Black Sabbath: Headless Cross

BLACK SABBATH: HEADLESS CROSS (1989)

1) The Gates Of Hell / Headless Cross; 2) Devil And Daughter; 3) When Death Calls; 4) Kill In The Spirit World; 5) Call Of The Wild; 6) Black Moon; 7) Nightwing.

Hello Cozy Powell, goodbye good riffs. Many fans actually view Headless Cross as the second, and sometimes even the superior part of Tony's massive Martin-era «comeback» — freed both from the craziness of the Gillan-led Born Again and the pop metal gloss of Seventh Star, here is this new version of Black Sabbath doing exactly what Black Sabbath is supposed to do: writing and performing dark, dreary, doom-laden epics about the devil, dying, killing, going to hell, and never coming back. Tony Martin, say the fans, is the new incarnation of Dio, and now that they have legendary Cozy Powell with them on drums, they are ready to pummel us into the ground with Thor's hammer like never before.

Indeed, I think I know why Headless Cross is so popular. In all of its superficial qualities, it is the album that the more, shall we say, «occult-oriented» fans of Sabbath had been waiting ever since Heaven And Hell. Many of these songs were made to be sung at your local crossroads at midnight — and there is not a single speedy headbanger here like ʽHard Life To Loveʼ. Genre-wise, Headless Cross is a mix between power metal and doom metal, everything about it being sprawling, epic, with both Tonys trying to be as theatrically phantasmagoric as possible. No «fun» allowed as such: we are being deadly serious, as the first track already recalls the legend of the Headless Cross and Satan is always round the bend now. In fact, he's right there every time that Tony Martin sends his pitch sky high, and that's a lot of times.

Basically, Headless Cross picks up right from where ʽThe Eternal Idolʼ (the song, not the album) left off, intending to overload your senses with dark-tinged supernatural imagery. ʽThe Gates Of Hellʼ opens like the soundtrack to some creepy video game — synthesized moans, groans, and yawns of ghosts, wraiths, and demons greeting you for about a minute until Cozy kicks in with some mighty Cozy kicks, and in case you don't know it, the late Cozy Powell didn't have a lot of swing, but he did have more bada-boom than anybody else around. In a way, the fact that the music begins with a few bars of drums, before the guitar comes in, is symbolic — placing the accent on «power» over «melody» right from the start.

Actually, the title track isn't all that bad, if you overlook the fact that they subconsciously dupli­cated the rhythmic structure of ʽHeaven And Hellʼ — but at least it's got a couple of brand new Iommi riffs, not the best, perhaps, but memorable. Martin's efforts at getting into the character of a thunder-and-lightning heavy metal prophet of doom are not very convincing (he's still being a second-rate Dio and there is nothing anybody can do about it), and the main riff that drives the chorus sounds more like AC/DC in structure and effect than Sabbath, but I guess it might be fun to think of the song as a sort of (headless) cross between ʽHeaven And Hellʼ and ʽHells Bellsʼ. If all the album followed suit, it wouldn't be so tragic.

Alas, already on ʽDevil And Daughterʼ, with flat pomp dominating the speakers and the key­boards almost drowning out the feeble attempts at a guitar melody, Headless Cross begins its descent into total mediocrity — melody-wise, that is, because «taste-wise», mediocre power metal can be a seriously miserable experience. Bombastic mid-tempo or slow-tempo anthems with laughable lyrics, unmemorable riffs, and a singer who seems to seriously believe he can spook people into cowering and freaking out with his pathetic choruses ("WHEN DEATH CALLS!" "IT'S THE CALL OF THE WILD!" "NIGHTWING FLIES AGAIN!") — a complete victory of style over substance, which is certainly not what we usually expect of Tony.

It's not that there aren't any riffs at all, but what there is gets bogged down in bad production (Tony and Cozy are listed as co-producers) — for instance, the chorus riff of ʽNightwingʼ could have been handled in a much more distinctive way — and every once in a while, there does come along a song like ʽCall Of The Wildʼ where most of the melody is reduced to just yer basic power chords, while the chorus is dominated by Geoff Nicholls' keyboards. The melody of ʽKill In The Spirit Worldʼ could be written by just about any pop metal band at the time — or, even worse, fit like a glove on something like Yes' Big Generator. ʽBlack Moonʼ, for a change, begins with a great Iommi tone, fat and grumbly, the way we like it, but a few seconds into the song it is already obvious that we will have to do with a generic heavy blues-rocker, nailed to the ground with Cozy's bada-boom patterns. Queen's Brian May makes a guest appearance on ʽWhen Death Callsʼ, but this only counts as a bit of useless trivia — not even Frank Zappa could have saved the song from soaking in its own pathos.

