Bathory: Hammerheart

BATHORY: HAMMERHEART (1990)

1) Shores In Flames; 2) Valhalla; 3) Baptised In Fire And Ice; 4) Father To Son; 5) Song To Hall Up High; 6) Home Of Once Brave; 7) One Rode To Asa Bay; 8) Outro.

Bathory's one true masterpiece. Yes, it may be a bit hard for those who are not innate fans of the formulaic «epic fantasy» genre to acknowledge this — that a pompous, thoroughly un-ironic, crudely recorded metal album about the forceful conversion of one's Viking ancestors to Chris­tianity could ever deserve being called a masterpiece. It has not been easy for me, either. But I did get over it, eventually, and now am confidently re-stating this: Bathory's Hammerheart is a masterpiece, and probably the one «Viking Metal» album to get if you only plan to get one. Un­less you have vikingophobia or something.

So what is the key to Quorthon's secret here? The key is quite simple — in fact, simple is the key. Where the general trend among power metal and progressive metal bands was to make the music more complex, by adding more and more notes to the riffs, more and more sections to the songs, more and more influences to the styles, etc., Quorthon, having temporarily jettisoned the «evil speed metal» warhorse, has retained the overall idea of keeping his melodic base as simple and repetitive as possible. Had the guy been utterly talentless, this would probably have been the end of him. But as it is, the slowing down reveals his genuine knack for «basic» heavy melodies with a strong emotional undercurrent. Be it the old pagan gods that inspired him for this one, or some other unknown factor, these here riffs work, and work admirably.

Naturally, the album is not «authentic». No matter how bloodthirsty / pure at heart / worthy of adoration / awesome in every way Quorthon's Northern ancestors might have been, they did not entertain each other with heavy distorted riffs and heavy artillery-style drumming. Nor was the process of converting to Christianity always as dramatic and tragic as Quorthon paints it to be in ʽOne Rode To Asa Bayʼ (even if violence was indeed involved in many a particular occasion). But, like most Viking metal, going all the way back to Led Zeppelin's ʽNo Quarterʼ, this is not a case of «history in music» — this is musical mythology, standing with one toe in facts and the rest in inflamed imagination, and the value of Hammerheart is not in educating the listener, but in spreading the inflammation.

ʽShores In Flamesʼ and ʽOne Rode To Asa Bayʼ are the two major epic pieces that open and close the album — the former presenting the «Viking» world at its apogee (a tale of raiding and rava­ging, of course) and the latter at its nadir, with Christianity taking its revenge and burying the old pagan pride and warpower six feet under. ʽShores In Flamesʼ has all the required scenery: sound effects (steady rowing at the beginning, burning embers at the end); eerie build-up (acoustic intro with faraway vocals, gradually unfurling into fire and fury); anthemic sing-along battle march de­livered in tandem with the riff, early Black Sabbath-style; and some of the most bloodthirsty, banshee-wailing soloing ever delivered by mortal man. Special honorable mention goes to the percussion onslaught of «Vvornth» — nothing particularly complex, but the guy was clearly pic­turing himself in the guise of a mighty fur-clad warrior, with each beat falling like a heavy blow from a mighty warhammer. Evocative!

My personal favorite number, however, is ʽBaptised In Fire And Iceʼ — this one wastes no time with no sissy intros, but plunges headfirst into one of the most beastly-brutal riffs in Bathory his­tory... wait, there are at least three different riffs here: the verses are driven by a simplistic, one-chord pattern that might as well have a punkish origin, then the bridge is turned over to one of those «deep sea metal» riffs invented by Toni Iommi, and then the "baptised in fire and ice!" cho­rus is accompanied by something in between the two extremes (and sounding fairly grungy, or alt-rockish, whichever you prefer). Against this background, Quorthon's «singing», now mostly free of growling and throaty screeching, is perfectly credible — the guy may have no range or subtlety, but neither would we expect it of an idealized duty-bound Nordic warrior, whose spirit this guy is channelling so successfully. In fact, it is a good thing that Quorthon does not have a very powerful voice: it adds a bit of realism to the proceedings — otherwise, the whole thing would have taken on a cartoonish, Manowar-style aura, and that would be the end of Hammer­heart as we know it.

Because, indeed, the most amazing thing about the album is that it does not feel «cheesy», not to me, at least. Its subject matter is anything but new, and rather banal in theory; its English lyrics, though surprisingly literate and well-articulated for a Norwegian guy with a fantasy fetish, are still nothing to write home about; its instrumentation is minimalistic, and its music repetitive (ʽOne Rode To Asa Bayʼ is like an endless droning saga, going on and on and on until you are finally forced to believe in its utmost importance through sheer length alone). But, having lost the crazy speed and the aggressive Satanism of his early years, Quorthon still preserves the essence of Bathory — an uncanny ability to substitute the boring «institutional» pathos of power metal for a snappy, snarling, attacking style of delivery, so that even at his most pompous, he is still directly kicking the listener's ass instead of roaring away pointlessly somewhere high up in the sky. The balance between mediocre production, sparse, but loud arrangements, good riffs, and genuine inspiration is pretty much unique here — so much so that, despite the superficial simpli­city of the formula, even Quorthon himself was never again able to capture it quite so well.

It goes without saying that for some of Bathory's veteran fans the stylistic change was a bit too much — those who were won over by the original trilogy could not pardon Quorthon for relea­sing a record so completely devoid of crazyass Satanic thrashing. And for others, Blood Fire Death, with its compromise mix of the old and the new, remains the definitive Bathory album for ages to come. But personally, I hold the opinion that it is only on Hammerheart that the guy achieved his purpose on Earth, and came as close to fully realising his true potential as possible, even if, technically, the album is less diverse than its predecessor — then again, was there ever a time in music history when a heavy metal band could be seriously criticized for lack of diversity? Thumbs up, Viking brothers and sisters. But don't you go burning any Christian churches — for the record, please note that Hammerheart provokes anything of that sort no more than ʽThe Night They Drove Old Dixie Downʼ provokes anti-Yankee partisan action.

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Barclay James Harvest: Eyes Of The Universe

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: EYES OF THE UNIVERSE (1979)

1) Love On The Line; 2) Alright Down Get Boogie; 3) The Song (They Love To Sing); 4) Skin Flicks; 5) Sperratus; 6) Rock'n'Roll Lady; 7) Capricorn; 8) Play To The World.

Woolly's departure did not make much of an actual difference — his regular «one track per al­bum» quota (occasionally graciously increased to two) seemed to uninspire him to the point of not really giving a damn, and, with the possible exception of Octoberon, most of his songs re­corded in the «silver age» of BJH were not the major highlights of those albums. His keyboards may certainly be missed, but the new guest player Kevin McAlea, drafted in mid-session when it became clear that Lees and Holroyd were unable to properly compensate without a separate key­boardist, does a fine job both filling in for Woolly's «old-school artsy» style and propelling the band into the electronic age — ʽLove On The Lineʼ opens the record with a gruff synth loop in a Kraftwerk fashion. Would Woolly have wanted that? Would Mahler have wanted that, for that matter? Isn't this transition a bit too straightforward?

