lose; 22) You're All Talk; 23) I'm Losin' You; 24) Hard To Tell; 25) Oh, Claire; 26) Surrender; 27) Just Got Back; 28) Day Tripper; 29) Who D' King; 30*) Daddy Should Have Stayed In High School; 31*) On Top Of The World.

Two live albums in a row? The easiest thing is to interpret this as a sign of senility, but, in all fairness, post-Budokan Cheap Trick only really put out live albums for special occasions — thus, Music For Hangovers celebrated the re-release of the «classic four», and now, a year later, comes this posh, almost luxurious celebration of the band's 25th anniversary, staged by the band in style, as they return to their native town of Rockford, Illinois (probably the only place in the world where they can still sell out the largest venue without any problems) and, local royalty-style, not only surround themselves with a pack of illustrious (and not-so-illustrious) guests, but also insist on presenting a panoramic view of the band's entire 25-year old career.

Among other things, this means revisiting every single Cheap Trick album ever — yes, even in­cluding The Doctor and Busted. With thirteen studio albums behind their belt already, this is not an easy task, and even given the mammoth duration of the show (almost two and a half hours), they are unable to tackle all the highlights, especially since they are so obsessed with completism here, they even perform one song from Robin Zander's solo career (ʽTime Will Let You Knowʼ), as well as the theme song from That 70's Show (a reworking of Big Star's ʽIn The Streetʼ), and two Beatle-related tunes: ʽDay Tripperʼ, which they sometimes did in concert in the old days, and even Lennon's ʽI'm Losing Youʼ — a song on which they almost got to back John back in 1980, even though their version ultimately did not make it onto the final cut of Double Fantasy (but you can still hear it on Lennon's Anthology boxset: I like its hard-rocking crunch, but I can also see how the sound would be considered too harsh and too «retrograde» for John's New Wave-leaning tastes circa 1980).

The good news: this ensures that Silver is at least not completely expendable, coming right off the heels of Music For Hangovers — this is an entirely different concept, and although there is, inevitably, some overlap with the old numbers, there is a whole ton of live stuff here that you have never heard before unless you were an avid concert goer or bootleg collector. (Even in terms of the old Seventies' stuff, you still have performances of ʽVoicesʼ, ʽI Know What I Wantʼ, ʽYou're All Talkʼ, and, tacked on as bonus tracks on the 2004 re-release, ʽDaddy Should Have Stayed In High Schoolʼ and ʽOn Top Of The Worldʼ that were never previously available live). The bad news: do we really want to sit through an endless set of reminders of how subpar the band's 1980s — 1990s material was, compared to the classics? Even if they really go all the way to weed out the embarrassments and concentrate on the decent stuff, there's no way you could shove Silver into somebody's face as an introduction to Cheap Trick. It may be historically truth­ful and all, but it just isn't really that fun.

There does seem to be a certain ideological point here: it's as if with this release, Nielsen and the boys are trying to officially legitimize and redeem all of their past. Case in point: having carefully back-scrutinized The Doctor and extracted what is almost certainly the best-written song on there (ʽTake Me To The Topʼ), they perform an exuberant acoustic performance of the tune to a see­mingly enthusiastic audience, upon which a cockily satisfied Nielsen goes, "now who said The Doctor was a bad album? Only every critic in the United States, but what do they know?" Some rather crude revisionism out there, Mr. Nielsen — now go ahead and stun your listeners with a kick-ass version of ʽMan-U-Lip-U-Latorʼ, I dare you. But the illusion cannot be held forever even by the band members — at one point (right after the conclusion of ʽThe Flameʼ, a song that Rick himself never seemed to have much love for), Nielsen states that "okay, we've had enough of these ballads", and eventually the band gets back on track with some real good stuff.

The guest stars do not make that much of a difference: many are just relatives (like Robin's daughter, Holland, and Rick's son, Miles), some are old friends and colleagues (Petersson's for­mer replacement on the bass, Jon Brant, makes a guest appearance on two of the songs he origi­nally played on), and then there's the ever-present Billy Corgan (ʽJust Got Backʼ) and Art Alexa­kis of Everclear (ʽDay Tripperʼ). The biggest star of 'em all is Slash, who gives a dutifully ec­static solo turn on ʽYou're All Talkʼ, but I am not sure that Cheap Trick done Guns'n'Roses style is a particularly thrilling idea — serious generational gap out there. Now if only they could get Angus Young, we'd be talking! But it's a long way from Australia to Illinois.

Other than that, what is there to say? The band remains in very good form (ʽGonna Raise Hellʼ is especially diagnostic for all members of the band, from vocals and guitar to bass and drums, and here they pass the test with flying colors), Nielsen's sense of humor is intact, and, after all, it does make sense to give those subpar songs an extra chance when they are separated from crummy Eighties' production and transferred to a healthy live environment (also, despite the hoarse over­tones, Nielsen turns in an impressive vocal performance on ʽWorld's Greatest Loverʼ). There is also a DVD release of the concert, but I'm not sure if you should go for this — Nielsen was still in his ridiculous braided beard and dark glasses stage at the time, and it just don't work that well without the bowtie and baseball cap delivery body image. If it ain't broke, don't fix it — good title for a potential Cheap Trick hit, by the way.

Carole King: The Carnegie Hall Concert

CAROLE KING: THE CARNEGIE HALL CONCERT (1971; 1996)

1) I Feel The Earth Move; 2) Home Again; 3) After All This Time; 4) Child Of Mine; 5) Carry Your Load; 6) No Easy Way Down; 7) Song Of Long Ago; 8) Snow Queen; 9) Smackwater Jack; 10) So Far Away; 11) It's Too Late; 12) Eventually; 13) Way Over Yonder; 14) Beautiful; 15) You've Got A Friend; 16) Will You Still Love Me Tomor­row / Some Kind Of Wonderful / Up On The Roof; 17) (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.

It was probably deemed excessive to release this show officially in its own time, what with Tapestry already riding high on the charts and Music almost in the can by the time the show was played (June 18, 1971), but it is still a shame that the world at large had to wait 25 years before the tape was finally restored, remastered, and put out in CD format, because this is not just a very special concert, historically, but it is fairly unique on a personal level as well — the Carnegie Hall Concert was literally Carole King's first serious live appearance ever, and it is not every day that you get to witness a musical genius opening him/herself up to an admiring, but demanding public for the first time in his/her life.

