Candlemass: Candlemass

CANDLEMASS: CANDLEMASS (2005)

1) Black Dwarf; 2) Seven Silver Keys; 3) Assassin Of The Light; 4) Copernicus; 5) The Man Who Fell From The Sky; 6) Witches; 7) Born In A Tank; 8) Spellbreaker; 9) The Day And The Night; 10) Mars And Volcanos.

Apparently, this album almost did not happen due to old tensions quickly reignited between the original band members as they gathered in the studio; in the end, though, they managed to over­ride them for at least this one LP, before the Messiah re-ascended into the void once again, this time for good. They did make the album self-titled, though, which usually symbolizes a «reboot», in this case, a new Candlemass for a new millennium — a fairly complicated task, considering all the difficulties of getting the Nightfall lineup in the studio and not making another (inferior copy of) Nightfall in the process.

Surprisingly, the result is quite satisfactory. Of course, this is not too different from «classic» Candlemass, but in some ways, I think it actually improves upon it. If you are a purist, deeply in love with this band and treasuring its first years of output as the most inspired and innovative ones (although «innovative» is really a strange word to use in relation to these Sabbath adepts), you will not share this opinion; I, however, think that Candlemass, above and beyond everything else, are professional deliverers of «Sabbath-brand product», and that, as «product», their first albums suffered from too much pomp and too little technical care. By the mid-2000s, after twenty years of soaking and steeping, they seem to have learnt to deal with that problem: Candlemass is their first album that (a) features awesome production standards and (b) avoids sounding too ridiculous or annoying, most of the time.

Taking ʽBlack Dwarfʼ, the album's kick-ass opening song, as a good example, what do we see? The opening riff, decidedly unoriginal as usual, finally sounds thick, deep, crushing, and massive, and is propelled forward by a great drum sound — also thick, bass-heavy, without any electronic echoes or general tinny overlays that so plagued their Eighties albums. The lead guitar part is fluent, melodic, and perfectly audible over everything else (not to mention quite expressive and actually reminiscent of some cataclysmic astral processes). And, finally, Marcolin adds a layer of angry beastliness to his vocals, still relying on his operatic potential but sounding much better in the capacity of a threatening Old Testament prophet of the apocalypse than in his typical Free­shooter / Dr. Faustus image from the classic records. (And by «much better» I mean that I don't have to go "oh no, gimme a break already" every time he hits a high note).

After ʽBlack Dwarfʼ, the record predictably slows down (we know by now that Candlemass can handle fast tempos, but they have no desire to turn into Accept, after all), and the songs become more and more interchangeable. However, the corrected problems remain corrected — the pro­duction never turns to shit, and all the riffs on all the songs retain that «massive» effect, even if there is still hardly a single riff here that I would judge as immediately efficient on the classic Iommi level (more like decent/acceptable on the post-1980 Iommi level). The usual copycat prob­lems persist: the lengthy ʽCopernicusʼ features clear echoes of ʽBlack Sabbathʼ in its slower parts, while ʽBorn In A Tankʼ presents yet another variation on ʽChildren Of The Graveʼ (just how many millions of times has that song been ripped off in the world of heavy metal?). But as long as you are not forced to memorize this stuff note-by-note, I like the overall sound: seems as if Edling's direct emulation of Sabbath on that previous album left some traces behind, and now, by injecting better produced Sabbath overtones into the classic Candlemass formula, he is able to achieve somewhat more credible results.

Special mention must be made of the lyrics, which are slightly less ridiculous than they used to be (this, at least, is an area in which they seem to have made some genuine progress: I actually catch myself pondering over the message of stuff like ʽSeven Silver Keysʼ and ʽAssassin Of The Lightʼ, and even if it is the same old devil-gonna-get-me stuff, it is at least presented in a vaguely veiled manner). On the down side, the song lengths... well, that's what you get for choosing «slow» as your default tempo — something that, given the success of ʽBlack Dwarfʼ as the lead-in track, they could have easily changed, but doom metal is doom metal. Still, a modest thumbs up. If you can only coax yourself into listening to one Candlemass album, you should probably pick up something from the Eighties, but if you want something that is actually listenable (if not neces­sarily enjoyable), this reunion gig is a better choice.

Caravan: All Over You

CARAVAN: ALL OVER YOU (1996)

1) If I Could Do It All Over Again, I'd Do It All Over You; 2) Place Of My Own; 3) The Love In Your Eye / To Catch Me A Brother; 4) In The Land Of Grey And Pink; 5) Golf Girl; 6) Disassociation (Nine Feet Underground); 7) Hello Hello; 8) Asforteri 25; 9) For Richard; 10) Memory Lain, Hugh; 11) Headloss.

Re-recordings of your own classics are not just pitiful: as a rule, they brand you very concisely as a «second-rate» artist — I think Page and Plant were the only ones who could properly get away with this shit, because most of the stuff they did was re-inventions rather than re-recordings, but other than that, Caravan here are joining the league of Blue Öyster Cult and The Animals, for no reason whatsoever — of course, it is understandable if you want to nostalgize in the confines of a studio, but what good are the results for even a dedicated fan? This is not a bad album, just utterly pointless. Unless the point is just admitting defeat: «hey guys, none of you bought The Battle Of Hastings when it came out — so I guess you like the old shit more, here's an acoustic version of ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ for you, enjoy».

As you can see from the track list, this is a representative retrospective of the classic years of Caravan, covering every album from the self-titled debut and up to Plump In The Night. The sonic structure is a little weird: about two-thirds of the record is almost completely acoustic (ex­cept for a few lead electric parts every now and then), up to the first part of ʽFor Richardʼ — after which the distorted guitars kick in with full force, and the album continues as an electric appearance until the end. The musicianship remains strong through the entire album, and Hastings continues to be in fine voice — and these are all great songs, so, formally, one cannot complain. But I struggle to find any specific points for which these arrangements should be re­commended. If anything, there are some weak points — namely, the production, which sounds strangely cluttered and disorienting: lots of gratuitous percussive overdubs, special effects, echoes, sometimes giving the songs a cavernous feel that they really do not deserve.

Additional odd ideas include, for instance, the overdub of fake stadium audience cheer and applause over the last two tracks — well, sure, those Plump In The Night tracks could be played in an arena setting, but why should we be told that? Is it some sort of poorly hidden envy on Pye's part, that he never got to play in a proper arena? Anyway, those crowd noises splattered all over ʽHeadlossʼ are really very annoying and distracting and, might I say, in poor taste.

Thus, unless you are interested in a couple of nice jazzy acoustic solos here and there (with a Spanish touch on ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ), it is probably better to just forget this record ever existed. Apparently, that was not the end of the story: a couple of years later, Hastings and Co. followed it up with All Over You Too, featuring a second batch of re-recordings, this time from 1973 to 1976; and that one, according to rumors, was even more tasteless than the first one, so I have not bothered to search it out. All in all, a very silly decision.

The 5th Dimension: Living Together, Growing Together

THE 5TH DIMENSION: LIVING TOGETHER, GROWING TOGETHER (1973)

1) Open Your Window; 2) Ashes To Ashes; 3) Changed; 4) The Riverwitch; 5) Living Together Growing Together; 6) Day By Day; 7) There's Nothing Like Music; 8) What Do I Need To Be Me; 9) There Never Was A Day; 10) Let Me Be Lonely; 11) Woyaya.

Although the band's commercial luck began to seriously wane with Individually & Collectively, it was not until 1973 that the fifth dimension truly began caving in on them — the LP did not make it into the Top 100, and this time, not even the singles were of much help. The biggest of 'em all was the title track — immediately recognizable as a Burt Bacharach tune since it uses the exact same introduction as ʽClose To Youʼ, and sharing all the usual easy listening attributes of any generic Bacharach tune: sweet, slightly bouncy ear candy with about as much depth to it as the movie it was written for (the allegedly awful reinvention of Lost Horizon as one of those corny 1970s musicals). And even that one only got to No. 32.