Then again, who cares. Eyes Of The Universe sold exceedingly well in continental Europe, fur­thering BJH's reputation in Germany and other neighboring countries, but in retrospect, the only thing that makes it different is a bit of homage to contemporary musical styles. ʽAlright Down Get Boogieʼ, for instance, is a disco-rocker, supposedly tongue-in-cheek, given the unhidden sarcasm in Lees' lyrics — but if you do not consult the lyrics, it is quite easy to take the "lights, boogie, lights, get down boogie alright" chorus of the song for serious, and the more seriously one takes this song, the more stupid it ends up.

ʽLove On The Lineʼ, apart from its electronic loops, also makes room for a disco bassline; and ʽThe Song (They Love To Sing)ʼ is a completely synth-dominated rhythmic ballad that makes ABBA sound like tough hard-rockers in comparison. Sequenced together and placed at the top, these three songs really create a strong impression that Eyes Of The Universe is the beginning of something radically new for Barclay James Harvest — a third period, in which the gates are finally opened for the onslaught of disco, New Wave, synth-pop, electronics, and all kinds of fresh new ideas used in predictably bad ways. As if it were only the presence of Woolly that hin­dered Lees and Holroyd from finalizing the bill of sale.

However, once we are past the opening three, the remainder of the album is much more tradi­ti­onal. ʽSkin Flicksʼ is an acoustic-based, orchestrated, anthemic ballad about how glitz, glamour, and easy money separated the protagonist from his loved one, continuing Lees' ongoing and slightly suspicious fascination with «adult-oriented» themes. ʽSperratusʼ wobbles from tragic introspective ballad to agitated pop-rock chorus and back, before launching into a spirited, but somewhat cartoonish guitar duo battle à la Thin Lizzy. ʽRock'n'Roll Ladyʼ is one of those many late-Seventies songs that have a subversive mention of "rock'n'roll" in the title, but are really targeted at nightclub audiences, with their stiff, glitzy, dancebeat-oriented atmosphere. And the last two songs are traditionally «wall-of-soundish», but completely non-descript — ʽPlay To The Worldʼ, in particular, might be the most boring, uninventive, one-finger-on-a-piano epic ballad  that ever served as a coda to a BJH album.

I suppose that it must have been the double-punch of the silly disco send-up and the achingly boring seven minute epic at the end that made me, at one time, think of Eyes Of The Universe as one of the worst efforts from an «art» band in the 1970s, and rate it as 1 star out of 5. In all fair­ness, it is not that bad — with a few exceptions, BJH do not have to sacrifice much of their usual melodic talent to keep up with the times. At the very least, it is about as consistent as XII, and should be rated modestly high by everyone who generally favors the «poor man's Moody Blues» vibe. Still, for old times' sake, I award it a thumbs down, if only because I still cannot stand ʽPlay To The Worldʼ and everything it represents — pretentious sentimental pomp without any genuine dynamics whatsoever. Leave it to the mighty state of Germany to disagree — they are all wusses anyway. Imagine making a national hero of Les Holroyd instead of Lou Reed.

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Blodwyn Pig: Ahead Rings Out

BLODWYN PIG: AHEAD RINGS OUT (1969)

1) It's Only Love; 2) Dear Jill; 3) Sing Me A Song That I Know; 4) The Modern Alchemist; 5) Up And Coming; 6) Leave It With Me; 7) The Change Song; 8) Backwash; 9) Ain't Ya Comin' Home, Babe?; 10*) Sweet Caroline; 11*) Walk On The Water; 12*) Summer Day; 13*) Same Old Story; 14*) Slow Down; 15*) Meanie Mornay; 16*) Backwash.

What in the hell is a «Blodwyn Pig», anyway? Surely a band that chooses to call itself thusly can hold no high hopes for the future — offending vegans, Muslims, and people with Celtic heritage at the same time. But none of that seemed to bother guitar player Mick Abrahams, when, after having quarrelled with Ian Anderson over the planned career trajectory for Jethro Tull, he quit that band in order to become undisputed master of his own domain. In the process, he enlisted the temporary loyalty of his own flautist (and also saxophonist) Jack Lancaster, bassist Andy Pyle (later known for a brief stint with the Kinks in 1976-78), and drummer Ron Berg. And a trendy, shades-wearing, nonchalant-looking pig mascot to boot.

Ahead Rings Out, the band's debut album, came out in August 1969, at almost the exact same time as Jethro Tull's Stand Up — and although it is sometimes fondly mentioned by rock histo­riographers as a neglected classic (okay, minor neglected classic), there is clearly no comparison between the two: where Ian Anderson was using old school blues-rock as merely a foundation for something excitingly new and dizzy, Mick Abrahams simply stuck to doing old school blues-rock, period. Well, not merely blues-rock, okay. Jack Lancaster provides a strong jazz flavor, there is an acoustic folk ballad or two, so it would be more fair to speak of «roots-rock» in general, with­out any serious experimental or «progressive» sides to it. However, even conservative roots-rock can be done blisteringly well if one has the proper talent — and, unfortunately, Mick Abrahams is no Ian Anderson when it comes to stringing notes together.

Do not expect a Beatles cover with the opening ʽIt's Only Loveʼ — that would have been a much more stunning move than giving this title to a loud, fast-moving, moderately energetic boogie blues number that never amounts to anything more than a boogie blues number. Mick Abrahams is a competent vocalist and guitar player, but his burly Bedfordshire voice pales next to Noddy Holder's (this sort of material does, indeed, work best in the hands of drunken hooligans such as Slade), and his Clapton-influenced guitar playing style offers little that Clapton himself — or, for that matter, Martin Barre, Mick's replacement in Jethro Tull ­— could not have offered.

In fact, the chief asset of Blodwyn Pig was not even Abrahams, either as songwriter, singer, or lead guitarist, but the woodwinder Jack Lancaster. It is his merry double-tracked sax-solo on ʽIt's Only Loveʼ that turns the performance into a spirited one, and it is his sax and flute improvised pieces on most of the other tracks that give the album a little bit of personality: at least, as far as our being able to call it «a decent sequel to Jethro Tull's This Was» — the jazzy instrumental ʽLeave It With Meʼ has a flute theme and a crazyass flute solo that could, indeed, very easily be mistaken for a little bit of early Ian Anderson creativity.

The best song on the album is probably ʽSing Me A Song That I Knowʼ, with a well-constructed wall-of-sound (very loud bass + double-tracked sax = decibel heaven!) that cleverly disguises the song's true «pastoral minstrel ditty» nature, coming out clearer in the accappella bits of the chorus. Abrahams himself was more fond of ʽDear Jillʼ, an acoustic country blues number that sounds like a poor man's Beggar's Banquet outtake, briefly lifted out of the mire with a sunset-mood Lancaster soprano sax solo, but quite plain otherwise. And you know something goes wrong when the whackiest moment in a song is a thirty-seconds spoken intro, delivered in such a thick, exaggerated Cockney accent that you cannot understand a single word (ʽThe Change Songʼ), even if you are sort of supposed to dig the song's guitar-and-fiddle vibe itself.

Personally, I think that Ahead Rings Out truly «rings out» in its «thickest» bits, when all the musicians are engaged in creating a meaty, beaty jam monster — on such tracks as ʽThe Modern Alchemistʼ and ʽAin't Ya Comin' Homeʼ. On the former, they eventually hit the cool jazz spot, with Abrahams stepping away from second-rate Claptonisms and getting bolder and riskier in a (quasi-)Django Reinhardt-like mood; and on the latter, they get really dense and heavy, like a slightly more disciplined Blue Cheer, which goes real fine on the ears, if not necessarily so on the memory storage cells.