Carole did not yet have a firmly put together backing band at the time, although I am not sure if the first part of the concert was completely solo out of necessity or because it was an intentional decision on her part — «if I'm really gonna do it, I should go all the way!» Eventually, she is joined on the stage by some musicians — first by Larkey on bass, then by Danny Kortchmar on guitar, then even by a small string section — but essentially this is just Lady Writer challenged to step into the shoes of Lady Performer, because whoever heard of a number one pop star without a con­cert agenda? This is not 1966 and you are no John Lennon, so show yourself.

This is precisely what makes this archival release so very special — with Carole's In Concert record that came out two years before this one, you get her as a seasoned professional, but here you get her as a nervous, evidently insecure, but still deeply enthusiastic «beginner» whose only chance of winning over the audience is being as natural as possible. You might find yourself rooting for her, intensely, as you sense the nervous tremble of the voice on the early songs (par­ticularly the drawn-out ballads — ʽChild Of Mineʼ is just barely held together), but then, after a few tunes, there comes a realization that everything is going along smoothly, and we can finally relax a bit. Predictably, there's quite a bit of stage banter, too — little details and not particularly funny jokes that help break up some barriers and alleviate some of that tension — but Carole is such a lovable person in general that whatever she does for a giggle is fine by me.

Naturally, the setlist (as any Carole King setlist ever played) is stuffed with Tapestry songs (10 out of 12), plus four songs off Writer and three previews of songs from Music, so there will be few surprises here. The biggest «surprise», explicitly announced by Carole as "Surprise!", is the appearance of James Taylor, who duets with her on ʽYou've Got A Friendʼ and the ensuing three-song medley — well, what do you want, it's James Taylor, and in situations like these you can treat him as just another piece of reliable furniture that Carole needs to step upon in order to achieve the desired effect. (I wish there were a less crude metaphor to express just how ordinary and bland I find the guy's singing, but I refuse to strain my brain over James Taylor). At least he has the decency to disappear while Carole sings ʽNatural Womanʼ for the encore, because that would make us think that it is James Taylor who makes her feel like a natural woman, and that would be strange, because I'd say the only thing that James Taylor is able to make one feel like would be a 2-year old.

Anyway, this is not about James Taylor, this is about some great, great songs that are well worth hearing in these stripped-down arrangements — she can still make ʽI Feel The Earth Moveʼ rock quite a bit with just the voice and the piano, and ʽSmackwater Jackʼ, propelled only by Larkey's bass and the audience's enthralled handclapping, ends up almost as fun as it was on the original record. On ʽIt's Too Lateʼ, after Kortchmar has joined the group for lead guitar support, Carole makes some meyowing noises, mimicking his guitar tone and bringing some levity to the mourn­ful atmosphere of the song; and on songs like ʽNo Easy Way Downʼ, she serves as her own backing vocalist, preserving the soaring-and-descending modulation of the vocal melody as best as possible — this is not rigid professionalism, but it's a well-meaning attempt to keep things exciting and interesting through the whole show. By the time she's done, you'll want to pin a medal on her, for a first job well done; and although I wouldn't have expected it from myself, I do find myself occasionally revisiting the album instead of Tapestry — particularly when I'm in the mood for a bit less production slickness and a bit more of that elusive «raw edge».

I will not say that this is the only Carole King live album you will ever need: 1994's In Concert and the Living Room Tour both had their own charm as well, not to mention a more diversified setlist and an angst-free, self-assured vocal performance. But this here stuff goes so hand in hand with Tapestry that I do believe that at some future point they might want to delete it from the catalog as an independent album and just stick it together with Tapestry, as a bonus disc, for all eternity. It's just one of those «well, we've just finished polishing some of the best songs ever, now all we have to do is make them come alive without any makeup on» moments that you have to experience, sooner or later, even at the expense of a flesh-and-blood James Taylor completing the picture. Totally a thumbs up here.

The Cake: The Cake

THE CAKE: THE CAKE (1967)

1) Baby That's Me; 2) World Of Dreams; 3) You Can Have Him; 4) Medieval Love; 5) Fire Fly; 6) Rainbow Wood; 7) I Know; 8) Mockingbird; 9) Ooh Poo Pah Doo; 10) Stand By Me; 11) What'd I Say.

Could there possibly be such a thing as «nostalgia for 1964» in 1967? Even if there could not, it is hard to believe these days that The Cake, an all-girl group established in New York around 1966, was not intentionally going against the current trends and sticking to the old ways of The Ronettes and other Spector-related bands, at a time when white ladies were beginning to opt for various kinds of change (the Mamas & Papas model, the Grace Slick model, the Janis model, the Joni Mitchell model — quite a bit of choice out there).

Anyway, it is hard to tell to which extent Jeanette Jacobs, Barbara Morillo, and Eleanor Baroo­shian were their own creations and to which extent they were molded and marketed by their managers, Charles Greene and Brian Stone (same ones who originally took care of Sonny & Cher) — but one thing is clear: this album sets out to prove that it is perfectly possible to provide Spec­torian music without Spector himself being involved, and comes fairly close to proving it. The girls' vocals, once they all come together, are astoundingly similar to The Ronettes, and the ar­rangements, recorded at the same Gold Star Studios where Spector did most of his work and handled by a large chunk of the Wrecking Crew, reproduce the wall-of-sound to perfection.

The first side of the album is, in fact, as close to girl-group-pop perfection as could theoretically be. The first two songs were written specially for the band — ʽBaby That's Meʼ by Jack Nitzsche and Jackie DeShannon, and ʽWorld Of Dreamsʼ by Dr. John: big, pompous, sunny, friendly anthems that should be part of any Sixties' lovers' collection, period (even if ʽBaby That's Meʼ shamelessly steals vocal moves from ʽDon't Worry Babyʼ, and ʽWorld Of Dreamsʼ does not progress anywhere past the first verse). By the time of the third track, they are beginning to get more than just good — more creative, with a slowed-down, psychedelicized version of the old country-rocker ʽYou Can Have Herʼ (amended to ʽHimʼ, of course), building tension as each new verse gradually climbs up the scale, and the strings add further grandiosity.