By now you know that you can usually predict the average quality of a 5th Dimension album just by looking at the list of songwriters, and this time around, the list is particularly discouraging. Bacharach & David, represented by two songs (the second one is ʽLet Me Be Lonelyʼ, a solo spot for Florence that's nice if you... umm, like sentimental waltzes with lotsa strings and brass), are actually one of the top names on the list — the only other top name is Harry Nilsson, whose ʽOpen Your Windowʼ, deliciously and seductively crooned (cooed?) by Marilyn McCoo, is a nice enough opener, but very short and misleading.

Elsewhere, brace yourselves for the return of Jeff Comanor, with derivatively Sam Cookish gospel numbers like ʽThe Riverwitchʼ (Billy Davis Jr. gives a fairly impressive Cooke / Redding impression, as usual, but the melody has not a single original twist) and equally derivatively Wil­son Pickettish R&B rave-ups like ʽThere's Nothin' Like Musicʼ — well, not too bad, to be honest, but not particularly necessary if you can get the real thing. And then there's lush ballads, ballads, ballads a-plenty, all of them largely interchangeable, even if, technically, McCoo's vocals are unimpeachable as usual. Of course, the «easy listening» genre is not really my cup of tea, and maybe I simply cannot see the little things that make these particular performances stand out against the rest, but as far as I'm concerned, this is all just plastic soul-imbued pop crapola, dili­gently, but indifferently executed by the performers. At least all those Laura Nyro songs offered a good chance to get into some character, but now they've run out of these, too.

Out of good ideas, The 5th Dimension make a nice, but meaningless, gesture of fraternizing with their black brothers across the Atlantic — covering Osibisa's ʽWoyayaʼ from the latter's 1971 album of the same name. As you can guess, it is a loyal, professional, and probably well-meaning cover, but it is hard to expect that the professional, glossy, restrained approach of a bubblegum Californian band can make this mix of pop music and tribal chanting uncover hidden depths that it lacked in the original. Nice try, but next time, try moving to Ghana or something. Definitely a thumbs down — no Jimmy Webb, no Laura Nyro, no dice.

Champion Jack Dupree: Sings The Blues

CHAMPION JACK DUPREE: SINGS THE BLUES (1961)

1) Me And My Mule; 2) The Blues Got Me Rockin'; 3) That's My Pa; 4) Tongue-Tied Blues; 5) Sharp Harp; 6) Blues For Everybody; 7) Camille; 8) Walkin' Upside Your Head; 9) Harelip Blues; 10) Big Leg Emma's; 11) Two Below Zero; 12) Silent Partner; 13) Mail Order Woman; 14) Stumbling Block; 15) Failing Health Blues; 16) She Cooks Me Cabbage.

This one is not from Copenhagen: it is an American compilation that, if I understand correctly, largely consists of singles recorded by the Champion for the King label in the mid-to-late 1950s. All I know about it is the track listing, the date of release, and the gushing, but hardly informative liner notes on the back sleeve, so even though most of these tracks feature Dupree with a small backing band, I have no idea who is playing what and whether you should by all means grab this because of a unique guest appearance by some unique blues hero.

Still, it's worth owning or hearing at least for ʽMe And My Muleʼ, a comic piece of one-sided dialog between Dupree and his trusty pack animal on which the man barely plays his instrument, ceding it all to bass and harmonica — the former mimicking the animal's lazy trudge, the latter imitating its hee-hawing. It is not so much hilarious as it is «authentic», cementing Dupree's status as The Everyman's Bluesman, a teller of routine stories of realistic daily troubles, usually invented on the spot. And it is certainly more impressive than Dupree's Muddy Waters tributes such as ʽMail Order Womanʼ, most of which sound like flimsy shadows of far superior originals.

Minor highlights on this collection would include ʽStumbling Blockʼ, a simplified, «untwisted» variation on ʽRollin' And Tumblin'ʼ with a steady beat and a cool echoey guitar part (Dupree does not play any piano on this one); the instrumental ʽSharp Harpʼ, more of a showcase for George "Harmonica" Smith than for the Champion — if you like Little Walter, George Smith's playing is in quite a similar style; and the mock-your-local-disability-today number ʽHarelip Bluesʼ, with an artificially enhanced speech impediment (apparently, Dupree used to present himself as harelip­ped which he really was not, but it helped attract extra customers; he did come out with some ridiculously bad accents, though). A few other tracks have nice slide guitar parts, for instance, ʽShe Cooks Me Cabbageʼ — there's some Elmore James-level chops there, even though the lead guitarist never gets a chance to solo; that, however, is just about it.

Apparently, there are more complete packages that cover Dupree's mid-to-late Fifties career in the States (prior to Blues In The Gutter), but, naturally, only a diehard blues completist should be seeking them out, and only after having exhausted the hard-to-exhaust pool of Chicago blues recordings from the same period.

The Yardbirds: Five Live Yardbirds

THE YARDBIRDS: FIVE LIVE YARDBIRDS (1964)

1) Too Much Monkey Business; 2) Got Love If You Want It; 3) Smokestack Lightning; 4) Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl; 5) Respectable; 6) Five Long Years; 7) Pretty Girl; 8) Louise; 9) I'm A Man; 10) Here 'Tis.

Every time I listen to this record, I am reminded of just how irrepairably skewed our modern per­ception is of all those young R&B bands that sprang up all over Britain in the early Sixties. We hear them somewhat timidly recording short, thin, quiet covers of Chicago blues and Chuck Berry in the studio; see them properly dressed and, most of the time, lip-synching to the same studio recordings on scant TV appearances; read condensed biographic descriptions of their early years that largely focus upon their managers, producers, and girlfriends; and, if we are very lucky, treat ourselves to awful quality bootlegs that are a total chore to enjoy.

The club scene, however, is where it was all really happening — where bands like The Animals and The Rolling Stones felt themselves free from public image shackles and studio restrictions long before the psychedelic revolution. This was where you could really go wild, where you could extend your three-minute singles into lengthy jams or dance grooves; at the expense of clarity and precision of sound, perhaps, but with the added benefit of releasing the BEAST inside you. We know the huge difference between a studio and a live Stones, or Who, or even Led Zep­pelin album from the late Sixties / early Seventies, but, if anything, this difference was even larger in the early Sixties — it's just that we don't get to experience it all that often.

Consequently, manager and producer Giorgio Gomelsky's pioneering decision to make the first album by his latest acquisition, The Yardbirds, a real live one was nothing short of entrepreneu­rial genius — and exceptionally favorable for The Yardbirds themselves, a band that had not yet properly found its studio wings, and had a lot going against it in terms of competition. Its strict separation between rhythm and lead guitar left rhythm guitarist Chris Dreja without any active voice whatsoever. In the rhythm section, bass player Paul Samwell-Smith was, at best, competent, and drummer Jim McCarty, even being somewhat more than just competent, was, after all, just a drummer. The weakest link, however, was their frontman: Keith Relf, next to the wildman image of people like Mick Jagger and Eric Burdon, looked and sounded like a well-behaved, clean-cut college student, probably very nice to know, handsome in an almost teen idol sort of way, but clearly loving his blues and R&B idols much more than he could imitate them.

Their best bit of luck came along in 1963, when their lead guitarist Top Topham had to leave for art school and cede his place to Eric Clapton, of The Roosters' (non-)fame. With the young guitar prodigy at their side, The Yardbirds finally had something that nobody else had in the British R&B scene — a top-notch blues guitarist who could not only cop all the black dudes' licks to perfection, but put his own stamp on those as well. However, as their first album clearly shows, The Yardbirds never had the slightest intention of turning into «The Eric Clapton Revue» (or, for that matter, any guitar player's revue, be it Eric, Jeff, or Jimmy). The man was too shy to sing, too stiff to show off on stage, and he did not even take solo turns on at least half of the numbers that they performed — drastically underused, some might say; admirably humble, others might object. Regardless, Clapton's presence on these tracks is a good, but far from the only, reason why Five Live Yardbirds still deserves your attention more than half a century since its release.