So I probably will not be exaggerating much if I state that the most memorable thing about the record is its front sleeve — an inspiration, no doubt, for Black Sabbath's ʽWar Pigsʼ? — but also that the album is a must-have for all serious fans of ballsy roots-rock in all of its incarnations. Because the band did have balls a-plenty. They did not write interesting melodies, they did not have any great musicians, but at least they weren't treating the roots idiom in any «reverential» fashion. Too bad they didn't manage to get too drunk at these sessions.

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The Blues Project: Blues Project

THE BLUES PROJECT: BLUES PROJECT (1972)

1) Back Door Man; 2) Danville Dame; 3) Railroad Boy; 4) Rainbow; 5) Easy Lady; 6) Plain And Fancy; 7) Little Rain; 8) Crazy Girl; 9) I'm Ready.

Little of what applied to Lazarus would not equally well apply to Blues Project, the reunited band's foolishly arrogant attempt at «re-booting» with a self-titled album. The major change is that the original vocalist Tommy Flanders is back for this particular show — not a big deal at all, since we now know that Danny Kalb's vocal powers do not lag far behind Tommy's. In fact, Flanders makes an immediate false start — this version of ʽBack Door Manʼ is one of the worst I have ever heard, in terms of lead singing: most of the time, Tommy alternates between «sloppy drunk» and «whiny schoolboy». No self-respecting lady would ever let this guy through her back door, if you know what I mean.

The sad thing is that Kretmar and Kalb have now managed to keep up a heavy groove, at least on the level of, say, soon-to-come Bad Company — the guitar / bass dialog on ʽI'm Readyʼ is grim and snappy enough to attract some interest. Then in come these ridiculous schoolboy vocals, once again, and the groove goes to hell: the Blues Project were incapable of properly covering Muddy and Wolf in the early days, and there is no reason why they should have gained that capacity in their twilight years. And then, when they do a regular, less criminal-minded, ultra-slow 12-bar blues (Jimmy Reed's ʽLittle Rainʼ), with «nice» vocals and «clean» sound, you start thinking that, perhaps, Jimi Hendrix did sacrifice himself for nought after all. Entertaining people at a late-night diner with this kind of stuff is boring enough, but actually book studio time for that? Waste the world's vinyl resources? Forget it.

There is one good original song on this album: Danny Kalb's ʽCrazy Girlʼ, a darkly romantic «jazz-folk» concoction that has much in its favour — a quirky «trilly» rhythm pattern for starters, catchy psycho-jazz guitar leads, and a slightly paranoid atmosphere that matches the title so well. Had they focused on exploring this jazzy route with its melodic twist further, instead of stubborn­ly sticking to limited formulae of the past that they could never properly sink their teeth in to be­gin with, there might be a real reason for this reunion.

On the other hand, original material contributed by Flanders is hardly much stronger than their blues cover material — he is now favouring anthemic soul balladry, to which his voice is indeed suited much better than to Chicago blues, but ʽPlain And Fancyʼ is rather plain than fancy, and ʽRainbowʼ, despite adding some lively sunny funk notes to the picture, does not have enough energy to turn its optimism into something infectious. So it makes no sense, either, to try and overrate the band's songwriting abilities.

The final verdict is pretty much the same as for Lazarus — a few real awful performances, a few minor highlights, but most of the time, simply run-of-the-mill early-1970s blues rock with no «hall-of-fame» ambitions whatsoever; unless you are a certified enthusiast of the style, just join me in my thumbs down and let us get a move on.

Bobby Bland: Memphis Monday Morning

BOBBY BLAND: MEMPHIS MONDAY MORNING (1998)

1) I'm Bobby B; 2) I Don't Want No Kickin' In My Stall; 3) There's A Rat Loose In My House; 4) The Truth Will Set You Free; 5) Memphis Monday Morning; 6) I'm Glad; 7) My Baby Is The Only One; 8) I Hate Missin' You; 9) You Left Me With The Blues; 10) Lookin' For Some Tush.

Very little unpredictable stuff here, either. The punch is in Bobby's age — he cut this at the age of 69, and he still snorts it out the same way he did thirty years ago. In fact, at this point he even allows himself a bit of straightforward swagger, opening the album with the uptempo cut ʽI'm Bobby Bʼ, written and performed in the been-there-done-that-licked-'em-all manner that is so ty­pical of old school R&B artists, but, let us admit that honestly, had rarely, if ever, appeared pre­viously on a Bobby B record. So if, at 69, he finally yields to the temptation of calling himself the greatest, let him. Anybody who does not turn to liquid shit at that age deserves a little self-flattery, and Memphis Monday Morning has the man going as strong as ever.

The songs do tend to drag — particularly the title track, creeping at a snail's pace for almost nine minutes, not to mention that its late evening vibe, lounge piano and sunset trumpet romanticism included, does not particularly well agree with the word «morning» in the title. Some of the gene­ric blues-de-luxe numbers, like ʽThere's A Rat Loose In My Houseʼ, also go on for absurdly long time periods, although it could be said that Bobby's band, after all these years, simply gels toge­ther so well that it makes them reluctant to stop.

But on the positive side, the whole album has but one blues ballad (ʽTruth Will Set You Freeʼ), and it is a good one, with sparse, but clever brass arrangements and an atmosphere that seems totally lifted off from some early Solomon Burke torch song. In fact, if possible, the entirety of Memphis Monday Morning sounds more retro and oblivious to «modern blues standards» than any previously released Malaco recording — which is great news for Bobby, even if it does sur­mise surreptitiously rewriting old classics: ʽMy Baby Is The Only Oneʼ, for instance, lifts its main vocal / instrumental melody directly from Sam Cooke's ʽTwistin' The Night Awayʼ. But there is no way we could use this a pretext for incrimination: at this point, Bobby B. has nothing left to prove, nor do his resident songwriters.

That said, the last two tracks of the album seem like last-minute additions that do try to prove something new. ʽYou Left Me With The Bluesʼ switches the mood from «old school R&B» to «new school R&B», with programmed beats, looped funky leads, synthesizers (which were pre­viously dormant), and even a few forced «ughs!» from the man. It isn't nauseatingly bad, but it does spoil the overall feeling a bit. But the real surprise is the short and surprisingly kick-ass (hard rock riffage and all) cover of ZZ Top's ʽTushʼ — a style that Bobby B. had never before approached in his whole life, and for a 69-year old guy, he tackles it with more gusto than could be expected. So why didn't this guy try on some authentic rock'n'roll shoes decades ago? Or, at the very least, offered his services as lead vocalist for Grand Funk Railroad?..

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Alcest: Souvenirs D'Un Autre Monde

ALCEST: SOUVENIRS D'UN AUTRE MONDE (2007)

1) Printemps Emeraude; 2) Souvenirs D'Un Autre Monde; 3) Les Iris; 4) Ciel Errant; 5) Sur L'Autre Rive Je T'At­ten­drai; 6) Tir Nan Og.