The biggest surprise comes with the next three songs — all of a sudden, the girls are not merely performers and interpreters, but songwriters, and the songs they write are in a completely dif­ferent mold: a three-part suite, presented as a «pseudo-live» chamber orchestra performance (with some crowd noises and tuning up sounds preceding the actual songs) and written strictly in the baroque-pop genre, with strings, woodwinds, and multi-part harmonies. Perhaps a song title like ʽMedieval Loveʼ is a little too telling, but the harmony and string arrangements on all three tracks are surprisingly complex, and the melancholic mood is infectious. This may be about as «authen­tic» as, say, any similar genre exercises by The Monkees in their psychedelic period, but if you do not set your expectations on a ʽFor No Oneʼ / ʽEleanor Rigbyʼ level, these are quite pleasant and tasteful genre exercises — considering that Morillo and Jacobs, credited as authors, pretty much came out of nowhere, a very impressive start.

Unfortunately, no surprise like this can be sustained for too long, and the album's second side is a big letdown — as if they suddenly discovered they were out of material, and hastened to stuff it with adequately recorded, but generally useless covers of such standards as ʽStand By Meʼ and ʽWhat'd I Sayʼ. Jessie Hill's ʽOhh Poo Pah Dooʼ is also slowed down, but the new groove adds little of interest to the old one — and, overall, where the first side, with its wall of sound tech­niques and loud strings, had an interesting mix of Motown, baroque, and psychedelic elements, the second is more traditional, brass-based R&B that hardly stands competition with Atlantic, despite everybody's best intentions.

Still a thumbs up — it may be clear from the start that the group did not have much of a future in 1967, but after a while, some dead ends end up sounding much more alive than others, and The Cake, or at least its first side, will be a cool discovery for all those who want to make their knowledge of the greatest era in pop music as comprehensive as possible. Besides, now that you know about this album's existence, you can always cut your opponent down to size with a «Cherilyn Sarkisian? Bah! Who needs that? Eleanor Barooshian — now you're talking!»

Cher: Love Hurts

CHER: LOVE HURTS (1991)

1) Save Up All Your Tears; 2) Love Hurts; 3) Love And Understanding; 4) Fires Of Eden; 5) I'll Never Stop Loving You; 6) Could've Been You; 7) One Small Step; 8) A World Without Heroes; 9) When Love Calls Your Name; 10) When Lovers Become Strangers; 11) Who You Gonna Believe; 12) The Shoop Shoop Song (It's In His Kiss)*.

Third time's the charm? Not a general rule. The Eighties are formally over, but we are still living in the pre-Nevermind era, and so Love Hurts faithfully follows the formula that brought Cher back to commercial success — and why, pray tell, should anybody expect otherwise? Here we have eleven more anthemic glam rockers and power ballads, contributed by old friends and new­comers; no more Bon Jovi or Michael Bolton, but a whole three songs from Diane Warren this time, of which ʽLove And Understandingʼ, strongly echoing Olivia Newton-John's ʽMagicʼ in rhythm and melody, but updated for the modern dance-pop era, charted the highest — still no­where near as high as the singles from Heart Of Stone, though. People were getting tired.

Strangely, the first song from the album, ʽSave Up All Your Tearsʼ, did not chart that high, even if it essentially repeats the formula of ʽIf I Could Turn Back Timeʼ — danceable, powerful, chorus-wise catchy, not particularly irritating, in short, probably the best song on the entire re­cord (that's not saying much, though). Perhaps it was because people were already familiar with the original (and somewhat inferior in terms of singing, though equally generic in terms of musical arrangement) version by Bonnie Tyler, or perhaps it did reflect the trend of people getting tired of stereotypical glam-pop; whatever the case, it's a bit of a fun opener.

After that, though, it's just one bore after another. It does not help that Cher occasionally turns to classics (the title track is one of those old torch ballads that heavy rock artists take a liking to for some strange reason — I cringed when Nazareth were doing it, so why should I be enjoying a Cher version? this is not the kind of material she'd do convincingly even with a soft rock arran­gement...), or hits upon a very strange idea, such as covering ʽA World Without Heroesʼ from KISS' Music From "The Elder" (I first thought this was due to Cher dating Gene Simmons, but apparently that was over by 1980, so the idea hardly counts as a loving memento) — and turning it into a crazy mess of synthesizer fanfares and booming drums, over which she looms large with her most tragic intonations, as if this really meant something.

But nothing really means anything on this album, except for the single permeating thought — keep on being relevant! be on (M)TV! get a hit! stay afloat! I am not saying that there are no decent melodic ideas anywhere in sight — it is simply not very interesting to hunt for these ideas when the album as a whole sounds so sterile, formulaic, calculated, and monotonous. When you get to the bonus track, a modernized version of ʽThe Shoop Shoop Songʼ, it's almost like a last merciful breath of fresh air in comparison — a much-needed reminder that simple pop music had not always been like this, and that, while it may not have been much smarter in the past, it used to at least sound more innocent, charming, and just plain fun. Now, instead, it's like you are required to take this synth-pop shit seriously — so please excuse me if I decide to "save up all my tears" and give the record another predictable thumbs down.

The Rolling Stones: Out Of Our Heads

THE ROLLING STONES: OUT OF OUR HEADS (1965)

1) Mercy Mercy; 2) Hitch Hike; 3) The Last Time; 4) That's How Strong My Love Is; 5) Good Times; 6) I'm All Right (live); 7) (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction; 8) Cry To Me; 9) The Under Assistant West Coast Promotion Man; 10) Play With Fire; 11) The Spider And The Fly; 12) One More Try.

Once again, we witness the strangely wise strategy of the American market — by integrating the band's strongest singles of 1965 into LP space, it made the American LP positively glowing next to its British counterpart, which only came out a couple months later and looked quite gray and disappointing in comparison, being more the equivalent of the equally disappointing December's Children in America (with which it would also share the front sleeve). On the other hand, there is also no denying that the American Out Of Our Heads seems uncomfortably bumpy in compa­rison — with A++ level songs sharing the bus with such originals and covers as were, frankly speaking, way behind the times by mid-1965.

So let us first look at the record as if the three big songs (we all know which ones) weren't there at all. What remains, then, is somewhat of a letdown after the near-perfect balance of blues, rock and roll, and R&B that we'd just experienced with Now!. In particular, there is a very strong tilt towards R&B here — Don Covay, Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, and Solomon Burke all get represented? Like, skinny white boy Mick Jagger has to single-handedly take on all five of them in half an hour's time? Sorry, not going to happen, even if he does attempt to give it his best, and even if we remain thoroughly unprejudiced.