Recapitulating: take Heaven And Hell, add late Eighties glossy, bombastic production, replace Dio's «roar» with Martin's «whine», throw in lots of cheesy keyboards, dumb down the riffs, and what you get is Headless Cross, an album doomed by way too much doom. You'd never think that a time would come when somebody'd pray for Tony Iommi to start boogieing, but maybe a bit of boogie could save this record — it is exactly this «ultra-serious» tone adopted by everyone involved that makes it so disastrous. Thumbs down.

Bo Hansson: Music Inspired By Lord Of The Rings

BO HANSSON: MUSIC INSPIRED BY LORD OF THE RINGS (1972)

1) Leaving Shire; 2) The Old Forest & Tom Bombadil; 3) Fog On The Barrow-Downs; 4) The Black Riders & Flight To The Ford; 5) At The House Of Elrond & The Ring Goes South; 6) A Journey In The Dark; 7) Lothlorien; 8) Shadowfax; 9) The Horns Of Rohan & The Battle Of The Pelennor Fields; 10) Dreams In The House Of Healing; 11) Homeward Bound & The Scouring Of The Shire; 12) The Grey Havens.

«Inspired» is the right word. If all of these compositions pretended to the status of an actual sound­track to Lord Of The Rings, it'd be a Lord Of The Rings in which Frodo would be a som­nambulant lunatic, Tom Bombadil would be a decrepit old organ player, stoned out of his mind in a basement, Lothlorien would be the name of an opium den, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields would be carried out by Grateful Dead fans in a mosh pit, and «leaving for the Grey Havens» would be a euphemism for a heroin injection. But as it is, the music does not pretend to anything — it simply happens to be inspired by LOTR. And some elvendust and magic mushrooms.

In all honesty, these pieces of music that the Swedish multi-instrumentalist Bo Hansson put together for his first solo album do not have much to do with Tolkien, and the title might even be a little misleading: for one thing, people who have never joined the club of J. R. R. admirers, or people who actually find Tolkien's significant influence on 1960s-1970s music somewhat embar­rassing (remember Plant's lyrics for ʽRamble Onʼ, eh?) are quite likely to be turned off by the title, thinking that this is just some silly slobbering fanboy tribute. Tribute it might be, in name, but in actuality Hansson is too busy concocting his own magical mystical world to grovel and kowtow before somebody else's.

The world is not characterised by a staggering amount of diversity. It most closely resembles the efforts of Pink Floyd circa 1970-72, when they were already out of their wildest psychedelic / avantgarde phase, but were not yet ready to flood the world with their newly awakened social conscience, and were mostly content with exploring the possibilities for strange ambient beauty. Hansson, playing most of the instruments himself (Rune Carlsson is handling the drums, and a couple of additional sax and flute players are also available from time to time), sees himself as a mood-brewer: these are smooth, quiet, repetitive instrumentals that invite the listener to relax and soak in the atmosphere. The actual melodies are so straightforward and simple that you will be humming them in no time if you set your mind to it — much like Floyd's melodies, come to think of it — but the simplicity is meaningful and seductive enough to forgive the lack of flash.

Hansson's keyboards are the essential link: originally, he was a major Hammond player (as part of the late-Sixties duo Hansson & Carlsson), and here, too, the organ remains his instrument of choice, although he's also added the Moog to his inventory (whose first notable appearance is impersonating a nasty wight in ʽFog On The Barrow-Downsʼ). Whatever simple melody is play­ing at any given moment, there is almost always a quiet baroque (or pseudo-baroque?) keyboard «floor» under it, and together with Hansson's respect for the echo effect, these are his major world-building ingredients. He does not manage a sound as vast as Floyd do on their better tunes (like ʽEchoesʼ), but he is not hunting for that — his space is fairly well shut in, so if you want my Lord Of The Rings association, I'd say that the majority of these tracks should be stripped of their titles, sewn together and renamed «The Crossing Of Mirkwood, Pts. I-X», because that is exactly how it all feels to me — an endless, monotonous journey on a narrow forest path, barely looked over by some feeble rays of light: boring, perhaps, but also hypnotic in some strange, undescri­bable way.