From an «everyday basis» point of view, the only shoegazing band the regular Joe really needs to hear, if only to understand what all the fuss is really about, is probably My Bloody Valentine. But even the most limited formula in the world can always opt for some freshness and individuality if you succeed in coming up with the right extra ingredients. And particularly in the 21st century, where we constantly suffer from lack of freshness, this odd need for «synthesizing the unsynthe­sizable» has revived pretty much every musical genre and sub-direction ever thought of by man, woman, quadrupede, or mineral — shoegazing included.

«Alcest», essentially a one-man project by French musician Stéphane Paut, better known un­der the code name «Neige» («Snow»), has its roots neither in pop nor in psychedelia, but in black metal: Neige's pedigree begins with Peste Noire, a leading French black metal outfit heavily in­fluenced by the likes of Cannibal Corpse — their discography includes such telling titles as Aryan Supremacy (an early demo where Neige was still playing drums rather than guitar) and Folkfuck Folie, among other things. If this worries you, do not be worried as far as Alcest is concerned: Neige has gone on record stating that, for him, his career in Peste Noire merely satis­fied an «urge of animal and primitive regression», and we all have our demons to exorcise.

Neige's black metal history does somehow influence his shaping of Alcest — no wonder this style of music is sometimes called «blackgazing» — but there is nothing particularly ugly, vile, racist, or shock-oriented about that influence. The blackness, created by the distortion and feed­back of the rhythm guitar, is only there to provide an important counterpoint for the «shoegazing» lead parts, which, on their part, are always set up in «melancholic beauty» mode. The sound is therefore reminiscent, at the same time, of such contemporaries as And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead (although those guys are far more noisy and «rock»-oriented) and Agalloch (although those guys always hunt for a doom-laden effect, which is not the purpose of Alcest).

But Neige has one more card up his sleeve — the vocal parts, usually handled by himself, but occa­sionally by Audrey Silvain, his partner in his third project, Amesoeurs. And this is where the Frenchness comes through: strip away the thick distorted guitars, replace the shoegazing drone with some light jazz muzak, and you will have yourself a sentimental / melancholic / atmospheric French intelli-pop record circa the mid-Seventies or so. The effect that this particular synthesis has on the feelings may not, in fact, probably will not be immediate, but eventually, it does let itself be known — the triple combination of «earthiness» (black distorted fire), «transcendence» (shoegazing trills and drones), and «lonesome beauty» (distant, echoey vocal parts that always seem to be coming from somewhere under the ground) makes for some tasty escapism.

Alcest's stated musical philosophy is that he does not create, but re-creates the sonic and visual images of a Fairy Land that he claims to have come in contact with in his childhood (and I do not necessarily disbelieve him — it all depends on what exact kinds of fairy tales he might have read instead of doing his sums and playing football in the yard). Naturally, the musical invention of ano­ther world is not his personal know-how — from Sgt. Pepper to Amon Düül II to Cocteau Twins and whoever else, people in pop music have been doing that ever since pop music became an art. But Neige makes an explicit point of it: the album title is literally translated from French as Memories Of Another World, and, if anything, it lets you know that this is not just some sort of unpredictable experiment, but that the man really knows what it is that he is doing.

That world of his is not particularly diverse. The music may get softer or louder, switch from acoustic to electric and back, shift between male and female vocals, or even show some mild Cel­tic influence in ʽTir Nan Ogʼ, but the mood on all the six tracks is essentially the same. The lead parts conjure sadness, the vocals conjure elfishness, and the rhythm compensates for the elfish­ness with earthy heaviness (although, contrary to some reviews, there is nothing truly dark, sinis­ter, or threatening about any of these compositions). I do, however, wish that there were more of those pretty acoustic folksy interludes — the patterns that Neige plays are anything but complex, but each of these repetitive acoustic tapestries that he weaves is generally more memorable than the metal/shoegaze duets, which can get way too samey even with lowered expectations.

The repetitiveness itself is not a problem, though: the title track states that "d'où je viens le temps n'existe pas, les secondes deviennent des heures" ("where I come from time does not exist, se­conds become hours"), and the whole point of the album, indeed, is to make you lose track of the time — including subtle variations on previously played themes that make you wonder if you have not accidentally pressed the rewind button. The key thing here is that if, for you, at least fifteen or twenty seconds of this album work fine, the whole album will work fine, since its pri­mary purpose is to put you in a specific trance-like frame of mind. If you are well experienced, however, in the art of shoegazing, the trick may not work, and then you will probably be able to take no more than the aforementioned twenty seconds of it, in toto.

Of course, even being fond of Souvenirs D'Un Autre Monde does not equal finding it a truly «magic» experience: Neige, to me, is less of a genius than a master craftsman, painstakingly learning his trade so as to be able to express his childhood dreams, much like a master pilot is diligently working on perfecting his skills so as to be able to do that fabulous loop he imagined himself doing when he was six years old. But as a first significant attempt at catching that dream, it is highly impressive — especially if you keep in mind that this is a one-man band project, with Neige himself responsible for most of the overdubs. Therefore, a certified thumbs up here, even if I cannot claim to have ever been to the same place as Neige in my own childhood. (For that matter, I'm more of an ʽI Am The Walrusʼ type of guy, myself...)

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Barenaked Ladies: Barenaked For The Holidays

BARENAKED LADIES: BARENAKED FOR THE HOLIDAYS (2004)

1) Jingle Bells; 2) Green Christmas; 3) I Saw Three Ships; 4) Hanukkah Blessings; 5) O Holy Night; 6) Elf's Lament; 7) Snowman; 8) Do They Know It's Christmas; 9) Hanukkah Oh Hanukkah; 10) God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen; 11) Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer; 12) Carol Of The Bells; 13) Footprints; 14) Deck The Stills; 15) Christmastime (Oh Yeah); 16) Sleigh Ride; 17) Christmas Pics; 18) I Have A Little Dreidel; 19) Wonderful Christmastime; 20) Auld Lang Syne.

I reserve the usual right to keep reviews of Christmas albums as short as possible, but the farther we get on with this practice, the more this traditional Christmas album format tends to be subjec­ted to various alchemic practices and postmodern deconstructions — and despite all their at­tempts at being judged as a «normal» band, it would never make sense for the Barenaked Ladies to release a «normal» Christmas album. So this one has a few points of interest that might be worth listing for those who think that the «Christmas album» is just a kind of discography var­mint, to be exterminated or at least boycotted wherever possible.

First, about a third of these songs are original compositions — ranging from fluffy ditties about having to celebrate Christmas in the wrong part of the world (ʽGreen Christmasʼ, the Ladies' con­scious addition to the stock of ʽWhite Christmasesʼ and ʽBlue Christmasesʼ) to Page's merry Brit-pop celebration of his Jewish heritage (ʽHanukkah Blessingsʼ) to some really weird stuff (ʽElf's Lamentʼ — lyrically, I mean) to another heartfelt ballad from Kevin Hearn (ʽChristmastimeʼ, with nary a hint at any irony behind the sentimentalism). Naturally, the restrictiveness of the topic is an obstacle to any of these songs being masterpieces, but there is plenty of original songwriting, enough for all the regular fans to sit up and take notice.

Second, the choice of covers is certainly not all that predictable. There is not a lot of traditional Christmas chestnuts, and those that they do feel obliged to include are usually turned on their heads: ʽJingle Bellsʼ, for instance, consists of a hyper-slow «introspective» part and an absurdly sped-up «village idiot» section. Themes for ʽO Holy Nightʼ and ʽRudolphʼ are given over to organs and drum machines, stripped of vocals and made to run exactly one minute each. And ʽCarol Of The Bellsʼ features a spooky electronic chimes arrangement that could just as well be suited for the needs of Walpurgis Night, if necessary.