At least when he sees some strong support from his buddies, things work out well. Thus, ʽMercy Mercyʼ is given an entirely different face, with an aggressive fuzz riff from Keith that certainly presages the ʽSatisfactionʼ riff in terms of sheer nastiness (ironically, the original Don Covay ver­sion is generally assumed to have featured Hendrix himself on guitar — but that was still in his younger days, when he already had the touch but did not yet quite have the flash), and next to that riff, it is fun to see Jagger try and combine pleading and menace in one single delivery: his "I'm gonna make it to the nearest river child and jump overboard and drown" is more of a blackmail message than a broken-hearted plea. For ʽCry To Meʼ, Brian switches to rhythm guitar, and Keith once again helps out with a lead part that is actually more soulful than the vocal — best is saved for last, when the singer and the guitar player fight each other over the coda with machine-gunned vocal barks and bluesy licks, making the whole thing wilder and crazier than the original could ever hope to, even if, left all on his own, Jagger could never hope to steal the show from Mr. «Muhammad Ali of Soul».

But it is not always like that: on numbers such as ʽHitch Hikeʼ, ʽThat's How Strong My Love Isʼ, and ʽGood Timesʼ the instruments all take a back seat next to the vocalist, and there is little other than tolerable competence to support these versions — Jagger's mimicking of Redding's alterna­ting "now I'm soft and tremble and weepy / now I'm incensed and energized and screechy" is a bit ridiculous, and, likewise, he is unable to find a meaningful alternative to Sam Cooke, while all that Keith and Brian can do is just learn and reproduce the chords, so take that "what's the point of listening to us doing ʽI'm A King Beeʼ when you can hear Slim Harpo doing it?" quote and amend it to "what's the point of listening to us doing ʽGood Timesʼ when you can hear Sam Cooke doing it?" and you got it just about right.

Worst thing of all, this time around the R&B covers are not balanced with a decent batch of rock'n'roll ones — the closest they get is with a live version of Bo Diddley's ritualistic vamp ʽI'm All Rightʼ (taken from the band's first official live release, the brief EP Got Live If You Want It!), but (a) it's live, so there are problems with fidelity; (b) it ain't Chuck Berry, and if it ain't Chuck Berry, it ain't proper rock'n'roll with the Stones; (c) there would be a sharper, better-soun­ding alternate version of this one anyway on next year's live album, although, granted, Brian's «dive-bomb» guitar runs are already as exciting here as they ever would be.

If we throw in a pair of frankly underwhelming originals — the repetitive jam ʽUnder Assistant West Coast Promotion Manʼ, whose only function was to vent some frustration at the alarmingly expanding ego of Andrew Loog Oldham; or the annoyingly moralistic ʽOne More Tryʼ, whose only redeeming feature is a smooth harmonica solo from Brian — it is not difficult to understand how Out Of Our Heads seems to be stalling, bogging the Stones down in covers that they have a harder time appropriating than they used to. Perhaps it was just one of those brief periods when they wanted to get away from the «it's only rock'n'roll» ideology, but they'd already ended up stuck with evil grins on their faces, so excuse me for just one moment if I am unable to find Mick Jagger singing "ain't felt this good since I don't know when..." totally convincing.

But then there are the singles — ʽThe Last Timeʼ with ʽPlay With Fireʼ as the B-side, and that other one, ʽKeith Richard's Dream No. 9ʼ. How they can abide on the same album with ʽOne More Tryʼ on it is a little beyond me, but that's what the word «transition» is there for; after all, in 1965 the Stones, like most of their British pals, were still substantially a «singles band». ʽThe Last Timeʼ is not a personal favorite of mine, but remains a milestone, as it basically introduces Keith Richards The Riffmeister — that simple, jumpy, unforgettable chord sequence, probably developed by the man as he was riffing around the ʽEverybody Needs Somebody To Loveʼ groove, broke open the doors and initiated one of the greatest riff-writing sequences in the history of popular music. Other than that, the song is also notable for its booming, echoey production (Phil Spector was on board to lend an easily recognizable hand), but I would still define it as transitional, too: Jagger's lyrics here still owe too much of a debt to his R&B idols, the solo break is a bit underwhelming (as if neither Keith nor Brian had any good ideas in store), and the pissed-off mood is fairly straightforward. (In other words, I sometimes get bored with the song and get the temptation to cut it off after the first verse/chorus).

A completely different kind of a breakthrough comes with ʽPlay With Fireʼ — the song that announces an entirely new type of Stones music, one that would reach its apogee in 1966-67 and then, more or less, depart forever: the «Anglo-Stones», almost for the first time turning their heads away from across the Atlantic and back to their native shores. A dark acoustic ballad, colored further with Jack Nietzsche's «baroque» harpsichord lines, and with lyrics that dare men­tion English realities, replacing the barely known (and barely pronounceable) Winona, Kingman, Barstow, and San Bernardino with the more familiar Saint John's Wood, Stepney, and Knights­bridge and sounding like a barely veiled threat to the upper classes — and, above all, recorded and released several months prior to ʽLike A Rolling Stoneʼ, with which it shares at least the basic theme, if not the details. If Mick Jagger sounded like a lascivious midnight rambler in 1964, then on ʽPlay With Fireʼ he actually sounds like a real menace — and all he has to do is keep his voice down to a stern, but calm, half-spoken tone: "Well you've got your diamonds and you got your pretty clothes...", and the first line already gives it away that this situation is probably not going to stay the same for very long. So what do we have here? Simply the Stones' very first venture into «(dark) baroque pop» and their very first «socially conscious» song, ever; and a certain milestone not only in the Stones' career, but in the history of British music as well.

On ʽSatisfactionʼ, I'd like to keep quiet, because ʽSatisfactionʼ is ʽSatisfactionʼ, and no amount of critical / analytical dissection of the song is going to make it any less fabulous than it is. (My one moment of indecision regarding that song concerns the opening vocals — I have never been able to decide if the original soft, breathy, oddly seductive vocal tone suited the whole thing better than the sneery bark that we usually witness on later live performances; I guess the sneery bark can be seen as a more logical choice, given the presumed mental state of the protagonist, but I still have a quasi-nostalgic soft spot for the original soft start, and wouldn't at all mind if it re­turned to the stage one day — perhaps when Jagger hits 90?). Instead, let me devote a few lines to the single's B-side, the much overlooked ʽSpider And The Flyʼ, which is one of the most lyrically smart early Stones songs ever — they admitted to borrowing the melody from Jimmy Reed, but they made it more poppy, or, even, more Brit-poppy, and the cool, calm, collected tempo, the self-assured, cocky, sly-grinning vocal delivery, the diabolical intonation with which Jagger pro­nounces the greeting "Hi!", all of this make it a direct predecessor of ʽSympathy For The Devilʼ: admittedly, on a minor scale, but even Lucifer has to start somewhere. (Though if the lyrics are to be interpreted correctly, this Lucifer just had his ass handed to him by a 30-year old machine operator — he still had to build up some experience).