Every now and then the music picks up the pace a little, but really, even ʽThe Battle Of The Pelennor Fieldsʼ, despite the quirky «treated» electric guitar part that presages Mike Oldfield, sounds more like a merry Celtic dance than a fierce combat between the forces of good and evil. «Evil», in fact, tends rather to be impersonated by «scary» fiddling with the Moog, from the already mentioned ʽFogʼ to ʽA Journey In The Darkʼ, while «beauty», be it ʽLothlorienʼ or the romantic gallop of ʽShadowfaxʼ, is associated with simple, clean, sometimes slightly jazzy electric guitar licks. All of it is very homebrewn and not a wee bit «epic»: as we get to ʽGrey Havensʼ, for the Grand Finale we are offered nothing but a stern couple of sliding electric licks (to mirror the movement of oars?), some quietly bubbling organ parts, and Carlsson's usual «muffled» percussion, to avoid any direct references to a «rock sound», if possible.

Considering how unassuming the music is, it is curious that it even managed to reach the ears of a large audience in the first place. Hansson originally recorded and released it as Sagan Om Ringen in Sweden in 1970, but later on, it caught the attention of Tony Stratton-Smith (the guy behind the success of Genesis), and by the time it hit the UK and US shelves in 1972, Hansson was already a minor celebrity in the prog-rock ranks. Maybe it is this quiet, ascetic nature of the album that made it stand out even back then, when most people were being so flashy and bom­bastic — anyway, it is a good thing that Tolkien's agents never let him carry on with the idea of adding voices to the record, because I believe that any singing here would have spoilt the overall effect. As it is, this is just one of those albums that will go down easy with a cup of camomile tea — not «stunningly beautiful», but «quietly becalming» in much the same way as something like Brian Eno's Another Green World, just on a less radical level. Thumbs up. 

Blue Öyster Cult: On Your Feet Or On Your Knees

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: ON YOUR FEET OR ON YOUR KNEES (1975)

1) The Subhuman; 2) Harvester Of Eyes; 3) Hot Rails To Hell; 4) The Red & The Black; 5) 7 Screaming Diz-Busters; 8) Buck's Boogie; 9) Last Days Of May; 10) Cities On Flame; 11) ME 262; 12) Before The Kiss (A Redcap); 13) Maserati GT (I Ain't Got You); 14) Born To Be Wild.

I guess we all saw that coming — a double live album, the ultimate prooftest for all of the era's art rock and hard rock performers. Even if the basic image and substance of Blue Öyster Cult was of the «meta-...» nature, and most of the music was sharply tongue-in-cheek, one should not forget that there was still a serious dividing line between the band's ideological gurus (Pearlman, Meltzer, the occasional Patti Smith, etc.) and the actual boys in the band, most of whom had authentic rock'n'roll hearts; in fact, were it otherwise, the band would have never made it so good. Behind all the irony, there was a real beast out there, and On Your Feet Or On Your Knees, culled from several performances from their 1974 tour in support of Secret Treaties, was clearly supposed to focus on the beast rather than the irony.

Not that «the beast», unleashed on the audience, is completely free of the irony. The biggest difference of these performances from their studio equivalents is that some of the songs are seriously stretched out — most notably, ʽME 262ʼ and ʽDiz-Bustersʼ — and by «stretching out», Blue Öyster Cult usually mean «engaging in ridiculously overdone guitar pyrotechnics», like the ʽFreebirdʼ solo or the sonic acrobatics that Mick Ronson would perform before the front rows of bedazzled screa­ming kids during a Ziggy Stardust show. Some of the time the stage show focuses on Buck Dharma's soloing, at other times Bloom joins him with «stun guitar», creating a high-wailing, sense-overloading wall of sound that plays up to the «rock hero» image about as much as it sends it up — anyway, whatever happens out there in the middle of ʽME 262ʼ isn't really «rock and roll» in its purest form (like at a Stones concert or something), more like a consciously staged behaviorist experiment. Not a criticism — just a statement.

The actual songs are not changed all that much from the studio versions, except for the tempos, dutifully sped up for extra excitement at some expense of playing precision — sometimes it is for the better (ʽThe Red & The Blackʼ), but sometimes it hurts: ʽCities On Flameʼ loses much of its demonic sheen by not allowing the guitar riff to fully realize its grin — the timing is off, and the main body of the song is over much too quickly. Unfortunately, the mix is not ideal, either, with the vocals suffering throughout and some of the subtleties of the rhythm guitar probably lost due to technicalities. It wouldn't matter if the losses were compensated for with added rock'n'roll excitement, but... see above on rock'n'roll excitement.