In addition, there are also takes on more recent Christmasy material — for instance, yet another one-minute instrumental electronic deconstruction deals with Paul McCartney's ʽWonderful Christmastimeʼ (serves it well, since it is arguably one of the worst songs the man has ever writ­ten), and then they run through a superficially-passionate take on Bob Geldof's Live AID monster, ʽDo They Know It's Christmas?ʼ — actually, the song sounds much better without all the Band Aid pathos of the original. Well, seems natural: if we are going to continue the lovely tradition of releasing Christmas albums long after the whole world has converted to Islam, atheism, or pasta­farianism, it does make sense to update the classic repertoire of ʽI'll Be Home For Christmasʼ, ʽHave Yourself A Merry Little Christmasʼ, etc., from time to time, even if we have to do it with bad McCartney tunes and Live Aid anthems.

In order to further commemorate their own legacy and assure the fans of Judaeic faith equal rights and privileges, the Ladies also quickly run through several jiggly Hanukkah tunes (ʽI Have A Little Dreidelʼ is worth getting to know if you never had any earlier pretext to get to know it — as a cultural bonus, you get to learn what a dreidel is), and, along the way, martyrize ʽDeck The Hallsʼ as ʽDeck The Stillsʼ by chanting ʽCrosby Stills Nash & Young!ʼ instead of the original words (it's funny for the first time, and then I just skip the track on subsequent listens).

The whole ravage ends with a straightface, no-bull finale of ʽAuld Lang Syneʼ, left holy and in­tact either because they have no courage to desecrate this one, or because something had to be left intact just for the sake of adding more colors to the record. Well, it's... ʽAuld Lang Syneʼ, it's hard to spoil it anyway. In short, this is a curious, often bizarre twist on yer average Christmas album, which is sort of what we'd expect in general from the Ladies. Whether it helps or not to add a special twist on your actual Christmas (or Hanukkah, for that matter) is up to you to decide — personally, I have never once in my life wilfully listened to a «Christmas album» on an actual Christmas or New Year, so I have no opinion on this situation.

For the record, it must be added that Page would later pretty much disown the record; that not a single track here was recorded by the band naked in the studio; and that ʽGreen Christmasʼ was originally recorded way back in 2000 for Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas, a movie starring Jim Carrey who also sang ʽYou're A Mean One, Mr. Grinchʼ, a song covered by many artists including Aimee Mann, who put it on her own Christmas album that would be recorded two years after Barenaked After The Holidays and would be a better album because Aimee Mann is (in my humble opinion) a better artist. See, that's why I hate trivia — when they're all piled up and disconnected, they look dumb, but once you try to chain them together, you find out that it's almost impossible to stop.

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Bathory: Blood Fire Death

BATHORY: BLOOD FIRE DEATH (1988)

1) Odens Ride Over Nordland; 2) A Fine Day To Die; 3) The Golden Walls Of Heaven; 4) Pace 'Til Death; 5) Holo­caust; 6) For All Those Who Died; 7) Dies Irae; 8) Blood Fire Death.

According to false rumors, the original title was to be Wine, Women, And Loud Happy Songs, but this was ultimately deemed way too scary for Bathory's target audience, so they settled on the far more cozy and conventional Blood Fire Death instead. After all, it was just another quiet, uneventful, peaceful, friendly, sunny day in the Bathory neighborhood when Quorthon and his trusty companions with easily pronounceable names, Vvornth on drums and Kothaar on bass, set out to record what some would later call «the first true example of Viking metal».

Actually, this is a prime example of a «transition» album: predating the full turnaround of Ham­merheart, Bathory's fourth record introduces multiple new elements — epic intros, slower tem­pos, acoustic guitars, occasionally «clean» vocals — but still largely rests upon the same old vicious, «sincerely evil» thrashing style. The ideological change from «Black Metal» to «Viking Metal» does begin here, though. Maturation takes on specific forms in specific people, and for Quorthon, it meant moving away from Satanic posturing (which, no matter how sincerely he tried to get into it, still retained the status of posturing... fortunately for him and for us all) and, pre­dictably enough, embracing his mythical Scandinavian heritage.

So, instead of yet another concept album about the next coming of the Antichrist, we are now invited to look back into the past rather than the future, with a concept album about... on second thought, the most «Viking» thing about the album is the title of the opening ambient instrumental: ʽOden's Ride Over Nordlandʼ (I do presume Quorthon, whose spelling skills are not clear enough to me, means Odin, and not a Japanese winter dish consisting of several ingredients such as boiled eggs, daikon radish, konnyaku, and processed fish cakes stewed in a light, soy-flavoured dashi broth) is little more than some medieval choral harmonies mixed with very distant thunder and not so very distant vigorous horse neighing. But it does set up a better atmosphere than any other previous Bathory intro.

Then, ʽA Fine Day To Dieʼ starts out with a dark acoustic pattern — already an acknowledged instrument for «artsy» metal bands, but feeling almost like a sellout signal for Quorthon, who had never before stooped to anything softer than a viciously distorted, blacker-'n'-night guitar tone. But unlike many other metal epics, this one makes a genuine point with its acoustic intro: setting a deceptive "orgy of silence, conspiracy of peace" tone for the coming onslaught. The acoustic guitars and church harmonies will be returning later, but the bulk of the song is given over to carefully thought out and terrifiedly played «martial» black metal riffs (with a strong Metallica influence, I suspect, but it is not likely that Quorthon's proud Scandinavian nature would ever let him admit being influenced by a bunch of Californian sissies).

Barring the intro, the record is bookmarked by two epic length songs: ʽA Fine Day To Dieʼ has enough potential for eight and a half minutes, while the title track, which essentially picks up where the other one left off, clocks in at 10:29. Actually, it is not quite true that they have enough potential: each one is dominated by one riff only, and there is not enough dynamic rising and falling, particularly with Bathory's limited instrumentarium, to rise above the «mesmerism for headbangers» level. But it is also true that each of the riffs is great to headbang to, and Quorthon is also improving as a lead player — his solos are now becoming highly melodic without having to depen­d on any Van Halenesque displays of technicality.

On the other hand, Blood Fire Death is not at all free from «old-school» speedy thrash blasts: ʽGolden Walls Of Heavenʼ and pretty much everything else in between the two epics are taken at same old breakneck tempos (although some of the songs, like ʽDies Iraeʼ, consist of alternating fast and slow sections), and, considering how much the production has improved here — in fact, Blood Fire Death marks Bathory's assured transition from lo-fi to hi-fi — these songs are pro­bably your best bet if you want to hear classic Bathory speed/thrash metal in decent sound quality. Whether these tracks are good examples of thrash songwriting is another matter — as far as my ears are concerned, they are all interchangeable, with the exception of the slightly slower and even dumber-sounding ʽFor All Those Who Diedʼ (this track also has the unfortunate distinction of trying to make a «hook» of Quorthon's accappella laryngeal screaming in the chorus — not a good idea if one is aiming at a genuinely shivery atmosphere).