None of the criticisms voiced above prevent the record from getting a firm thumbs up — any­thing less for a record with ʽSatisfactionʼ on it, even if everything else was a bunch of by-the-book Frankie Avalon covers, would be an outrage. But I have always found it fun to see how the development of one's own songwriting talents might go hand-in-hand with the decrease of the ability to brilliantly interpret others' material — and there's no better illustration of that than the second half of 1965 for the Stones.

Aphex Twin: CHEETAH

APHEX TWIN: CHEETAH (2016)

1) CHEETAHT2 [LD Spectrum]; 2) CHEETAHT7b; 3) CHEETA1b ms800; 4) CHEETA2 ms800; 5) CIRKLON3 [Колхозная mix]; 6) CIRKLON 1; 7) 2X202-ST5.

It is absurd, I know, and probably a coincidence, but why is it that when an Aphex Twin release only claims to be inspired by a retro device, it still turns out to be the most interesting and enga­ging release from the artist in more than a decade? The Cheetah MS800 was a digital synthesizer developed and briefly marketed by UK's Cheetah Marketing in the 1980s, and is typically called one of the worst-sounding and most complex and befuddling synths to ever exist — hence the reference, although, if I am correct, Richard D. James never goes as far as to actually haul out one of those old relics and give it a try, he just brings up the name so that every single reviewer in existence, myself included, could go, «oh, how appropriate, a title referring to one of the most bizarre electronic devices for one of the most bizarre electronic artists».

But somehow, really, CHEETAH is fun! An EP, technically, though still more than half an hour in length, it is radically different from the cluttered, over-spasmodic, blurry stuff we'd had from Mr. D. lately (yeah, looking at you, SYRO) — here, the man goes for a tight, tense, and mini­malistic approach instead, concentrating on the drum-'n'-bass rhythm first and adding a few extra flourishes at the last moment. The result is that much of this does indeed sound a bit like an old arcade soundtrack, but a thoughtful one, where the music is expressly written to mimic the action on screen; and by making the beats relatively simple and the bass lines loud and deep, he allows the brain to focus tighter on what's going on and, perhaps, even to store a part of it.

The very first track... by the way, I'm not going to retype these titles, thank you very much; I've had enough of that crap with Autechre releases — my only question, which nobody seems to have an answer for, is what the hell is meant by "Колхозная mix" (track 5)? "Колхозная" is the correct Cyrillic spelling for Kolkhoznaya, the name of several streets / stations in various Russian cities (derived from kolkhoz, of course), but I have no info on any electronic teams, studios, art-projects, DJs, etc., that would go by that name. Did the guy just select a random Cyrillic word from a random text or what?.. Anyway, the very first track (which is not the Колхозная mix, but something else with a lot of letters and numbers) begins by establishing a good old ominous groove — relentless percussion, grim bass punches, cloud-gathering synths deep in the back­ground — against which a simple lead melody keeps making a threatening descending dive-bomb, and somehow it is immediately more effective than if he'd stuff the opening with a dozen beep-and-bleep overdubs and a mega-poly-rhythmic set of beats that only a ten-headed alien could easily identify and empathize with.

The second track almost sounds like some good old-fashioned electro-pop (give it to Quincy Jones for a few moments and you can have yourself a solid rhythm track, awaiting the reincarna­tion of Michael Jackson), eventually adding a mystery component with harpsichord-like «secret chamber tones» and funny tapping runs from percussive bass / bass percussion. There's an odd soothing, rather than irritating, feel about this music, probably because of the muffled, glossed-over effect on all the parts that internalizes the feeling rather than externalizes it — I really love what he's doing with the production, creating music that is much more fit for taking in at home, in an enclosed space, rather than in some action-packed dance club.

Later on, ideas (or at least approaches) begin repeating themselves, but the record does not over­stay its welcome — it gives you two more very short interludes (one sounds like your on-screen sprite is trying to zig-zag his way through a perilous swamp and the other finds him walking into cloudy dreamland) and three more IDM tracks, all of which have their enjoyable moments: the funky bass groove on ʽКолхозная mixʼ, the quasi-jazzy «piano» «improvisations» on the next one, and yet another superb bass groove on the last track — my only wish is to hear some of these, some day, played by real jazzmen on real instruments, which would have been even more awe­some (no, I mean, really, just close your eyes and imagine that last track handled by a couple of real jazz-fusion pros on drums and bass... eh?). But then, what do I know, electronic music is still the future and all that. At the very least, I do know that the old windowlicker is not quite out of ideas yet, and that this latest attempt to go for a stripped-down sound is a much welcome change, well worth an honest thumbs up, despite the brevity.

Anathema: Serenades

ANATHEMA: SERENADES (1993)

1) Lovelorn Rhapsody; 2) Sweet Tears; 3) J'Ai Fait Une Promesse; 4) They (Will Always) Die; 5) Sleepless; 6) Sleep In Sanity; 7) Scars Of The Old Stream; 8) Under A Veil (Of Black Lace); 9) Where Shadows Dance; 10) Dreaming: The Romance.

Unless you always take your morning coffee with three new lumps of doom metal, there is not much to praise about the debut album of Anathema. The songs are slow, sluggish, monotonous, and topped off with the growling vocals of lead singer Darren White — who, much too often, sounds like the victim of a really bad throat virus rather than a professional demon from Hell (granted, such is the fate of about 80% of «growlers», but it is possible for a really good growler to send shivers down one's spine: all it takes is make yourself sound genuinely aggressive and pissed-off, which is not something this guy White is capable of).