The most important thing about Five Live Yardbirds is that it is the only document of its epoch, at least outside the territory of crappy-sounding boots, that lets you hear what a genuine club-based «rave-up» sounded like at the time. Those of the album's songs (recorded, by the way, at the Marquee Club on March 20, 1964) that go well over three minutes usually turn, sooner or later, into loud, noisy, «primitive» jams, with all the band members kicking the shit out of their instruments — about as far removed from one's idea of an Eric Clapton-led band as possible. And in those blessed moments when the band reaches its energetic peak, any individual shortcomings on the part of the players just melt away, and what remains is an awesome tribal groove, perhaps best felt on dance-oriented R&B numbers such as the Isley Brothers' ʽRespectableʼ or Bo Did­dley's ʽHere 'Tisʼ that closes the show. ʽHere 'Tisʼ, in particular, features a mammoth groove from the rhythm section — for a short while, Jim McCarty ceases to be a suburban British kid and becomes one of those Loa-possessed mythical African savages... yes, clichéd praise, I know, but you really don't get such tribal bombast from anybody else in the Britain of 1964.

Straightahead rock'n'roll and blues numbers are, of course, generally saved by the young Mr. ʽSlowhandʼ Clapton — with ʽToo Much Monkey Businessʼ, if you want great lead vocals, hear The Hollies, if you want young punk flavour, your best bet is The Kinks, but if you want top level lead guitar with the rawest, sharpest, screechiest tone of 1964 and the speediest, most easily fluent picking style of 'em all, you'll have nowhere to turn to but The Yardbirds. The sound quality is hardly ideal, and Eric's soloing on ʽFive Long Yearsʼ is too deeply embedded in the mix (you'd have to wait thirty more years to hear Eric truly let rip on the song), but you can already hear all the principal reasons for the ʽGodʼ tag here. That said, ʽMonkey Businessʼ, ʽFive Long Yearsʼ, and John Lee Hooker's ʽLouiseʼ are pretty much the only songs on which Eric gets a proper solo spot — all the more ridiculous considering how often Keith Relf gets a solo spot with his harmonica, which he really only plays because he's a non-guitar-playing frontman and if you are a frontman without a guitar, you have to play harmonica. Like Mick Jagger, you know? Even on ʽGood Morning Little Schoolgirlʼ — the studio version had Eric playing a solo, but this live version only has Keith. What the hell?.. (Admittedly, he is not a bad harp blower, and the perfor­mance on ʽSmokestack Lightningʼ is suitably evil, but too much of this is perfunctory).

Anyway, all criticism aside, Five Live Yardbirds is more than just a priceless historical docu­ment: it is a special experience that lets you penetrate those «wild and innocent days» like nothing else — before egos and drugs took over and added extra wildness, but took away most of the innocence. Never mind that the band remained unable to carve out an unmistakable identity for themselves: Five Live Yardbirds has no need for an identity, as long as a certain nameless power can clench all five of them in its grip from time to time and make them produce such exciting, truly bacchanalian pandemonium. And on top of that, you get a few of those Clapton solos — as a bonus for getting into all the grooves. Thumbs up.

PS: since the dawning of the CD era, Five Live Yardbirds apparently has been released in a million different repackagings, many of which throw on tons of bonus tracks — such as the band's early studio singles (which shall be tackled in a separate review for For Your Love), or additional live performances from the Crawdaddy Club and other venues: seek out the one that has a rippin' version of Chuck Berry's ʽLet It Rockʼ on it, a really tight performance and another great occasion to hear Eric do Chuck Berry, something you would almost never get a chance to hear again in the post-1964 universe.

Bardo Pond: Under The Pines

BARDO POND: UNDER THE PINES (2017)

1) Crossover; 2) Out Of Reach; 3) My Eyes Out; 4) Moment To Moment; 5) Under The Pines; 6) Effigy.

You don't have to take my word for it, but does it look like these guys are getting... old? Or, at least, kind of mellowing out in their own Bardo Pond kind of way. After all, they are past their 25th year of functioning as a band; if anything, they should be having a mid-life crisis these days, or, at least, doing whatever it is one has to do when one's formula has essentially stayed the same for over twenty-five years and it's time to make yourself vulnerable to critical assaults. The good news is, most of these critics weren't exactly spending their last twenty years relistening to Ama­nita every night; the bad news is, most of them have zero interest picking up an old-fashioned psychedelic album by a band that still pleads allegiance to the Nineties.

My impression is colored by two observations. One, that even on the longest tracks of this overall short album Bardo Pond sound somewhat less dense and even more «shallow» than they used to. Two, that all the tracks except for the last one are completely dominated by Isobel Sollenberger's vocals (and, to a lesser extent, her flute playing) — she very rarely abandons her vocalizing, giving the whole thing a far more peaceful and meditative sheen than usual. Indeed, the very title suggests the idea of meditative relaxation deep in the forest, and somehow, the textures of the album largely agree with that idea. Distortion, feedback, reverb, sludge, heavy tones, multiple overdubs, everything that makes Bardo Pond sound like themselves is still here, but instead of the feeling of a psychedelic storm, this all helps create a feeling of psychedelic calm now. I guess it mostly has to do with their selection of tones now, and with the guitarists' careful avoidance of «sharp» chord changes and chaotic sound peaks.

In fact, if you strip some of these jams down to the bare essentials, what you might get is... a nice little folk-and-country record! There's a thin, but very well noticeable acoustic melody underlying ʽMoment To Momentʼ which is nothing if not straightahead country-pop — along the lines of, say, mid-Seventies Dylan of the Pat Garrett variety, or Willie Nelson, if you like. Do not be fooled by the distorted woman-tone of the guitar, or all the echo layers, or how shamanistic Isobel gets towards the end of the track, it's really just an old country piece here, psychedelized for those who still prefer listening to music under chemical influence. And then the title track actually be­gins with acoustic chords, before moving into the usual territory of cross-locking distorted guitars; and even then, Isobel's voice rises quite distinctly above the din rather than being buried in it — as if they actually wanted you to make out the words, about how she's so happy to be lying down under the pines and other meditative stuff.

The bottomline is that, even though Bardo Pond can live about as much time without sludgy dis­tortion and heavy sustain as the average human can live without oxygen, Under The Pines is still one of their mellowest offerings to date, and I guess it's kinda cool: it properly reflects their real moods and states of mind as they gradually age. They do not want to raise the ruckus and bring down the roof any longer, just to show their tiny handful of fans that they can still kick ass the same way they did it in the mid-Nineties. Instead, they use their old bag of tricks and their accu­mulated experience to create a subtly different atmosphere — and it is pretty much irrelevant how well you, the listener, can relate to that atmosphere, because it is unlikely that they are creating this music for anybody but themselves, really. Personally, I enjoyed the experience, and happily accept the fact that tomor­row I will forget that this record ever existed — but there's nothing whatsoever to blame the band for, as it remains more than adequate to itself.

Chairlift: Something

CHAIRLIFT: SOMETHING (2012)

1) Sidewalk Safari; 2) Wrong Opinion; 3) I Belong In Your Arms; 4) Take It Out On Me; 5) Ghost Tonight; 6) Cool As A Fire; 7) Amanaemonesia; 8) Met Before; 9) Frigid Spring; 10) Turning; 11) Guilty As Charged.

By the time their second album was released, Chairlift had already reduced themselves to a duo: Aaron Pfenning left in 2010, and now Chairlift consists of precisely what you see on the album cover. Upon first impression, you do not get the feel that this affects the overall accomplished feel of the music — Polachek and Wimberly are perfectly capable to lay on all the layers on their own. However, technically that does transform them into a «pure» synth-pop outfit, as the guitars are reduced to a bare minimum and, for the most part, the atmosphere of the songs now depends on how dark Wimberly makes his basslines and how cluttery Polachek makes her keyboards.