The setlist, while omitting several obvious highlights of the first three albums, is still quite strong, and features three further additions to the catalog. ʽBuck's Boogieʼ is a lengthy instrumental, most of it happening at breakneck speed and featuring the personal talents of Mr. Donald Roeser (as far as live performance goes, it was actually quite an oldie by 1974, and a studio version is now available as a bonus track on Tyranny And Mutation). ʽMaserati GTʼ is a reimagined version of the old Jimmy Reed tune ʽI Ain't Got Youʼ with lotsa extra jamming; and ʽBorn To Be Wildʼ is the band trying to be Steppenwolf — I suspect that it is actually a studio track thrown on at the last moment, maybe as a friendly gesture or because they had it lying around and didn't know what else to do with it. It's all passable, the only question being: why did they have to throw an excerpt from ʽCat's Squirrelʼ into both ʽBuck's Boogieʼ and ʽMaserati GTʼ? Is that an unpleasant hint at the paucity of improvisational imagination — or just an unfortunate coincidence?

In any case, while you can tell that I am not head-over-heels in love with the album, it would be useless to insist that the Blue Öyster Cult Machine is not a real machine, but just an imitation. They do pack a good punch; the problem is that there is too much «show» here and not nearly enough «spirit». When we're talking bands like the Stones, the Who, Led Zeppelin, or Deep Purple, in all those cases their classic live shows, different as they are from the studio activities, will rank at least as high as the studio activities. Blue Öyster Cult, on the other hand, seem to be primarily a studio-oriented band, even despite all the hard rock muscle that would seem so natu­rally geared towards live performance. But live, they are more of a «glam» act than a «rock» act, and this is why, like Bowie or T. Rex, no matter how much of a hell of a live show they could put on, and no matter how much their live records sold (and they did sell), they are more likely to be remembered for what they did in the studio. Still, thumbs up for all that hard work, and for featuring Buck Dharma in full flashy capacity for a change. 

Anni-Frid Lyngstad (Frida): Something's Going On

FRIDA: SOMETHING'S GOING ON (1982)

1) Tell Me It's Over; 2) I See Red; 3) I Got Something; 4) Strangers; 5) To Turn The Stone; 6) I Know There's Something Going On; 7) Threnody; 8) Baby Don't You Cry No More; 9) The Way You Do; 10) You Know What I Mean; 11) Here We'll Stay.

Because of all the casual stereotypes, Agnetha was always cast as the «dumb blonde» part of the female ABBA component where Frida was, if not exactly the «dark-haired intellectual», still sort of regarded as the brainier element of the two. To be fair, Agnetha did get most of the solo parts on ABBA's lyrically shallowest love ballads, while Frida, with her deeper voice, accordingly got the parts that tried to probe a little further, but still, that ain't really sufficient ground for proper discrimination — at best, it shows that Benny and Björn were in on the «dumb blonde» game as well, because even songwriting genius does not save one from stereotype attack.

Much more diagnostic would be the kind of situation where both dames were finally completely independent and had the freedom of asserting their own identities — Something's Going On came out approximately at the same time as Wrap Your Arms Around Me, and although both albums consisted almost entirely of covers (Agnetha, unlike Frida, did write a couple of her own, but there'd hardly be any difference if she didn't), the difference in tone was striking. Agnetha's performances were predominantly songs of passionate love and romance — Frida's were darker (like the hair!), concentrating much more on paranoia, breakup, loss, and only occasional conso­lation — romance as antidote against grief. Roughing it up, we have here the classic opposition between comedy and tragedy, where you can take your own pick.

It wasn't all Frida's own invention though. For her first post-ABBA solo album (like Agnetha, she had a few Swedish-only solo albums before and during ABBA), she teamed up with Phil Collins, being tremendously inspired and impressed with the freshly published Face Value — a record that was all about paranoia, breakup, and loss, and, incidentally, was also the first (and best) Phil Collins solo album, so somehow the two turned out to be sympathetic souls, and Phil not only produced Frida's record for her, but also contributed one of the songs and even sang with Frida on the closing duet. Touching!

Naturally, Phil's production style is not for everybody. We have here the same «gigantic» drum sound as on Face Value, much, though not all, of it programmed; and all the electronic keyboards / pop metal guitars / echoey effects on the vocals that were so trendy at the time — the ironic thing is, no matter how hard Frida tries to distance herself from her ABBA past here, in the end it all still sounds ABBA-esque, not just because of the familiar voice, but also because the assem­bled songs must have been subconsciously filtered. None of them were written by Benny or Björn, but just try to imagine how it all might have sounded without Phil in the producer's seat, and you will have yourself a smooth and natural transition from The Visitors to here. (Whereas with Wrap Your Arms Around Me, the transition would probably be from 1975's ABBA — ʽThe Heat Is Onʼ is kinda sorta the natural successor to ʽTropical Lovelandʼ, isn't it?.. on the other hand, it was Frida who sang ʽTropical Lovelandʼ... oh, never mind).