Nevertheless, brothers Vincent and Danny Cavanagh, handling guitar duties, are already showing some signs of being more interested in a «sensitive», progressive sound rather than simply com­posing the soundtrack for a routine zombie apocalypse. The most heavily promoted track, ʽSweet Tearsʼ, apart from being driven by a curiously «curved» riff, is accompanied throughout with a melodic lead line that occasionally bursts apart in some psychedelic overdubbed fireworks, not to mention the quiet, bass-driven bridge with clean, prayer-like vocals giving you a break from the growl. None of that makes it a great song, because the growling kills one part of the excitement and the repetitiveness finishes off the other, but it does give a hint that these guys really know how to use their guitars, and that all it takes for them to embark on the road for greatness is to get rid of the most annoying clichés of the genre.

There is one song here among the thick pools of sludge that sounds completely different: ʽSleep­lessʼ, strange enough, begins like a genuine early Eighties New Wave track, with Cure-like guitars introducing a cold, melancholic mood (and even the tempo being slightly sped up to shake off any doom metal associations), before true metal guitars and growling enter the picture for stylistic correction (and even then they keep moving in and out to keep things interesting). (There is also a short accappella track, sung in French by a female guest vocalist, that introduces an ap­propriate «dark folk» overtone, but it is too short and interlude-like to be of any serious interest). Everything else, however, is fairly stereotypical and, after a while, just blurs together in a mess that is neither too threatening nor too emotionally resonant — certainly nowhere near as emotio­nally resonant as the lyrics, all of which deal with loss, tragedy, death, coffins, mourning, end­less dreams, etc., would seem to suggest. Not that you could make any of them out with those vocals.

The biggest surprise comes last: pinned to the end of the record is ʽDreaming: The Romanceʼ, a 23-minute long ambient soundscape that sounds like it grew out of the final chord of ʽA Day In The Lifeʼ — just a minimalistic keyboard melody super-slowly unveiling against an oscillating hum in the background. I have no idea why they wanted to go in that direction and play God, that is, Brian Eno after exhausting their current pool of metal riffs, but that's the way it is. Maybe some people do need 23 minutes of New Age sonic textures to relax after 42 minutes of jarring doom metal, except most of them probably do not know it.

All in all, a rather inauspicious start, but I guess they had to start somewhere: Peaceville Records had just picked them up on the strength of their doom metal demos, and they did have to pander to a stereo­typical audience for a while. I'm sure a fan of «classic» Anathema could learn to live with Serenades or even love it, but even in a genre as formula-dominated as doom metal there may be standouts, and this one definitely is not, so a thumbs down it is.

Cheap Trick: Music For Hangovers

CHEAP TRICK: MUSIC FOR HANGOVERS (1999)

1) Oh Claire; 2) Surrender; 3) Hot Love; 4) I Can't Take It; 5) I Want You To Want Me; 6) Taxman, Mr. Thief; 7) Mandocello; 8) Oh Caroline; 9) How Are You?; 10) If You Want My Love; 11) Dream Police; 12) So Good To See You; 13) The Ballad Of T.V. Violence; 14) Gonna Raise Hell.

Nobody really needs more than one Cheap Trick live album in the collection, and I don't need to tell you what live album that should be — but it is also true that Cheap Trick hadn't released a follow-up to Budokan in twenty years (although they did release the previously unreleased second part of the concert separately in 1994 as Budokan II), and since we probably have to thank them for not doing this in the Eighties, it does make sense to give this one at least one spin to check how well they were faring in their «modest comeback» era.

Apparently, this is not a reflection of a fully typical show — these fourteen selections are culled from a special live extravaganza in Chicago, where they were giving themselves a huge 20th anniversary celebration, and marking the re-release of the early catalog on CD by playing each of the first four albums in its completeness on four consecutive nights. And since the prospect of putting together a huge 4-CD set seemed too terrifying at the time (although it is highly likely that at some time we might be getting a Music For Hangovers DeLuxe as a limited-time down­load offer, because we have so little music to listen to in our spare time), well, they just took a few selections from each show, shuffled them randomly, and released a «sampler» of sorts.

As a result, this is a highly nostalgic affair (the only two post-1979 songs are ʽIf You Want My Loveʼ and ʽI Can't Take Itʼ, which they probably played for their encores), and the only question worth asking is — does this kick any sort of ass that would be comparable to Budokan? Well, I have to admit that, agist bias aside, it does: on the whole, the band sounds every bit as invigorated and ready to blow the roof as it did twenty years ago. The biggest worry could probably be Zander, but no need to wonder, really — just throw on ʽGonna Raise Hellʼ and you will see that he is still not only capable of the rabid bull-roaring attack, but he is still capable to deliver it seemingly effortlessly. In fact, he does it so well that, as it seems to me, the engineers see to it that his voice is consis­tently driven a little bit higher in the mix than it was on Budokan — playing the old and the new live versions of ʽSurrenderʼ clearly shows the difference, and since Robin's pipes and enthusiasm show no signs of wearing down, this might be one small argument why at least some of the tracks here might even be more fun to listen to than the Budokan ones.

As for the musicians, there is no deterioration in quality in Nielsen's guitar pyrotechnics or Bun E. Carlos' steady drum support either (I guess Petersson is doing all right as well, but the bass in Cheap Trick was never anything special in the first place). There's only a tiny bit of guest support, with Billy Corgan playing extra guitar on ʽMandocelloʼ and then D'Arcy Wretzky singing backup vocals on ʽIf You Want My Loveʼ (I had no idea that Smashing Pumpkins were such big fans of the Trick, but apparently they are, as Corgan also wrote some gushing liner notes for the album), but perhaps the band sensed that they did need it, since their own fanbase had already dwindled, and they definitely needed some public support from the younger generation (the concept would be further advanced on Silver).

It is important to note that the band did consider the possibility that the album would be unfavo­rably compared to Budokan — and for that reason, there is as little overlap as possible, with worn-out hits and classics largely ignored (on record) in favor of less overplayed tunes: the only three tracks that do overlap are ʽSurrenderʼ (because what's a live Cheap Trick album without ʽSurrenderʼ?), ʽI Want You To Want Meʼ (repeat question with substituted object), and ʽOh Caro­lineʼ, the latter quite legit because they do it in a revised acoustic arrangement. The good news is that we get to hear the mad live jamming on ʽGonna Raise Hellʼ, and a guitar-based rather than synth-based version of ʽDream Policeʼ (but why didn't they include ʽThe House Is Rockingʼ? That was, like, the most stage-ready number on the Dream Police album!). The bad news is that, for some reason, each performance fades in and fades out, giving that nasty «greatest hits live» scent — I guess they were honestly letting us know that these were cut-and-paste performances, but it's no great fun to endure moments of absolute silence when sitting through a live album.