The formal changes in musical textures are, however, not the main reason why I think Something is a step down, not up, from the exciting debut of Does You Inspire You. The main reason is that the album seems to lay down severe restrictions on the eclecticism and ambitions with which they'd started out four years earlier — I am not sure whether this means just how crucial the pre­sence of Pfenning was to their collective ego, or if it is just another case of the same unfortunate tendency to self-pigeonhole that plagues so many artists, but the fact is, Something is just a synth-pop record of the «me and you» variety, with all the songs whirling around the issue of finding a perfect relationship and then trying not to ruin it. Sound familiar?..

In other words, forget about the ambitious mix of personal and collective problems tackled in 2008, and get ready for a much more modest mix of dance grooves and ballads that run the oh so wide gamut from "I belong in your arms" to "Oh god, just let my love survive". Despite some glowing reviews that actually acknowledged this self-yoking as progress (like, the more they stay out of complex Marxist and Freudian territory, the better for these silly idealistic kids), I find it disappointing — like I said, Does You Inspire You gave a cool impression of the world being discovered by a bunch of inexperienced, but aspiringly smart kids, whereas Something is just another boring record that tries to find hidden depths at the bottom of a glass of water.

Not that it is devoid of nice musical ideas and hooks: if anything, it is saved by technical accom­plishments rather than mesmerizing personality. ʽSidewalk Safariʼ, opening the album, is pretty limp if you follow the lyrics and try to convince yourself that Caroline Polachek as a hot female stalker is a credible artistic image... but if you just think of it as a synth-poppified adaptation of some romantic European dance pop groove from around 1968, and pay more attention to the stylish overlays of synthesizers and synth-treated guitars, it becomes nice. Likewise, I care not for the verbal message of ʽWrong Opinionʼ, but I kinda like how the electronic «broken glass effect» holds a dialog of its own with the heavy distorted guitar chords — a good musical allegory of personal paranoia wrestling with the Hand of Doom, if you wish.

However, as a singer, Polacheck only impresses me about twice or thrice on this record. ʽGhost Tonightʼ is a really good one, where you can sense faint echoes of the same dismal doomed des­peration that used to power all those Beth Gibbons classics — and it's only with the little things, like the tension and implied tears in the "whoah-oh-oh"s that follow the "Hollow heavy eyes, follow in your light, I'm a ghost tonight" chorus, that the record is able to transcend from catchy pop to the realm of the genuinely soulful. ʽFrigid Springʼ is another one, a moonlight-on-the-lake dream pop tune, all chimes and echoes, and as they get to the chorus, the lady transforms herself into an aethereal will-o'-wisp and just floats across from speaker to speaker — luvverly. On the other hand, sometimes they overdo this: on ʽTurningʼ, there's too much psychedelic vocalizing and not enough singer presence. This is not Enya, after all.

The first single was the tongue-twistedly-titled ʽAmanaemonesiaʼ, and it is far more typical of this record than ʽBruisesʼ was of the debut: a catchy, but not terribly profound synth-pop groove that tries to convey a sense of bewildered infatuation (or something) with its fast tempo, jerkiness, and chaotic sample attack — sort of like a cross between Depeche Mode and Kate Bush, not as dark as the former and not as artsy as the latter (although the accompanying video, most of it spent on featuring Polachek dancing on top of a giant red tongue, is every bit as artsy as any given Kate Bush video — and as far as my own tastes go, Polachek is almost every bit as terrible a dancer as Kate Bush is). And maybe it's an exciting synthesis, but it also traps the record in a nostalgic vibe from which, I believe, Does You Inspire You was largely free: it sounded highly influenced by a lot of people, but also modern and looking forward, whereas Something is more like a tribute to the past, hardly eligible for the status of a «minor modern classic». That said, I do know for a fact that quite a few people have rated it higher than Does You Inspire You — perhaps they are seeing something here that I am not seeing, or, perhaps, they are not seeing something in DYIY that I am seeing.

Naturally, I'd prefer to vote for the second option, but Something is still well deserving of a thumbs up — on the whole, it is a crea­tive, tasteful, genuinely musical piece of work that just barely misses transcending its own genre limitations, and, like almost everything else done in the sphere of art-pop today, cannot help get sucked back into the same old 20th century.

Candlemass: Doomed For Live

CANDLEMASS: DOOMED FOR LIVE (2002)

1) Mirror Mirror; 2) Bewitched; 3) Dark Are The Veils Of Death; 4) Demon's Gate; 5) Under The Oak; 6) At The Gallows End; 7) Samarithan; 8) Dark Reflections; 9) Mourner's Lament; 10) Black Stone Wielder; 11) The Well Of Souls; 12) A Sorcerer's Pledge; 13) Bearer Of Pain; 14) Ancient Dreams; 15) Somewhere In Nowhere; 16) Solitude; 17) Crystal Ball.

Har har har, it's 2002 and the world still has not run out of lame puns for live album titles. More than that, the world still has a place for good old Candlemass — as Edling's interesting, but some­what atypical fiddlings with the name of the band come to a close, the classic Nightfall lineup finally reunites as Messiah Marcolin realizes that no other metal project brings so much fame to his name as Candlemass.

The first result of this reunion is more of symbolic than genuine importance: a live record (and video), to show the world that the old school of 1987 is still around and that it kick any of those metallic youngsters' asses at a moment's notice. But that's about all it does, really. Eleven out of seventeen tracks are the same songs that already were present on the Live album — apparently, the band does not care much about hunting for dark horses, or, perhaps, in this case they thought that it was far more important to whip up the classics, for any potential new fans. Thus, we have all of Epicus Doomicus reproduced here (although ʽBlack Stone Wielderʼ is seriously shortened and serves mostly to illustrate the cheese-opera powers of Marcolin's voice in the acappella ope­ning); predictable selections from the next three albums; and nothing whatsoever from Chapter VI onwards, because... no Messiah.

Scrutinizing the actual performances is a task / delight for radical Candlemass fans only; as far as I'm concerned, the record is completely expendable — the lead vocalist and the instrumentalists remain technically irreproachable, so that it is almost impossible to tell the difference between the versions here and on Live. If you disliked the studio production on Ancient Dreams and Tales Of Creation, you have a chance to hear a couple more of those tunes, like ʽBearer Of Painʼ, with a rawer, heavier guitar tone, and that's that. It might be more fun to catch a glimpse of some of these songs performed live — Marcolin tries to cut a dramatic figure, dressed in a Benedictine monk robe, and the entire performance is sort of structured like a multi-part exorcism ceremony; but even that, I'd say, becomes rather boring after a while. Doomed for, indeed.

Caravan: The Battle Of Hastings

CARAVAN: THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS (1995)

1) It's A Sad, Sad Affair; 2) Somewhere In Your Heart; 3) Cold As Ice; 4) Liar; 5) Don't Want Love; 6) Travelling Ways; 7) This Time; 8) If It Wasn't For Your Ego; 9) It's Not Real; 10) Wendy Wants Another 6" Mole; 11) I Know Why You're Laughing.

The Battle of Hastings, fought on October 14, 1066, is generally considered a key event in the political, social, and cultural history of England, leading to a decisive victory on the part of Nor­man forces led by William the Conqueror and initiating a major period of transformation for the entire English society. Precisely one year later, in 1067, the old cathedral of Canterbury was completely destroyed by fire, and starting in 1070, rebuilt under the supervision of the first Norman archbishop; the new marvels of Norman architecture, along with the subsequent murder of Thomas Becket on the steps of the cathedral, led to a major increase in its popularity and, consequently, the popularity of Canterbury as such, directly reflected in such artistic highs as the works of Geoffrey Chaucer (The Canterbury Tales), Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (A Canterbury Tale), and English progressive rock bands such as The Soft Machine, Gong, National Health, and, of course, Caravan. In addition, the Norman conquest led to major changes in the English musical tradition, with new styles of court, sacred, and even folk music complementing and sometimes replacing older Saxon traditions — echoes of which still survived in English popular music in the 20th century, and were merged by progressive and experimental artists with African and American elements to form the basis for progressive rock music, including the Can­terbury school, in the late Sixties and early Seventies. All of these connections are brought back to us with the front cover of the album, a partial reproduction of the monumental Bayeux Tapestry, depicting the key elements of the Ba...