Moreover, even the lyrics for those «thrashers», many of which are written in the old «Satanist» manner, show that the crossover might actually have begun not prior to, but during the sessions for the album — with the two «battlefield epics», presaging the sonic scapes of Hammerheart, framing the traditionally-oriented material simply because Quorthon was just testing the waters, and still had a bunch of old unused stuff lying around. As it is, Blood Fire Death is either a good choice for a Bathory beginner — getting to know Quorthon as «Satan's sidekick» and «Epic war­rior» at the same time — or an obligatory choice for a Bathory completist, but for those people (like myself), who can really only appreciate a band like Bathory when it is at its very, very best and «quintessential», Blood Fire Death may seem like a historically important, but artistically clumsy com­promise. So, no thumbs up here, but a significant promise that will be honestly capi­talized upon in the next installment.

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Barclay James Harvest: XII

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: XII (1978)

1) Fantasy: Loving Is Easy; 2) Berlin; 3) Classics: A Tale Of Two Sixties; 4) Turning In Circles; 5) Fact: The Closed Shop; 6) In Search Of England; 7) Sip Of Wine; 8) Harbour; 9) Science Fiction: Nova Lepidoptera; 10) Giving It Up; 11) Fiction: The Streets Of San Francisco.

At least we now know that Barclay James Harvest were definitely not deaf and blind to recent musical developments, including that whole oddball «New Wave» thing — considering that the stern-marching bassline that opens ʽLoving Is Easyʼ was lifted directly from ʽPsycho Killerʼ. (Perhaps Lees just thought that there was no way the base audiences of BJH and Talking Heads could have any overlap whatsoever — and he was probably right, too).

Unfortunately, where the bassline of ʽPsycho Killerʼ flows quite naturally into the funky guitar riff, and the funky guitar riff nicely tills the soil for the paranoid vocals, the bass in ʽLoving Is Easyʼ does not even technically fit in with the rest of the song — it was stuck there just for a fla­shy flourish, and this decision very neatly summarizes the main flaw of BJH: a band that never stopped looking for ideas (not necessarily their own ones), but ever so rarely had a good under­standing of how to «set up» an idea once it had been found.

It's not even that ʽLoving Is Easyʼ is that bad an album opener — it's got a catchy Foreigner-style chorus, a vicious solo, a perky-arrogant synthesizer tone... well, okay, it is pretty bad, because all of it is hardly enough to override the confused amusement at John's salacious double-entendres. I mean, "...as I shoot all my love into you"? "just get a hold and watch how it grows"? I do not exactly remember anybody ordering a blue plate special à la AC/DC, although it is the Foreigner comparison that is more appropriate here: sexist arena-pop with crude, stern hooks and no sense of irony whatsoever. And leave it to a band as perplexed as BJH to mix all that with the bassline of ʽPsycho Killerʼ.

If I have unintentionally made the song sound more curious than it is, I apologize, because, in all actuality, XII is a fairly boring record. Those who do seriously care about the second phase of poor Barclay's career will probably still want to own it, and make it their last: after XII, Woolly, disgruntled with disproportionate discrimination, finally quit the band and became free to pursue his own Wagnerian-Mahlerian dreams in a solo career. But even as XII still sticks fairly close to the band's «progressive» or, at least, «art» roots, it seems to run on an even smoother, less per­ceptible railtrack than its predecessor. It is melodic, modestly complex, and rarely indulges in huge lapses of taste, the biggest exceptions being the aforementioned ʽLoving Is Easyʼ and ʽA Tale Of Two Sixtiesʼ, where, once again, Lees puts on his old-and-worn Rock Guru Shoes and pours out a name-filled «baby-boomer complaint» on the decline of rock music: apparently, "rock and roll died with Easy Rider" and "I'm cutting out now before the New Wave takes my surf board flair". (That's all fine, but why steal from David Byrne then?).

On the formal side, the album is notable for containing ʽBerlinʼ, a typically mushy Holroyd an­them that endeared the band to the Germans so much, they would go on to sell most of their al­bum stock in that country — Les is honestly trying to come up with a McCartney-quality ballad here, and it probably wouldn't be too cringeworthy if not for his elfish voice, carrying such an overdose of sentimentalism that my emotional centers immediately regurgitate the stuff.

It is also notable for an «encyclopaedic» twist on Lees' part: all of John's songs are arranged in «library folders» (ʽFantasyʼ, ʽClassicsʼ, ʽScience fictionʼ, etc.), to reflect the wide variety of his interests and the genuine Renaissance nature of his character. This bold artistic move is a little diluted, though, by the necessity of mixing his material with that of Les and Woolly, both of whom refuse to play the game; and by the rather loose adherence to the rules — for instance, why the hell is ʽLoving Is Easyʼ placed under ʽFantasyʼ when it clearly should have been labeled ʽAdultʼ (unless, of course, under «fantasy» we first and foremost understand something like this)? And why does he write such deadly boring «fiction» as ʽThe Streets Of San Franciscoʼ, which closes the album with three minutes of a repetitive dark-descending-acoustic coda with splutters of barely audible morose harmonica pasted over it for consolation?

Overall, they seem to have succeeded in creating a slightly darker, denser, more stylistically uni­fied and, subsequently, less memorable and «flashy» sequel to Gone To Earth: Woolly went on record stating that he actually prefers XII (probably, among other things, because they let him have two songs on it instead of the usual one — mercy gift before the final breakup?), and in a way, so do I, because it does not at least have a ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ on it. But that does not make it recommendable, either: darkness and density aside, the music is still as limp and spineless as ever — by this time, only a miracle could lift them out of this bog, and Barclay James Harvest were a steady, self-assured band that never really believed in miracles.

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Blind Faith: Blind Faith

BLIND FAITH: BLIND FAITH (1969)

1) Had To Cry Today; 2) Can't Find My Way Home; 3) Well All Right; 4) Presence Of The Lord; 5) Sea Of Joy; 6) Do What You Like.

In 1968, Cream was one of the greatest rock bands on Planet Earth, and Traffic was, at the very least, one of the hottest new teams on the UK scene, spearheading the back-to-roots movement on the other side of the Atlantic from The Band. By mid-1969, Cream were forever gone, and, as it seemed at the time, so was Traffic (they did pull themselves together, eventually, but at a cost, and it does not concern us here anyway). In their place, for just a few odd months, arose Dairy Truck Fleet, er, I mean, Blind Faith: Eric Clapton on star guitar, Ginger Baker on crushin' percus­sion, Steve Winwood on gee-whiz keys, and Ric Grech on the case of bass.

Ric Grech, for that matter, did not yet serve the proper time in Traffic — being fresh out of Family, he would only team up with Traffic after Blind Faith had faded away. But that does not screw the general point: Blind Faith, at least the way Clapton originally felt about it, had to be an experiment where the avantgarde and psychedelic side of Cream might be tempered with the soul and «earthiness» of Traffic's folk and jazz roots.

If it did not work, it is not because Blind Faith were unable to make music — their only album proves that they definitely understood their mission and had the knack to realize it — but rather because of an unlucky crossing of complex personalities at a complex time. Clapton, in particular, was going through an identity crisis at the time that did not let him have normal relations with just about anybody, let alone a renegade drummer from Cream; and the renegade drummer from Cream, likewise, was too full of ambition and cockiness to play thoroughly second, third, or fourth fiddle (and it is true that Ginger's presence, despite a graciously allocated drum solo, is less acutely felt on this album than on any preceding Cream release). And we might just as well not get started at all on the drugs issue — particularly vital for at least two of the band members.