Aside from that, though, it makes no sense to have anything but very minor quibbles with the record (such as its title — I mean, is a decibel-heavy, guitar-crunch-choked power pop album really the appropriate kind of music to treat a hangover? Shouldn't they have at least gone all MTV Unplugged on us to validate that title?). It can even provide a minor companion piece to Budokan, due to that minimal overlap; but it certainly played a bigger role in 1999 (proving the world that the Trick «still got it») than it does now.

Carole King: A Holiday Carole

CAROLE KING: A HOLIDAY CAROLE (2011)

1) My Favorite Things; 2) Carol Of The Bells; 3) Sleigh Ride; 4) Christmas Paradise; 5) Everyday Will Be Like A Holiday; 6) Chanukah Prayer; 7) Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas; 8) I Got My Love To Keep Me Warm; 9) Christmas In The Air; 10) Do You Hear What I Hear; 11) This Christmas; 12) New Year's Day.

Come to think of it, it is weird that Carole had to wait until she was nearly seventy years old to release a Christmas album — with her cozy domestic attitudes and pure love for sentimental sim­plicity with a touch of the patriarchal (matriarchal?) spirit, this should have happened several decades earlier; then again, the «Christmas album virus» does tend to typically infect people only after their immune system has been severely ravaged by multiple bouts of writer's block, and now that the lady has little, if anything, left to lose, it's exactly the same question of «why not?» as it is for, say, Jethro Tull or Aretha Franklin.

So we've got some bad news and some good news for you here. Starting off with the good: in terms of instruments and arrangements, this is Carole's best-sounding record in almost, let's see... thirty years, I guess — the last time her songs sounded that natural and unsuffocated by studio gloss was on 1982's One To One (not that it was a masterpiece or anything, but the basic sound stayed true to the genuine C. King spirit). Other than the piano sound (why do they really have to use these electronic keyboards in the studio when they could easily go for a nice Steinway?), we have a real band backing the artist, acoustic drums, guitars, winds, strings, real live harmonies, and practically no traces of the «new R&B sound» that made her last two attempts at a come­back so painfully contaminated with something that was so much not Carole King. Christmas or no Christmas, I felt really at ease while listening to this.

The bad news now: alas, it is that time when the lady should be taking a break from singing. The aging has finally taken place, and if Love Makes The World still sounded (vocal-wise) much like the same old Carole, the next ten years finally took their merciless toll. She has lost a part of her higher range (occasionally making it real painful for the ears when she tries to hit a high note, e. g. on ʽI Got My Love To Keep Me Warmʼ), and the rest of it has developed a crackle — not stereotypically senile (in all honesty, you still wouldn't be able to precisely tell the age of the singer), but just a grating crackle that makes the whole «saved-by-charisma» thing of the past... well, more or less a thing of the past.

With the bad and the good news outcanceling each other, A Holiday Carole would be complete­ly and utterly useless if not for the fact that the record was largely a product of Carole's daughter, Louise, who co-produced it, sang some harmonies (I think), co-wrote several of the new songs, and seems to have even been the author of the idea. And she does offer a curious touch every now and then, like the slow jazz arrangement of ʽChanukah Prayerʼ where she joins her mother in said prayer along with her own son — three generations of Kleins remembering their roots in a non-totally-boring-predictable manner. She's not that good a songwriter, though: ʽChristmas Paradiseʼ is an admirable, but not very exciting attempt at diversifying the proceedings with some Latin rhythms; ʽChristmas In The Airʼ is family-oriented funk-pop with no interesting twists; and ʽNew Year's Dayʼ is a well-meant try to write a piano ballad in her mother's trademark style, but about as memorable as mother's latter day out-of-steam writings — apparently, just one more case of the parent's talent not being transmitted to the child; I cannot blame Louise Goffin for lack of taste in production or poorly chosen direction, but a genius like her mother she sure is not.

Still, like most of these projects, the purpose of A Holiday Carole is not to make a brand new artistic statement, but more personal — to remind the world that the artist is still alive, and, I guess, to prove to herself that she is still capable of something. And she is — vocal crackle aside, she is still a warm and kind human being who can hardly generate negative emotions even when operating within a fairly banal framework. And, after all, it is at least nice to see her, on what is probably the last serious studio project of her life, to reject trendiness and just go for some good old eternal values, no matter how old-fashioned, conservative, retrograde, or generic they might seem to anybody under 50 at the moment. (For that matter, why is it so that the UK / European release of this record came out under the title A Christmas Carole, and the US album was titled A Holiday Carole? Is this a solitary case of the American market displaying more political cor­rectness than the British one?..)

Canned Heat: Christmas Album

CANNED HEAT: CHRISTMAS ALBUM (2007)

1) Deck The Halls; 2) The Christmas Song; 3) Christmas Blues; 4) Santa Claus Is Coming To Town; 5) I Won't Be Home For Christmas; 6) Christmas Boogie; 7) Santa Claus Is Back In Town; 8) Jingle Bells; 9) Christmas Blues; 10) Boogie Boy (Little Drummer Boy); 11) Christmas Blues (live).

And so we end (or at least I really hope so) this long, strange journey — on our strangest note yet, as the final flourish of Canned Heat in the recording business seems to have been this special Christmas album, just exactly the kind of thing that billions of Canned Heat fans around the world had been fighting for ever since, way back when, Bob Hite did a joint number with Alvin and the Chipmunks that forever changed the course of humanity. That number (ʽThe Christmas Songʼ), already available as a bonus track on the CD release of Future Blues, is reproduced here in all its glory, as well as an old version of ʽChristmas Bluesʼ from around the same time, mixed in with a bunch of completely new recordings so that you all may see Canned Heat just the way they are: «protecting the old ways from being abused».

At least they have Robert Lucas back in the band, playing, singing, and having one last good time before expiring from a drug overdose about one year later — another solid Canned Heat tradition, you might say, but the irony is certainly mixed with sadness, since of all things that happened to this headless band since 1980, Robert Lucas was arguably the very best one. It is only because of him that one or two tracks on this Christmas Album approach the overall fun level of Boogie 2000, even if in terms of singing Christmas carols he isn't exactly a prime time Santa Claus; but in terms of playing, he can effortlessly transform ʽDeck The Hallsʼ and ʽJingle Bellsʼ into up­lifting jazz-blues grooves that replace the generic party spirit with genuine appreciation of a good musical spirit.