The big single was ʽI Know There's Something Going Onʼ (with you and her, not with the world today), written by Russ Ballard, who, as it turns out, was happy to serve both the red and the white queen at the same time (ʽCan't Shake Looseʼ, written for Agnetha, did not manage to have quite the same chart success, though). Behind its production gloss there is a genuinely ominous vibe, greatly added by Daryl Stuermer's acid guitar solo, although the song is still too repetitive and dependent on the endlessly looped chorus hook to be considered an atmospheric masterpiece — so, in an unpredictable contrasting move, I'd like to declare it melodically inferior to the non-hit, non-single ʽBaby Don't You Cry No Moreʼ, a nostalgic jazz-pop ditty contributed by Bal­lard's former colleague, Rod Argent in person. It may seem shallow in comparison, but it's got a luvverly piano melody, a cool vocal resolution, and it reminds you of Paul McCartney's ʽBaby's Requestʼ with extra vocal flourishes, so who's to complain?

Other highlights include: ʽI See Redʼ, a disturbingly introspective song written by Jim Rafferty — one year later, it would turn into a minor pop hit for the chart-hungry Clannad, whose version was a bit more creepy compared to this reggae-influenced recording, but Frida, too, is able to sense the paranoid potential of the song, and even the echo effect on the vocals, normally a bad thing for such an expressive singer, is in its perfect place, conveying insecurity and uncertainty; the opening pop-rocker ʽTell Me It's Overʼ, written by Stephen Bishop and as rousing as any average ABBA pop-rocker; and Per Gessle's melodisation of Dorothy Parker's ʽThrenodyʼ, very sweetly and lightly arranged — a tight beat supporting a largely acoustic melody, with mandolins and chimes and just a short sweet touch of the synth around the edges.

In fact, the only serious disappointment is that last duet with Phil — ʽHere We'll Stayʼ is, of all things, a Xanadu-tinged romantic disco number, with Frida being cast in the Olivia Newton-John part and the happy duo even making a run for the falsetto register during the climactic bits: at the very least, this is a fairly tacky ending that they came up with, in poor taste overall, not to men­tion seriously at odds with the general tone of the album. They did release it as a single, which is understandable (Frida and Phil, together for the first time!), but it didn't chart, so the effort was wasted and the reputation sullied (of course, now that many people are reevaluating that entire stylistics from a completely different angle, the whole thing may even seem stylish!). So you just might want to hit that stop button one track ahead of its time — or suffer the insufferable.

On the whole, though, this is a decent, sufficiently moody pop album, not pretending to any huge depth, but not too dumbed down, either. I cannot say for sure that Phil's production did Frida a lot of good — but what she obviously wanted was to make a «non-ABBA» album, so this decision can be respected. What really matters is that Anni-Frid's vocals are at the heart of each song —  and, really, what else should one expect from an Anni-Frid solo album? Thumbs up.

Blackmore's Night: Under A Violet Moon

BLACKMORE'S NIGHT: UNDER A VIOLET MOON (1999)

1) Under A Violet Moon; 2) Castles And Dreams; 3) Past Time With Good Company; 4) Morning Star; 5) Avalon; 6) Possum Goes To Prague; 7) Wind In The Willows; 8) Gone With The Wind; 9) Beyond The Sunset; 10) March The Heroes Home; 11) Spanish Nights (I Remember It Well); 12) Catherine Howard's Fate; 13) Fool's Gold; 14) Durch Den Wald Zum Bach Haus; 15) Now And Then; 16) Self Portrait.

For some reason, Ritchie likes to make these records rather long — around an hour in duration, sometimes more, taking full advantage of the CD format at a time when other performers were already getting past that stage, and slowly realizing that you don't have to stretch your record out to 70 minutes just because you can fit that much length on your current medium of choice. Be­cause of that, all of these Blackmore's Night recordings necessarily have monotonous streaks to them even if it would be wrong to say that Blackmore always purposefully sounds the same.

On the contrary, if you put it all together, an album like Under A Violet Moon (several points off, though, for two LPs in a row with the word «moon» in the title) features plenty of diversity. There's some medieval English music, some medieval German music, some medieval Spanish music, an acoustic reinvention of an old Rainbow song, and even a bit of Russian folk music, which, upon closer inspection, turns out to be pseudo-folk music (ʽGone With The Windʼ incor­porates the melody of Polyushko-polye, Lev Knipper's most famous contribution to his country, written in 1934), but who's supposed to know?