...wait a minute, what? You're telling me it is all just a lame pun on the last name of Pye Hastings, the de-facto leader of Caravan since at least 1973? Oh. Bummer. Could we please get Mr. Hastings on the phone here, to confirm this? What's that? He's got no memory of making this album, so he can neither confirm nor deny? Double bummer.

Admittedly, it is true that The Battle Of Hastings, released 929 years after the epochal event and 13 years after the last attempt at a Caravan reunion, sank to the bottom even quicker than Back To Front, and continues to be largely ignored by prog and pop fans alike: in 1995, it was hard to imagine a style less out of touch with the times than Pye Hastings' brand of «soft prog», and good luck to anybody wishing to find a comprehensive and serious review of the record. And yet, it was a serious record. Most of the songs were indeed composed by Hastings, but the band also included Coughlan on drums, Dave Sinclair on keyboards (he is also credited for at least one song, ʽTravelling Waysʼ), a returning Geoff Richardson on viola and 50,000 other instruments, and even brother and long-time sideman companion Jimmy Hastings on the usual flutes and saxes. The only new member is bassist Jim Leverton, and even that guy is a true veteran (of Noel Red­ding's Fat Mattress, Juicy Lucy, Hemlock, Savoy Brown, and whoever else's fame).

Naturally, the lineup alone does not matter: what matters is whether the songs, the production, and the level of energy/inspiration makes the record any better than the lackluster works by the 1977–1982 versions of the band. According to a few disappointed fans whose opinions may be gathered from various prog review sites, the answer seems to be a firm «no». The Battle Of Has­tings is, indeed, a collection of acoustic-based pop songs, with very little by way of «listening challenges», very low-key in execution, rather monotonous in atmosphere, and sort of embarras­sing when it comes to the occasional quirk such as that ʽWendyʼ song. So it would seem that if you were bored stiff by Better By Far and The Album, the same should be expected of this re­cord. And yet, this is not how it works for me.

Two things in particular make enough of a difference to make me want to embrace and recom­mend the album. The first and lesser one is the production: everything here sounds a ton better than the muffled, hollow production of the 1977–1982 albums. This is obvious from the opening lively acoustic guitar chords and old-fashioned background organ hum on ʽIt's A Sad, Sad, Af­fairʼ — a good sign that even if the songwriting will not be up to par, at least the overall sound will remind you more of classic Caravan than of the late-period plastic Caravan. It is not always like that (occasionally, the ugly synth tones and the silkbox-enclosed guitar echoes will come back to haunt you), but it is the rule rather than the exception.

The major difference, however, is that, apparently, Pye Hastings had grown himself a few de­mons to exorcise in the 13 years that we hadn't heard from him. Most of the songs here do not sound like commercially-oriented sentimental pop songs: this is more of a gloomy, melancholic, nostalgic singer-songwriter record, formally dressed up as a collection of pop tunes. There is in­deed a «battle» fought here, and I do not know how personal it was (information on Pye's per­sonal life is quite scarce to come by), but most songs are about cheating, rejection, bitterness, reproaches — I mean, just look at the titles: ʽIt's A Sad, Sad Affairʼ, ʽCold As Iceʼ (no, not Forei­gner!), ʽLiarʼ (no, not Argent!), ʽIf It Wasn't For Your Egoʼ, etc. It might not necessarily be about one's love life as such — might be a general allegory for the bitterness at feeling forgotten and rejected, which had pretty much been Caravan's ordeal for the past 15 years. Regardless, it feels very sincere when you really get into it, and, oddly enough, I find myself returning to some of these songs far more often than I'd expect myself to, usually in times of trouble.

Describing the individual songs is hard, though, because they are really all unified in terms of style and substance. Some are a little slower, some a little faster, most float by on a double-layer bed of acoustic guitars and keyboards with whatever additional instrumentation Richardson and Jimmy Hastings decide to throw in for fullness' effect (flutes, mandolins, accordions, etc.). Pro­bably worth singling out is that opener, ʽSad, Sad Affairʼ, slightly more upbeat and precisely shaped than the rest (what with Pye playing and singing the exact same catchy folk-pop melody); the sax-embellished waltz of ʽCold As Iceʼ; and the squint-eyed, stop-and-start menace of ʽLiarʼ (which was probably influenced by the old Argent song after all — at least, the stop-and-start trick, followed by the massive eruption of "LIAR!", follows the same formula, and I do not be­lieve this is a coincidence).

The only «objective» standouts, however, are the last two tracks. ʽWendy Wants Another 6" Moleʼ is the specially incubated ugly duckling — a song that sounds more 10cc than Caravan with its vaudeville-pop rhythmics and caricaturesque vocals, not to mention grotesque (though not very funny) lyrics, although even 10cc would probably have never dared to end any of their tracks with a bunch of raspberries (literally!). Apparently, Pye remembered at the last moment that he had neglected to imbue enough of his sick humor into the songs, and synthesized it all within a single short track. It's okay to feel offended, though I'd guess that for some people, it would at least be a nice breakup of the overall monotonousness.

The real kicker, however, is the last song, ʽI Know Why You're Laughingʼ. It begins by skilfully deceiving you into thinking of it as a lazy adult contemporary ballad of a conclusion, then quickly kicks into high gear and becomes the fastest, catchiest, and most grim-faced pop-rocker that Pye had ever written up to that point. I really mean it — the song rocks, and at 3:36 it goes into genu­ine hard rock mode, with a fluent, furious, and perfectly constructed guitar solo that may remind one of Lindsey Buckingham (think ʽGo Your Own Wayʼ and suchlike). It is the kind of song that I would never in a million years expect out of Caravan, and it's been one of my favorites of theirs ever since I heard it — a criminally underrated pop-rock masterpiece that could have gotten its due were it released in 1975 rather than 1995... but it is never too late to make amends.

So, is this really the «comeback» we'd been hoping for? Certainly not for those who expected long-winded progressive structures, and probably not even for those who hoped for the bright, shining fun of Blind Dog. It is a monotonous, morose, autumnal record, good for the mood on one of those days where the rain just won't stop, but it is authentically atmospheric and perhaps even subtly allegorical, so much so that I could easily see it becoming the favorite album of the defeated King Harold Godwinson, had he had the (mis)fortune to survive the battle of Hastings and live into his late 920s. Thumbs up.

The 5th Dimension: Individually & Collectively

THE 5TH DIMENSION: INDIVIDUALLY & COLLECTIVELY (1972)

1) Leave A Little Room; 2) (Last Night) I Didn't Get To Sleep At All; 3) All Kinds Of People; 4) Sky & Sea; 5) Tomorrow Belongs To The Children; 6) If I Could Reach You; 7) Half Moon; 8) Band Of Gold; 9) Border Song; 10) Black Patch.

Honestly speaking, you can skip most of the individual and the collective songs on here and head straight for the last number — because, as you have already guessed, it is a Laura Nyro song; not one of her best, though, or, at least, not one of those to which they do proper justice. An upbeat, horn-filled anthem giving each of the band members a solo spotlight, it erases the happy-sad per­sonality that they had, up until then, managed to preserve so well, and becomes just another de­cent, but unexceptional sunshine pop statement.

Even so, it is the best track on this highly generic, thoroughly uninspired platter that finds The 5th Dimension largely unhooked from their energy sources — most of the songwriting seems to come from second- and third-rate people, with Jimmy Webb totally busy elsewhere. One major new songwriter whom they try to include on their roster is Elton John: the cover of ʽBorder Songʼ is halfway decent, but for all their gospel-soul authenticity, they are incapable of preserving the song's aura of loneliness and depression: Billy Davis Jr. is really such a happy, happy person by nature that he could probably inject warmth and cuddliness into Joy Division, so this is just a wrong choice here.