I mean, what could be the point of a classic blues-rock band doing a Christmas album? Only if the Christmas songs suit the tastes of a seasoned blues-rocker, and I'm pretty sure that seasoned blues-rockers with wide-reaching tastes will be all too happy to have a record like this for a sound­track to their Christmas dinner. Be it the completely instrumental ʽSanta Claus Is Coming To Townʼ, with a pretty-clean guitar solo (one third jazz, one third folk, and one third... surf?), or the reworking of the classic Heat / Hooker / ZZ Top ʽBoogie Chillenʼ line as ʽChristmas Boogieʼ (which almost explicitly suggests that Christmas might be the best time of the year for some wild carnal fantasies and Holy Spirit-assisted procreation activities), or the album-closing third version of ʽChristmas Bluesʼ, recorded in front of a live audience with special guest Eric Clapton on guitar, it's all part of a harmless fun send-up of the predictable Christmas spirit.

One lonesome odd surprise on the record is the band's reinterpretation of ʽLittle Drummer Boyʼ: although the song is retitled as ʽBoogie Boyʼ, it is not at all a boogie, but rather an «art-folk» mood piece with echo-laden guitars and a «deep rumble» effect on vocals that preach the virtues and efficiencies of The Boogie. It's a mildly hypnotic piece that contrasts sharply with the general upbeat tone of the record and, in the light of both Lucas' death the following year and the fact that we have not seen a new Canned Heat album since then, could be interpreted as an unintentional musical testament to the greatest force that kept the band afloat and kicking for such a ridiculous­ly long time — indeed, you could say that all this time they were the dutiful keepers of the boogie flame, and if there was one thing at which they truly excelled on the precious A-level, it was how to generate genuine sonic heat around that bearly one-chord vamp. And even if this record is merely a last minute curio / trifle, it is still somewhat reassuring to see them loyally sticking to that spirit even at Christmastime — with The Bear himself rising out of the grave to join his younger colleagues in one last celebration of The Boogie...

Cher: Heart Of Stone

CHER: HEART OF STONE (1989)

1) If I Could Turn Back Time; 2) Just Like Jesse James; 3) You Wouldn't Know Love; 4) Heart Of Stone; 5) Still In Love With You; 6) Love On A Rooftop; 7) Emotional Fire; 8) All Because Of You; 9) Does Anybody Really Fall In Love Anymore; 10) Starting Over; 11) Kiss To Kiss; 12) After All.

This is the one that made her big again — as in really really big, the size of the USS Missouri where they filmed the video for ʽIf I Could Turn Back Timeʼ (remember the fishnet stockings, the slavering sailors, the BIG BIG GUNS? — now those were the days, when REAL people ruled the world and made America great... oh, never mind). But even in terms of calculated marketing, there's hardly any real progress here, just some extra polish on the formula. Desmond Child, Diane Warren, Michael Bolton, and Bon Jovi continue to rule the day, and loyally deliver the canned goods for the average pop taste of 1989: glammy synth-rockers and overblown power ballads alternate with each other at regular intervals, smoothly sliding off the corporate conveyer belt and polluting both radio waves and Cher's reputation in years to come.

Ironically, the two big singles are not that bad. Despite being written by Diane Warren (who allegedly had to — literally! — claw into Cher's leg to get her to accept the song), ʽIf I Could Turn Back Timeʼ at least has a fun pop bounce to it: that chorus is seductively catchy in the good sense of the word, and if only the song could earn a traditional power pop arrangement (jangly guitars and all), I'm sure it could have had more staying power. Another thing is that it's not really a Cher-style song (she rarely does the pleading thing successfully), but then, its atmosphere is not really sad — it's like a confession dressed as a party anthem, and the melodic development is well suited to Cher's powerhouse build-ups.

ʽJust Like Jesse Jamesʼ is a neo-country ballad — with a power engine, too, but pretty much the only song here based on an acoustic arrangement and sharing something in common with Cher's early Seventies' past; in fact, some of the vocal lines closely resemble ʽGypsys, Tramps And Thievesʼ, and I'm pretty sure that Child and Warren did write it specifically as a retro number (amusingly, Cher herself stated later that she disliked the song because there was too much country and way too many words in it). But there's a good whiff of the strong, self-assured, sarcastic, empowered woman in it, and that's precisely the kind of stuff that has always been Cher's forte, so even if the final hook is still dumb (I mean, if her arrogant lover is Jesse James, is it really all that flattering to compare yourself to Robert Ford?), the gradual ascension / self-win­ding all the way up to it is handled perfectly. The only thing you have to do is get your mind off the boring arrangement, completely, and concentrate on the vocals.

Had the remainder of the record been like these first two songs, it would probably rank among the more tolerable relics of the Eighties' glam rock era. However, that's about it: everything that follows is pompous, hystrionic, monotonous muzak, choked with synthesizers and unimaginative pop metal solos, to the point where technical «ballads» (ʽLove On A Rooftopʼ, etc.) and technical «rockers» (ʽEmotional Fireʼ, etc.) only differ in speed and basic vocal intonation. Most of these songs could have been played by anybody, sung by anybody, and it does not even matter whether they were written by Jon Lind, Jon Bon Jovi, or any other Jon in existence since the Old Testa­ment. The only visible standout is the final song, ʽAfter Allʼ (a.k.a. "Love Theme From Chances Are") , and it's only visible because, as a sentimental power duet with Peter Cetera, it is especially vomit-inducing — one of those generic pieces of crap romance that continued making our life unhappier throughout the Nineties, polluting bad and good movies alike and even video games (remember ʽGirl In The Towerʼ from King's Quest VI? GOD!).

In the long run, even these two opening songs shouldn't be worthy enough for your «Guilty Pleasures of the Eighties» collection if you limit it to the first Top 100, so the best I can say about the record is that it is at least not as overtly disgusting in spirit as, say, a contemporary Aerosmith sellout like Pump; but even a disgusting contemporary Aerosmith sellout like Pump at least sounds much less boring and monotonous than Heart Of Stone. Thus, inevitably, a thumbs down, and considering how people like to define this record as the best of her «Eighties / early Nineties comeback» era, it seems like there's even more trouble coming up ahead.