In some ways, this is a serious improvement: the production, featuring many more «authentic» instruments than before (with twice as many musicians credited in the liner notes), is fairly well cleaned from that feeling of «cheapness» — and there are no downright embarrassments like the disco pandering of ʽWriting On The Wallʼ. That's on the traditional-conservative side, but on the «fusion» side, Blackmore's fans will also like the fact that he is playing more electric guitar, in­cluding a trademark flashy solo during the coda of ʽGone With The Windʼ (very clean, though: no distortion or whammy bar hooliganry) — and that Rainbow cover, too, is a nice enough gesture, showing that Ritchie has not completely disavowed his past, but is rather willing to re­think it. After all, some of those songs did have good melodies, and ʽSelf Portraitʼ works fine in an acoustic setting.

Unfortunately, nothing will help Candice Night to become a more interesting singer than her inborn gift allows her to, and no matter how they try, all of these songs are, at best, «pretty» rather than «beautiful». When they come up with catchy vocal hooks, as they do on the title track, they are worth relistening — but even then, the magic that they sincerely try to work on that song is rather trite. Pretty girl singing, «mystical» echoey male harmonies flanking, gradual quickening of the tempo to turn the whole thing into a magical dance ritual, we've pretty much sat through all that in high school already: can you show us something we don't know? Okay, even if you can, you just don't want to. It's your fantasy, and you don't care just how original or individualistic it is. Fair enough. "Past time with good company / I love, and shall until I die" — what serious objec­tion could there be against ol' King Henry VIII and his still-actual credo?

Seriously, none at all, and there is not a single track on this album that would not be at least tepidly likable. Some have said that the album is more «poppy» where its predecessor was more «folky», but this is a matter of personal impression, I guess, especially if by «poppy» one means «catchier and/or happier tunes», which are more or less equally interspersed here with darker stuff — and it is interesting that the bleak ʽSelf Portraitʼ, with its "going down, down, down, down, down" chorus was chosen as the coda, leading the album from the collective ritualistic happiness of the opening to the personal depressed gloom of the closing. Other than that, I guess ʽGone With The Windʼ with its Russian folk backing harmonies is the most «outstanding» number here, but there is something hokey about crossing fake Russian mouzhiks with passionate Blackmore electric soloing, so there is hardly anything cathartic about the song.

I'd give the album a thumbs up and recommend it to Blackmore's fans as a suitable introduction into his world, populated with idealistic projections of King Henry VIIIth, Michael Praetorius, and J. S. Bach, as they all join hands and dance around the fire under a violet moon shining over a Spanish night somewhere in Avalon. But remember that, essentially, this is just a musical form of cosplay, so, instead of expecting Fairport Convention quality, just bring along your Robin Hood garments and a longbow, and on that level, it will be fairly easy to connect with the old grey minstrel and his golden-locked protegée.

The Black Crowes: By Your Side

THE BLACK CROWES: BY YOUR SIDE (1999)

1) Go Faster; 2) Kicking My Heart Around; 3) By Your Side; 4) Horsehead; 5) Only A Fool; 6) Heavy; 7) Welcome To The Goodtimes; 8) Go Tell The Congregation; 9) Diamond Ring; 10) Then She Said My Name; 11) Virtue And Vice.

This is the first ever Black Crowes album that I can enjoy through and through. One of the critical viewpoints has somehow managed to brand it as a «return to roots», successfully recapturing the vibe of the band's first two records after the temporary slump of Three Snakes — an opinion much dissipated through the critical community, but one that could have only come by traditional rock'n'roll analogy. I mean, every band has got to have something like an early peak, a mid-term slump, a «comeback», and all sorts of dynamics that create the illusion of an adventurous and intriguing career. And no shit: prior to recording By Your Side, the band actually fired their second guitarist, Marc Ford, and for what? Heroin addiction! It's like the mid-Seventies all over again. Juicy stuff for rock tabloids and all.

As far as my own, fairly insignificant in comparison, opinion is concerned, most of those dif­ferences are fairly cosmetic anyway. A small extra brass part in here, a bit of extra production gloss in there — really, any sort of «progress» or «development» from one Crowes album to ano­ther is negligible even in comparison to classic Aerosmith, let alone someone bigger. But while the overall style is always comparable, the substance and energy level may vary enough to make some of the songs kick ass where others simply scratch balls. So who knows, maybe those lineup changes, with a new second guitarist and a new bass player (Sven Pipien), had their beneficial effect after all? Even if the new guitarist did not play a single note on the album?..