Both of the singles culled from the album, according to the formula established with ʽOne Less Bellʼ, are ballads sung by Marilyn McCoo — Tony Macaulay's ʽI Didn't Get To Sleep At Allʼ and Randall McNeil's ʽIf I Could Reach Youʼ, both of them making bets on the strength and expres­sivity of Marilyn's voice (no questions there) and little else, standard lush pop Broadway fodder without any special hooks. Both made it on the charts, but climbed highest on the adult contem­porary / easy listening registers, for obvious reasons, and I'd think that only a major fan of schlock aesthetics could easily memorize them.

Other than that, you have a surprisingly decent exercise in funk (ʽHalf Moonʼ, previously made famous by Janis Joplin) — excellent musicianship (watch out particularly for a mighty mighty bassline from session veteran Joe Osborne), but not such a great vocal performance; another of their generic pa-da-bam vocalize pieces (ʽSky & Seaʼ, from some obscure musical), good for lengthy elevator rides; and a few other non-descript soul pieces that seem to have been recorded completely in autopilot mode. When you put it all together, the result is devastating: there's not really even a single song that I could visualize making it to my ideal 5th Dimension compilation. Then again, there is absolutely nothing surprising in this: all they did was loyally follow the trends in American mainstream pop tastes, and as those tastes continued disentangling themselves from the pop-rock and psychedelic influences of the mid-to-late Sixties, so did these guys' music continue to evolve from fun-and-cuddly to bland-and-mushy. Thumbs down.

Champion Jack Dupree: Champion Of The Blues

CHAMPION JACK DUPREE: CHAMPION OF THE BLUES (1961)

1) I Had A Dream; 2) Roll Me Over Roll Me Slow; 3) Reminiscin' With Champion Jack Dupree; 4) That's All Right; 5) Daybreak Stomp; 6) House Rent Party; 7) Snaps Drink Woman; 8) One Sweet Letter From You; 9) New Vicksburg Blues; 10) When Things Go Wrong; 11) Johnson Street Boogie Woogie; 12) Misery Blues.

This next album founds the Champion in Copenhagen, where, so it seems, he feels himself right at home: at least, on ʽRoll Me Over Roll Me Slowʼ he acknowledges that fact with pleasure and gratitude to all the good Danish people who feel so hospitable towards an exotic blues piano player from the faraway swamps of Louisiana. The recording session was produced by local jazz and blues enthusiast Karl Emil Knudsen, who had recently launched his own blues label (Story­ville) and seemed all too happy to make Dupree into one of his permanent clients. And this time, there is no Alexis Korner around: all twelve songs feature Champion Jack Dupree solo, with the strict warning that "the percussive sounds heard on several of the tracks are made by stomping of Champion Jack's feet". So there! The album was still picked up by Atlantic overseas — at least, Atlantic pressings of it do exist — but essentially, this stabilizes the Champ's status for a long, long time as one of America's most reliable exports to Europe.

Music-wise, of course, there is not much to discuss in such a setting. Since it is unlikely to expect the Champion to get influenced by Thelonious Monk or John Cage, most of the attention will be drawn to his behavior behind the keyboards — for instance, nostalgizing about the good old days with his deceased blues pals and explaining why he prefers piano over guitar, illustrating it with little flourishes (ʽReminiscin'ʼ), or getting adjusted to the new realities of his life in Denmark with songs like ʽSnaps Drinking Womanʼ, an old jump blues with new lyrics quickly re-written to fit the circumstances. Overall, it's just another predictable mix of regular slow blues, uptempo jump blues, and boogie woogie — ʽJohnson Street Boogie Woogieʼ is fun, but does not work all that well without a supporting band. I guess Danish audiences loved it all, though, and the Champ was happy to oblige, putting on one-man vaudeville shows like ʽHouse Rent Partyʼ, a simple illustra­tion of the menu served at a modest house party deep down in Louisiana. Still, even if you keep your expectations to a bare minimum, it is pretty damn hard to put Champion Of The Blues in the class of «satisfactory entertainment», unless you put yourself in the shoes of a young Danish blues lover in 1961 who has just miraculously discovered the real thing playing in his local bar.

The Hollies: In The Hollies Style

THE HOLLIES: IN THE HOLLIES STYLE (1964)

1) Nitty Gritty / Something's Got A Hold On Me; 2) Don't You Know; 3) To You My Love; 4) It's In Her Kiss; 5) Time For Love; 6) What Kind Of Boy; 7) Too Much Monkey Business; 8) I Thought Of You Last Night; 9) Please Don't Feel Too Bad; 10) Come On Home; 11) You'll Be Mine; 12) Set Me Free; 13*) Just One Look; 14*) Keep Off That Friend Of Mine; 15*) Here I Go Again; 16*) Baby That's All; 17*) We're Through; 18*) Come On Back; 19*) What Kind Of Love; 20*) When I'm Not There; 21*) Yes I Will; 22*) Nobody.

If you are listening to the expanded CD version of the Hollies' second album, be sure to program it (at least once) so that most of the bonus tracks come first — this will give you an even better perspective on the band's creative growth through 1964. More than ten months separate In The Hollies Style from Stay With The Hollies, which is actually quite a bit of time by Sixties' stan­dards; however, this is perfectly understandable for a band that measured its progress in singles, rather than LP tracks. And even if for their singles they largely kept relying on cover versions, this did not prevent them from maturing as completely autonomous artists, if not necessarily expert songwriters.

The story begins with Doris Troy's ʽJust One Lookʼ, where the band's three-part harmonies finally fall into place: Clarke, Hicks, and Nash together, then the former two supporting Nash on the bridge section. Where Troy's original was a tad slower and her vocals were soulful rather than playful, The Hollies sensed the song's immense pure-pop potential, tightened it up a little, and turned it into their first mini-explosion of infectiously celebratory teen sentiment. Next to the Beatles, nobody in Britain could match the ringing sharpness of that ascending "and I felt so I... I... I-I-I-I'm in love..." (despite the screaming ungrammaticality: actually, the original line went "and I fell so hard, hard, hard in love...", but I guess nobody bothered to provide them with the lyrics sheet for the session. And no, they are not singing "I felt so high", by the way, which wasn't even a running ambiguity back in 1964) — so there was no way the song could not carry them all the way to No. 2 on the UK charts, and even scrape the bottom of the US charts at that.

Next step: ʽHere I Go Againʼ, provided by Mort Shuman and representing The Hollies in the full swing of their powers — you could, in fact, argue that whatever they would do in the future could often match the effect of this song, but could never properly outdo its combination of a loud, tight, youth-power beat with a «waiting-in-ambush» type of vocal hook: I do not mean the "watch me now, cause here I go again!" main chorus — no, the main hook of this song is actually nested in the middle of each verse, first lulling you a bit with gently back-and-forth rocking bits ("I've... been hurt... so much... before... I told myself... yes I did..."), then turning round and hitting you smack dab in the mouth with the shrill, multi-tracked archway of "NO MORE NO MORE WON'T GET HURT ANY MORE". This is the kind of suspenseful vocal Heaven that you won't actually find on any Beatles song — you really need The Hollies for this.

Next step: ʽWe're Throughʼ, the first Hollies single credited to «L. Ransford» — that is, written by the Clarke/Hicks/Nash songwriting team rather than commissioned from an external source. Not easily identifiable as an obvious rip-off, it draws our attention first to its quirky little jazz-pop acoustic riff before passing the baton on to the vocals — some of which seem to be attracted by the little riff itself, following it closely in an almost scat-like manner. Compared to all of the band's previous singles, it is notably darker in atmosphere and could be regarded as sort of an answer to the Beatles' ʽThings We Said Todayʼ, even if the band is too busy frolicking and reveling in all the little vocal and instrumental flourishes to attain a comparable depth of feeling. Still, kudos for making their first original single so stylistically different from its predecessors, and also for that wonderful melismatic slide down from falsetto all way down the scale in the chorus (a pretty good correlation with the general message of "we're through").