In short, it all just fell apart due to «circumstances beyond cultural control», but not before they managed to record and put out this album — retardedly controversial for its album cover (accor­ding to the artist, the idea was that of a symbolic representation of «technology in the hands of innocence» or something like that, but, naturally, most of us have to be dirty perverts with a one-street way of thinking). Other than the cover, though, there is no «shock value» whatsoever in Blind Faith: neither Clapton nor Winwood, the two big brains behind the music, ever cared much for epatage.

Considering that the album was «rushed», due in part to restrictive demand from the record label (another reason why the band did not last long), it is actually stunning to realize how much good stuff it contains. It does not have any central theme or concept, and the band did not have enough time to work out a proper musical philosophy of their own (which is not necessarily a bad thing — Led Zeppelin, for instance, did not quite pull their classic image together right from the very start, and this is exactly what explains my soft spot for their first album). But they do give it everything they got, especially Winwood, credited for three songs out of six, with Clapton hold­ing one other credit, Baker another one, and a Buddy Holly cover completing the dish.

As we all know, Steve Winwood started out under the «blue-eyed soul» banner, gifted as he was with a high and easily modulated set of pipes and a knack at figuring out and expanding upon Ray Charles' organ playing tactics, but even so, that part of his image is only one component in the sonic structure of ʽHad To Cry Todayʼ, ʽCan't Find My Way Homeʼ, and ʽSea Of Joyʼ. The former is, first and foremost, a riff-revering blues-rocker — the riff in question is so sharply de­fined, prominent, and repetitive that it seems as if they were trying to come up with a ʽSunshine Of Your Loveʼ to call all their own. It is more complex and intricate than the ʽSunshineʼ riff, though, lacking the brutality and menace that made the Cream song a rock radio hyperclassic, and the song's switching between gruffer and friendlier tonalities in the chorus area might also be a little confusing and require a little «getting into» period. Other than that, the song also exists to serve as a guitar battle between Eric and Steve (a trick that was strangely overlooked on their ori­ginal tour, where Winwood played organ on the song, but recreated almost forty years later when the two reunited for several joint shows).

ʽCan't Find My Way Homeʼ would go on to become a highlight of Clapton's mid-1970s shows (with Yvonne Elliman usually taking on the lead vocals) and was eventually covered by Swans — which means we are definitely not dealing with a sissie sappy ballad here: the gloomy, des­cending scales of the acoustic guitars and the grim chorus of "I'm wasted and I can't find my way home", express fairly well what some of the band members must have been feeling at the time, and it does it completely naturally and subtly, without any overt displays of desperation. Likewise, ʽSea Of Joyʼ may contain the word «joy» in the title, but most of its music carries a warning / menace rather than anything close to hippie idealism — and the way Stevie's vocals jump up several tones from second to third line of each verse strangely reminds me of George Harrison's manner of singing circa 1970-74: probably just a coincidence, but Blind Faith does share such things as world-weariness, disillusionment, and «inobtrusive moralizing» with George's stuff, even if, to the best of my knowledge, there was nothing going on between Steve Winwood and Pattie Boyd... or was there?

The best known song off the album is, of course, Clapton's ʽPresence Of The Lordʼ, just because it went on to be featured in most of his compilations, and he continues to regularly perform it up to this very day. It is not one of his finest creations, though. The lyrics may be sincere, but they are rather inept (and singing the exact same lengthy verse three times in a row is a bit humiliating, though it was probably conceived as an intentionally repetitive confessional); the music mainly serves as obedient backup to the lyrics; and, worst of all, the fast-and-flashy mid-section with the «thunder-solo» has always seemed somewhat alien to me — stuck in between the slow, contem­plative verses, what point does it serve? is it the illustration of a «temper outbreak», as the prota­gonist falls back into sin and lust, eventually coming back to his senses? or does it illustrate the very «presence of the Lord», who simply decided to take a brief detour and show his (rather Old Testamnental, I'd say) angry face to his new admirer? Or was it just a case of, «hey, there has to be at least one fast Eric Clapton solo on the record, I wonder where we might put it... oh, look, there's three identical verses on this song, this deserves some splitting anyway...»

Still, the song has a point, presents it, defends it, and the fast solo begins and ends with Clapton's first (and quite successful) attempt at a truly funky riff, so we might even be benevolent enough to pardon the man for involuntarily lying through his teeth (quite clearly, by 1969-70, at the height of his Pattie Boyd / heavy drugs problems, he was farther from "I have finally found a way to live, in the presence of the Lord" than any other time in history). Especially since he also found a time, together with Steve and Ric, to take a formerly simple and happy Buddy Holly song (ʽWell All Rightʼ) and transform it into a mix of power pop, pagan folk dance, and psychedelic jamming — probably one of the most bizarre twists on Buddy's legacy, ever.

Most of the hatred toward the record is usually associated with Ginger's ʽDo What You Likeʼ, a brief snippet of a silly moralistic ditty that serves as a platform for solo improvisation — organ, guitar, bass, and, finally, Ginger's own battery array. The song part comes along nicely if you dis­regard the lyrics (I especially like the combination of "Do what you like / That's what I said / Everybody must be fed" — how come it was so difficult to understand that, if one really does what one likes and nothing else, there can be no guarantee that everybody will be fed?), and the jam part... well, it is easy to say that most of it is there just to fill up space, but, on the other hand, free-form soloing in the vein of one's jazz idols was an important element of progressively-orien­ted bands those days, was it not? It is quite likely that they would have tried out something like that anyway, even given plenty of time. And, for that matter, Ginger's drum solo here is actually more disciplined, (poly)rhythmic, and in line with the rest of the band members' spotlights than on ʽToadʼ. In fact, I have more problems with Grech's bass solo — he is a good player when sup­porting the rest of his pals, but as a soloist, he seems to barely go through the motions.

In the end, occasional flaws and errors aside, Blind Faith is a very good record, for a record made under such specific circumstances — even if it did not manage to become quite the perfect synthesis of the «progressive» with the «retro-oriented» that it was supposed to produce. Most of the songs have stood the test of time fairly well (the warm welcome for Clapton and Win­wood's 2007-2009 reunion is good proof of that), even if the same cannot be said of the front sleeve. Whether the band had potential for a grandiose future, provided things were to unwind in a dif­ferent direction, is impossible to say — in any case, had Blind Faith not broken up, we would not have ourselves our Layla, and Duane Allman was, by all means, a better sparring partner for Clapton than Steve Winwood. But who knows?..

Thumbs up, but an additional word of warning: there is an expanded, 2-CD limited edition of Blind Faith out there that is only for completists — it adds a few alternate versions, a generic blues cover (ʽSleeping In The Groundʼ), and an entire disc of studio jams, all of them long, cau­ti­ously tedious, and considerately more boring than ʽDo What You Likeʼ: most probably, they just served as early morning work-ups to get into shape before taking care of the real business. There is no point whatsoever for anybody to seek this out, unless you've taken a vow to collect every lick of Eric's committed to tape anywhere in the space/time continuum — just go ahead with the regular version, or, better still, spend the extra money on the recently released footage of Blind Faith's 1969 Hyde Park performance, preserved in fine fashion and featuring, indeed, a young, beardless, and not-yet-thoroughly-wasted Eric Clapton in his prime.