Whatever be the case, By Your Side somewhat reduces the band's usual obsession with mega-over-dubbing and sonic messiness. Instead, what we have is the Crowes' most barroom-rock-oriented collection of songs to-date — with Stones, Aerosmith, and Faces/Rod Stewart influence all over the place, but strengthened up with some really thick, sticky, crunchy guitar tones; if you throw a wah-wah effect on top (ʽHorseheadʼ), the macho aura of the song becomes strong enough to melt down windows and pulverize doors. Silly, but lovable. The overall emphasis is on crunch, crunch, crunch, with repetitive chorus lines to generate some catchiness and brother Chris wailing so loud that he even manages to overcome the usual blandness of his vocal tone: still no match for Steven Tyler, but at least now he actually sounds authentically drunk, which is already something — prior to this, the Crowes almost always sounded like they were faking it, and there is nothing worse than pretending to be drunk when you've barely touched the stuff at all.

One of the band's main mottos now is stated right in the title of the first song — ʽGo Fasterʼ — and this is what they do on several other songs as well: ʽKicking My Heart Aroundʼ propels that anthemic slide riff forward at a respectable tempo, instead of spreading it all over the timeline, while ʽGo Tell The Congregationʼ adds moderate speed to a funky foundation, and suddenly the band's usual lumpiness fades away and out pops a really tight, but fluent outfit that allows the music to fly — not just sink into the ground. But even when they remain strictly mid-tempo, the vibe is good. The title track begins like a variational tribute to the Stones' ʽTumbling Diceʼ, but then quickly moves into Faces territory instead and does the right thing: the extra crudeness and the sheer force with which they punch, pummel, and tear at the instruments compensates for the lack of anything instantaneously memorable in melodic terms.

In other words, it ain't so much the songwriting (although there are a couple more riffs around the place worth collecting) as the focus that has improved. I may be wrong, but I think that a song like ʽHeavyʼ would have been unthinkable on any of the earlier records — its leaden swing would have been coated with slide guitars and keyboards, dissipated and wasted. Here, though, as un­spectacular as the melodies might be, the songs are allowed to capitalize on their potential strength; and, for the record, it also helps that balladry is kept to a minimum — in fact, there are no ballads whatsoever in the conventional sense, just a couple of these soulful R&B numbers that all gravitate towards pop-rock anyway, like ʽOnly A Foolʼ and ʽDiamond Ringʼ.

The wah-wah ruckus on ʽHorseheadʼ might sound like they're grossly overloading it, but that is just the point — this band only begins to make sense when they go for overload, because they sure as hell can't get break through with subtlety. This is why ʽHorseheadʼ is my favorite song off the album, a massive headbanger, tongue hanging out and saliva dripping all over the place, the musical equivalent of the thickest, most calory-choked burger on Earth — and there are other songs here that go in the same direction, too, the more, the better. To put it bluntly, the Black Crowes almost manage to be as sleazy as they are usually advertised on this record, and for this reason and no other, I give it a big greasy thumbs up, and take the liberty of saying that the band never ever got any better — or sicker, or filthier, etc. — than this. Never.

Björk: Selmasongs

BJÖRK: SELMASONGS (2000)

1) Overture; 2) Cvalda; 3) I've Seen It All; 4) Scatterheart; 5) In The Musicals; 6) 107 Steps; 7) New World.

First and foremost, this review offers a great pretext for giving a good smacking to Lars von Trier, whom I have always admired for his talent and his audacity, and have always hated for all the wrong directions in which he has applied both. Dancer In The Dark, even more so than Breaking The Waves, and just about the same as Dogville, was a ridiculously staged study in personal manipulation — whose most unconventional and groundbreaking facet was its utter ridiculous­ness. I like the story about how, allegedly, Björk would begin her filming every day by saying "I despise you, Mr. von Trier", and spitting at the gent, which is probably what every intelligent person should have done in her place, were he/she under an obligation of some sort. The only question, of course, being «what the hell was she thinking in the first place?», and a possible answer being that, in the first place, she didn't think about anything, and in the second place, it was too late to back out already.

Not that the movie is bad in all respects: technically speaking, it's fine... other than the disgusting storyline (sort of like «Charles Dickens meets modern anti-American stereotypes») and, sub­sequently, the corny, incredibly artificial over- or under-acting of everyone involved. If you are into movies for different reasons (camera work, lighting, editing, etc.), Dancer In The Dark deserves to be seen. But mostly it just deserves to be seen in order to get a better context for Selma Songs, its accompanying soundtrack — a mini-album whose quality stands miles above the movie, so never make the mistake of bypassing it in your exploration of Björk's discography. This small bunch of songs is the finest thing to have come out of the entire project.