And it is at this point, with The Hollies finally and firmly established as a major force on the con­temporary pop stage, that they finally go in to complete their second album — hugely different from the first, if only for the fact that 7 out of its 12 tunes are self-written, and generally matching the quality level of the remaining covers. Oh, and the three-part harmonies, of course. This is not first-rate songwriting, mind you: most of the songs stick too close to each other in terms of atmo­sphere and feel too dependent upon the major ideas of the singles to be as individually memo­rable as I'd like them to be — for instance, something like ʽDon't You Knowʼ feels way too much like a retread of the up-winding «vocal stairs» of ʽJust One Lookʼ, mixed with a Beatlesque beat and bridge. ʽPlease Don't Feel Too Badʼ is wond'rously upbeat in the absence of ʽHere I Go Againʼ, but cannot really hold a handle to the latter.

On the other hand, repeated listens show that even on these LP-only tracks they are already stri­ving for unconventional pop tricks — for instance, ʽYou'll Be Mineʼ has a smooth, but unusual transition between the fast, pop-rocking verse ("it's been too long since I kissed you...") and the slowed-down, soulful balladeering resolution ("...tonight, yes tonight, you'll be mine..."), both of them attuned to the exact same instrumental tempo. And we already have faint hints as to the in­dividual styles — ʽTo You My Loveʼ is essentially a Nash solo performance, sentimental and chivalrous, while at the same time supported by a steady and determined guitar melody and back­beat, a nice combination of introspective vulnerability and power for which only Graham's lead vocals could be suitable: Clarke's persona is 100% extroverted.

With so much songwriting on the line, it's like they hardly need those covers any more (at least, for LPs), but the adrenaline-crazed run through Etta James' ʽSomething's Got A Hold On Meʼ, with Eric Haydock stepping on the bass gas like there was no tomorrow and Clarke putting on his best pair of rock'n'roll shoes (wait for those glottal strains on his ʽI, I, Iʼs!), is still first-rate, and it's fun how they have all three singers swap lead vocals on the verses of ʽToo Much Monkey Businessʼ (it's also the only place on the album where you can hear what Tony Hicks' regular singing voice sounds like on its own — just for information's sake). Still, arguably the best rock and roll performance on the album is their own: compositionally, ʽSet Me Freeʼ is little more than a sped-up version of ʽConfessin' The Bluesʼ, but it's a great showcase for the frantic skills of drummer Bobby Elliott, and Clarke's harmonica blowing ain't too bad, either.

All in all, they got that name just right: In The Hollies Style truly establishes the Hollies' style, and while they would go on to write and record a whole lot of classics, as well as expand that style to incorporate many new influences, it could be argued that never again would they make such an extraordinarily giant quality leap as they did from early to late 1964. Of course, this is both a compliment and a putdown — reminding us of how the band would ultimately be unable to make a proper transition to the next step of musical maturity, and remain lagging behind while the Beatles, the Stones, and the Kinks would be scaling new heights — but for those of us who are able to taste juicy morsels of spiritual delight in perfectly composed and performed «simplistic» pop, this shouldn't be too much of a problem. Besides, In The Hollies Style merely deserves a big thumbs up as that one LP on which The Hollies found that style — on a purely song-by-song quality basis, they would continue on an upwards trajectory for at least two more years, before the psychedelic revolution got them messed up.

Bob Dylan: Triplicate

BOB DYLAN: TRIPLICATE (2017)

1) I Guess I'll Have to Change My Plans; 2) September Of My Years; 3) I Could Have Told You; 4) Once Upon A Time; 5) Stormy Weather; 6) This Nearly Was Mine; 7) That Old Feeling; 8) It Gets Lonely Early; 9) My One And Only Love; 10) Trade Winds; 11) Braggin'; 12) As Time Goes By; 13) Imagination; 14) How Deep Is The Ocean; 15) P.S. I Love You; 16) The Best Is Yet To Come; 17) But Beautiful; 18) Here's That Rainy Day; 19) Where Is The One; 20) There's A Flaw In My Flue; 21) Day In, Day Out; 22) I Couldn't Sleep A Wink Last Night; 23) Sentimental Journey; 24) Somewhere Along The Way; 25) When The World Was Young; 26) These Foolish Things; 27) You Go To My Head; 28) Stardust; 29) It's Funny To Everyone But Me; 30) Why Was I Born.

Because he can. In fact, I am not altogether sure why he decided to stop at three CDs, containing ten songs each. It could just as well have been five CDs with twenty songs each — clearly, the main shocking idea of this package is how much is being offered, and is there anyone out there who doubts that the old man could have filled five, ten, twenty, fifty discs with this kind of mate­rial, and in a matter of several months at that? He's got plenty of money to afford studio time, he's got a dedicated and professional band that would probably back him through the entirety of Dolly Parton's catalog, had he opted for that one, he's clearly enjoying it all so far, and I don't think he cares all that much about whether he is going to make or lose money on this. In fact, he can use his entire Nobel Prize to cover the deficit, if it becomes really necessary.

I did not waste time describing the individual peculiarities of the songs in the case of Fallen Angels, and the «triplication» of the number of recorded tunes does not make such a description any more necessary — as you can probably predict, the playing, the production, the general vibe remains precisely the same. He does seem to be running out of Sinatra-related tunes, but even so, I do believe that the absolute majority of these thirty had been recorded by Frank one way or another, even if we probably prefer to associate ʽAs Time Goes Byʼ with Casablanca and ʽStormy Weatherʼ with Billie Holiday. There seems to be no special mini-concept that would govern the distribution of songs across the three CDs, except that each tends to begin with some­thing a little bit more uptempo, upbeat, and cheerful (all three opening songs feature lively brass riffs, for instance), before quickly descending into the world of slow tempos, midnight brooding, and sentimental nostalgizing. And — goes without saying — sitting through the entire package in one go is hardly possible unless you use it for background purposes only. (It's not that long: since the songs are not dragged out — even if, in some cases, Bob claims to have reinstated original openings to the songs that were lost in most of the classic interpretations — the whole thing barely runs over an hour and a half and could, if necessary, fit on two discs easily).

The only comment worth making here is, perhaps, the realization that Bob is genuinely awed by this material. If anything, he may have recorded so much of this stuff in the effort to have us con­vinced — if not by the quality of it, then at least by sheer quantity — that he is acknowledging the sheer power of Tin Pan Alley, and that he has devised a way, for himself, to make these songs reveal their «Dylanesque» properties, ones that neither us nor him would probably suspect half a century ago. The trick is to sing them in a way that suggests neither cheerfulness (for the cheerful songs) nor sadness (for the sad ones): the trick is to create a combination of instruments and voice that makes them sound psychologically deep and emotionally realistic. Pretty much everything here is reduced to one single denominator — much like with Billie Holiday, who also used to bring everything down to earth with one and the same manner of delivery, except hers was a deli­cate, fragile, humble, deeply personal and moving delivery that made you want to give her a hug of friendly consolation in between each of the tracks; old man Zimmerman here is not asking for your empathy, he sounds more like he's giving you thirty similar pieces of life advice from the depths of his seventy years of experience. Even a relative trifle like ʽSentimental Journeyʼ is sung by him as if he were impairing some kind of deep-meaning parable to you, something that could have hardly been contained in the original song.