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The Blues Project: Lazarus

THE BLUES PROJECT: LAZARUS (1971)

1) It's Alright; 2) Personal Mercy; 3) Black Night; 4) Vision Of Flowers; 5) Yellow Cab; 6) Lazarus; 7) Brown Eyed Handsome Man; 8) Reachings; 9) Midnight Rain; 10) So Far So Near.

After Planned Obsolescence, we thought it was over, but apparently, something about the «Blues Project» moniker had a mesmerizing effect to it — and so, three years later, an out-of-work Danny Kalb resuscitated it once again. Reunited with Blumenfeld — so that, as in the case of Fleetwood Mac, the drummer turned out to be the sole link between all of the band's incarna­tions — and also scooping up Don Kretmar from the previous lineup (now on saxophone and bass), Kalb plunges back into battle.

Given that, of all the original members, Danny was usually considered to be the most «bluesy» in thought, the new record, so it seemed, could finally feel adequate to the name of the band — and in a way, it does, even if the band still feels an obligation to include at least one softie folk ballad (ʽVision Of Flowersʼ), and also dips its toes in the newly-nascent funk style. Unfortunately, where earlier they had to compete with the likes of Cream and Hendrix, now their heavy blues thing has to pander to the same market as Led Zeppelin, and we can all guess the consequences.

The highlight of the album — that one number which, as may be guessed, Danny really gave his everything — is the nine-minute brontosauric title track: a lumbering dark blues rumination on the fate of Lazarus, with Muddy, Wolf, and a little bit of Wheels Of Fire-era Cream as the easy-to-surmise chief sources of inspiration. What can I say? The groove is definitely heavier and growlier than anything previously generated by The Blues Project. But — once again, too little, too late: feelings wrought and tempered by ʽDazed And Confusedʼ may simply not find enough power here to get wound-up again. Danny even tries to break out of the formula by making the second solo less melodic and more «metallic», but he does not seem to have the proper experi­ence or foresight to make it really rumble.

With this major battle fought and ultimately lost, the rest of the songs are just local skirmishes, some of them more successful than others, some utterly embarrassing. For instance, the idea to slow down Chuck Berry's ʽBrown Eyed Handsome Manʼ and turn it into a stuttery pub rocker, honky tonk piano and drunken sax included, was equal to downright killing the song. (One might just as well play the Stones' ʽRip This Jointʼ to the tempo of an ʽI've Been Loving Youʼ and see what happens). Recording Bobby Bland's ʽBlack Nightʼ as a dark blues number made more sense, since the original version never really had the «blackness» promised in the title, but in reality the song also fails, due to predictable lead guitar and awful vocals (vocals on the album, by the way, seem to be mostly handled by Danny himself, and this alone makes it clear why he was so rarely awarded with lead spots on «proper» Blues Project albums).

In the end, once all the noses have finished twitching and all the mouths have ended cringing, what we are left with is ʽIt's Alrightʼ, a fun three-minute piece of sax-led boogie; the cute rhythm section dialog on the funky opening to ʽPersonal Mercyʼ to which the song never really lives up; and a surprisingly effective combination of guitar riff and groovy bassline on the final song, ʽSo Far So Nearʼ, unfortunately, almost killed off by vocals so wobbly and shaky you'd think the sin­ger was doing a tightrope balance trick at the same time. Clearly, this tiny pile of goodies is not enough to recommend the album — a thumbs down judgement is inevitable, albeit without any particular hatred, disgust, or condescension: everything is arranged professionally enough, there is some diversity, some sincerity, some fun. There just ain't too much sense of purpose, other than getting some sort of heroic pleasure from reviving the old moniker.

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Bobby Bland: Live On Beale Street

BOBBY BLAND: LIVE ON BEALE STREET (1998)

1) Intro; 2) When Your Love Is Not Around; 3) That's The Way Love Is; 4) Love Of Mine; 5) As Soon As The Weather Breaks; 6) Farther On Up The Road; 7) I Pity The Fool; 8) Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone; 9) St. James Infirmary; 10) I'll Take Care Of You; 11) Get Your Money Where You Spend Your Time; 12) You've Got To Hurt Before You Heal; 13) Sunday Morning Love; 14) If You're Gonna Walk On My Love; 15) Bobby Rush / John­nie Taylor Introduction; 16) Stormy Monday; 17) Double Trouble / She's Puttin' Somethin' In My Food; 18) Mem­bers Only; 19) 24 Hours A Day.

Yes, it does look as if this was recorded live on Beale Street — at the New Daisy Theater, to be more precise; a symbolic gesture, easily interpreted by anyone who has not yet forgotten the humble beginnings of Bobby Bland's career. Additionally, it is the first (and only) proper live album in Bobby's discography (not counting the joint Bobby Bland / B. B. King albums), so it is only natural that the elderly gentleman should choose the city that gave birth to his career for this particular recording.

Considering that, by the mid-1990s, Bobby's Malaco backing band had left behind most of the electronic excesses and seemed happy to just play old-fashioned blues behind Bobby's back, Live On Beale Street does not seem particularly far removed from something like Sad Street or Years Of Tears — let alone the fact that Bobby himself, apparently, considered these late period albums authentic and respectable enough to include a lot of that new material into his setlists. So, at least half — more than half, come to think of it — of the album is dedicated to the post-1984 Malaco stuff, lightly peppered and salted with some predictable old hits from the Duke days. So lightly, in fact, that both ʽI Pity The Foolʼ and ʽFarther On Up The Roadʼ are reduced to medley-status items, trimmed and tamed in sheer disproportion to their dignity.

Consequently, the bad news is that this is not a live career retrospective, and the album does not make much sense if you have already heard all those studio albums. On the other hand, the good news is that Live On Beale Street offers a great opportunity to just dump all the studio albums, and remain perfectly contented with this impressive sampler — all of the samples being played live, without the excessive production gloss of the studio, before a homely, receptive audience where Bobby feels right at home.

Notable curios, as far as I can remember, include: (a) an audience participation bit on ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ, roughly interrupted by Bobby when they get it wrong ("now wait a minute, I'd like for you to help me, but somebody got too many ʽI knowsʼ out there..."); (b) a rather messy medley for which Bobby drags out fellow soul-bluesman Johnnie Taylor and fellow «folk-funkster» Bobby Rush for aid, whereupon they merrily deconstruct and bury ʽStormy Monday Bluesʼ; and for (c), I'd like to be able to let you know that Bobby keeps the snorts to a minimum, but I am not exactly sure if 5 or 6 times in 60 minutes counts as a «minimum», and even these calculations are very crude. Anyway, he does snort, including on songs where he never snorted before (ʽSt. James In­firmaryʼ — almost a sacrilege, that one).

But overall, the man and his band are in fine form throughout, and clearly enjoying what they're doing here. Also, to the pleasure of all blues-loving people, the show has been released on DVD, and watching the whole thing definitely makes more sense than just listening — Bobby's facial expressions and idiosyncratic love affair with the mike add a lot for entertainment value. Ultima­tely, a decisive thumbs up here for something not particularly great, but pleasantly outstanding on a conveyer belt of smooth «neo-retro-blues» LPs.

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