So, if there's any moral to this at all, kids, it is that previously unknown depth of feeling may be found anywhere — which, allegedly, paves the way to future albums, in which an 80-year old Dylan discovers the Taoist wisdom of songs from Teletubbies (Over The Hills And Far Away),  a 90-year old Dylan cracks the neurocognitive code of Coca-Cola jingles (Things Go Better), and a 100-year old Dylan explores the nirvana-related properties of the IBM 5150 PC speaker (Beep Beep Doo Doo). And if you think this is a bad joke, well, I'm not altogether sure that this is a joke at all. Unless the title of the last song here (ʽWhy Was I Bornʼ) is meant as an implicit reminder of his own mortality and a brief musical testament (and I do not think it is), there is still no telling what the man might have in store for us in the coming years. Oh, and I actually enjoyed the record, though, honestly, I have a faint hope that he's finally through with this project and that he is not going to pull an Ella Fitzgerald on us.

Chairlift: Does You Inspire You

CHAIRLIFT: DOES YOU INSPIRE YOU (2008)

1) Garbage; 2) Planet Health; 3) Earwig Town; 4) Bruises; 5) Somewhere Around Here; 6) Evident Utensil; 7) Territory; 8) Le Flying Saucer Hat; 9) Make Your Mind Up; 10) Dixie Gypsy; 11) Don't Give A Damn; 12) Chame­leon Closet; 13) Ceiling Wax.

The first thing you read about Chairlift on Wikipedia (today) is that «Chairlift was an American synthpop band». Well... from a certain formal standpoint, this might be true: they use a lot of electronics, and a couple of the songs are based upon danceable synthesizer grooves. But if we understand this term in a very straightforward manner, then no, Chairlift were not just one more band driven by nostalgia for the Eighties and a desire to adapt the naïvely idealistic and simplis­tic futurism of that decade to our post-post-modern realities. They were much more than that — for a brief while, they were a refreshingly ambitious and daring engine of musical eclecticism; and this debut record of theirs deserves your full and undivided attention even ten years later, which is a pretty high compliment coming from me for anything released in the 2000s.

In 2008, Chairlift were a Brooklyn-based trio consisting of: hipsterly gloomy-looking, curly-haired, dishevelled Patrick Wimberly on bass and stuff; happier-looking, somewhat cleaner-sha­ven, but still dishevelled Aaron Pfenning on guitar and stuff; and retro-gorgeous, intelligent-looking, and quite tidy (in comparison to the other two) Caroline Polachek on vocals, keyboards, and stuff. Apparently, Pfenning and Polachek met together in Boulder, Colorado, which is a grand place if you're a bearded loner (hey, you can travel to Bear Peak and imagine you're Bon Iver!), but maybe not so grand if you want to make hip pop music that mixes current trends, retro influences, artsiness, and advanced progressive conscience, so they moved to Brooklyn for those ends, where they ended up picking Wimberly and... but enough trivia.

Does You Inspire You is a wonderful little record (well, no longer truly «little» since they re­issued it on CD and added three extra tracks). I have no idea who writes which parts and whether there is an individual mini-genius at work here or it's all a matter of collective spirit, but, with the exception of a few lesser tracks, this is a collection of tight, diverse, colorful, inspiring art-pop tracks that do not offer much in terms of radical innovation, but simply put together a half-bright, half-dark, deeply personalized world that manages to include a little bit of everything. I have not been able to spot any single running theme — it's more like an artistic diary for a small group of young people trying to grasp the meaning of life around them, and it's cool.

I'd guess that most people's memories of the album would revolve around ʽBruisesʼ, the closest they ever got to hitting the charts and even so, probably only because of the song being used in an Apple iPod Nano commercial. It would be anything but a bad memory — the song is a great example of their songwriting style, a set of somewhat ambiguously dark lyrics set to a catchy, cuddly melody and punctuated by Caroline's perfectly placed falsetto chirps. However, it might also give the totally wrong impression of the band as an electronic-based twee-pop outfit, where­as in reality this twee vibe of ʽBruisesʼ is but one piece of a much larger puzzle.

Because if you listen to the album properly, starting from the start, the first song is ʽGarbageʼ, which, despite the use of programmed drums and keyboards, from a purely melodic standpoint is straightforward blues-rock — a dark, sneery vibe whose distant prototype is left somewhere far behind, in Chicago's Chess Studios, perhaps, but whose essence remains the same; and on this song, Caroline Polachek sounds more like a disciple of Grace Slick than of Amelia Fletcher. It is hard to understand what the song is about — should it be understood directly, as an ecological rant? indirectly, as a political allegory? totally indirectly, as a condemnation of some particularly messy ex-boyfriend?.. better still, all three ways at once, and that's not even mentioning how much I like the overall style — the watery electric piano overlays, the little distorted guitar riff crossing the threshold midway through the song, the ghostly la-la-la harmonies, the equally ghostly and ever so slightly dissonant chimes, the vibraphone, the faint shadow of a sax solo to­wards the very end... apparently, we did begin this as a Chicago piece, but by the end, it becomes more of a lite jazz jam, never boring because they do not drag it out for too long and keep adding neat creative touches every few bars or so.

On a few other tracks, the band goes for a grand atmosphere, which is also totally believable. ʽPlanet Healthʼ is a slow combo of a funky bassline, a whole dazzling kaleidoscope of keyboard overlays, and a vocal part run through a minor vocoder effect that makes Caroline sound a bit like an alien — completely making sense for a song beginning with the line "when I arrived on Planet Health...", although the song itself is hardly a sci-fi adventure, but rather a harsh indictment of the hypocrisy of our allegedly progressive society (best verse: "I was trained in diversity / In the gar­den of puberty / Where they Heimlich maneuvered me / And they showed me how to make a baby"); if somebody is still living in the 21st century, yet misses out on the bitter irony of the "I'm feeling great tonight" chorus, then I guess I must be dreaming. Another great moody piece is ʽTerritoryʼ, where they are not afraid to advance into the territory of The Cure, Dead Can Dance, and other slow, mopey, ocean-of-sorrow bands — an anthem of self-protection and isolation, with Polachek floating over her protected territory like an aggressive, but still gorgeous ghost, while protective guitar and keyboard spirits are building up their defenses below. Brilliantly crafted — and I dare you to play it back to back with ʽBruisesʼ and then think of any other act that would have the talent / gall to release such lightness and such heaviness on the same record... well, at least in 2008.

Other as yet unchecked highlights include: ʽEvident Utensilʼ, the first single from the album that is every bit as catchy as ʽBruisesʼ, though a little less light (there's a good chance that either the silly, but unbeatable line "the most evident utensil is none other than a pencil", or the strained, border-hysterical chorus of "how hard must I try?.." will stay with you for a long, long time); ʽMake Your Mind Upʼ, which lives through an abrupt shift from an adult contemporary ballad into a rough, loud, screechy metallized R&B groove; and I even like their minor genristic excour­ses — ʽDon't Give A Damnʼ puts the Polachek stamp on country waltz, and while most people seem to hate ʽLe Flying Saucer Hatʼ, I think it's a hilarious parody on French atmospheric pop of the Mylène Farmer variety (I'm sure someone will love to pigeonhole this under the dreaded «cultural appropriation» tag, but if you love missing the point so much, be my guest). The eclec­ticism continues with the two-minute ambient-avantgarde instrumental ʽChameleon Closetʼ, and finally ends with the New Age-like finale of ʽCeiling Waxʼ — "my time has come, my day is done", she wails quietly in a tired voice, as if indeed thinking of herself as somebody who'd been temporarily assigned to visit our «Planet Health» and is now retiring back to eternity.

So what's not to like? It's clever, it's catchy, it's bursting with creativity, and it's one of those rare records that manages to sound a bit out of this world and yet fully in touch with reality. I'm gues­sing that, had the album been released and promoted in Europe rather than the States, it would have enjoyed far more commercial success — after all, they didn't just move to New York, that most Europeanized of all American outlets, for nothing — but unlike most of the stuff that hap­pened to chart in 2008, this one feels totally fresh and exciting even today, so a major thumbs up here. (Please do not run off to watch the video for ʽEvident Utensilʼ, though: as in so many cases, this is yet another situation of brilliant musical ideas desperately unmatched with anything close to a working, healthy video aesthetics! Anyway, you've been warned).