If anything, Selma Songs serves as a wonderful antidote for the distant and over-reaching effect of Homogenic — for a short time, it gives us back our Björk as a human being. Warped, crazy, totally idiosyncratic, but a human being nevertheless. The movie character, «Selma» — a helpless im­migrant mother matching near-complete blindness with a Dostoyevsky heart — may look caricaturesque in the movie (at least, the script does its best to present her as a caricature), but when it comes to painting that image with musical colors, von Trier is out of the picture and Björk is allowed complete creative freedom, and things like these are right up her alley, so she sort of transforms herself into the Who's Tommy and proceeds from there.

Actually, the Tommy connection can be extended: ʽOvertureʼ opens the small set with its musical theme played on the same French horn that was one of the key instruments on Tommy, courtesy of John Entwistle, setting much the same «epic / longago-and-faraway» rock-opera mood. There the superficial similarities end, and we proceed to join «Selma» in her amazing musifications of the sounds of the outside world. Selma, unlike Tommy, does not play pinball, but she likes to dance, and she constructs herself dance soundtracks out of the noises of the factory where she works (ʽCvaldaʼ), of the sounds of trains that pass her by on her way home (ʽI've Seen It Allʼ), of her personal tribulations (ʽScatterheartʼ, ʽIn The Musicalsʼ), and even out of her final moments on Earth (ʽNew Worldʼ). Most importantly, while it makes sense to be aware of the movie to under­stand what's going on, it all works much better as a song-set, without any visuals.

The «factory» and «train» arrangements actually happen to be some of the most reasonable and impressive justifications of the «industrial» style that I have ever heard — far more accessible than your average Einstürzende Neubauten and, for that reason, far more difficult to get right: anyone can base a musical composition upon «factory clanging», but not anyone can get the clanging to form a properly danceable skeleton, on top of which Selma's imagination then throws chimes, brass, strings, and whatever else comes into her head. And Björk's vocal style, the whole «little girl with a lion's roar and avantgarde ambitions» schtick, is perfect for the character — «little girl» agreeing with its helplessness, «lion's roar» agreeing with its determination, and «avantgarde ambitions» agreeing with its sensory uniqueness.

Since the movie had to be seen by, like, ordinary people (some of these still occasionally watched von Trier movies in 2000), the avantgarde ambitions are not quite so avantgarde as to completely neglect catchiness — and Björk's duet with long-time fan Thom Yorke on ʽI've Seen It Allʼ gua­rantees additional popularity, to which should be added the good news that Thom actually sings like a human being on the track, rather than in his «subterranean homesick alien» voice that he'd invented on OK Computer and which I honestly cannot stand one bit: consequently, their mournful dialog generates strange beauty and is a great illustration of «passion in the dark», ex­pressing strong feelings in muffled, semi-implied ways. ʽIn The Musicalsʼ is truly what you get when you cross Björk-style songwriting with the old cliché of «bright lights, big city gone to my baby's head» — orchestral excitement crossed with truly wild sequencing and capped off with a brilliant lyrical/vocal hook ("...and you were always there to catch me... when I'd fall").

The brief crescendo of ʽ107 Stepsʼ could be thought of as an unintentional answer to the ʽ39 Lashesʼ of Jesus Christ Superstar — the protagonist cruelly wound-up towards martyrdom — but, rather than being something self-sufficient, works more like an appetizing introduction to ʽNew Worldʼ, which finally realizes the theme previewed in ʽOvertureʼ and is one of the stateliest anthems to «death as liberation» in existence, and — get this — it is totally warm, friendly, and presents the «New World» as a much more familiar and cozy place than any of the «Icelandic» soundscapes of Homogenic. So if you ever needed an excuse to say "I'd rather die than go to Iceland", there you have it, clear as daylight.

In the end, I guess, Lars von Trier does deserve our gratitude for offering his lead such a perfect opportunity. Who knows, maybe he should have also let her handle the script — and the cast — and the directing — and the editing — and we might have a really good movie to go along with all the great music. Of course, most of the user reviews of Dancer In The Dark that I have read wrong the movie for all the wrong reasons ("such a potentially great movie about human wicked­ness and injustice, but why cast this loonie imp in the title role?"), so this could never happen, and Björk herself has said that acting is not one of her forte's, and that she only did this for the money because it was a matter of special interest. But whatever — the important thing is that we do have the soundtrack album, and that it is perfectly legitimate to simply treat it as a mini-rock opera, and give it a thumbs up, and be happily done with it.

Black Sabbath: The Eternal Idol

BLACK SABBATH: THE ETERNAL IDOL (1987)

1) The Shining; 2) Ancient Warrior; 3) Hard Life To Love; 4) Glory Ride; 5) Born To Lose; 6) Nightmare; 7) Scarlet Pimpernel; 8) Lost Forever; 9) Eternal Idol.

Goodbye Glenn Hughes, and hello good riffs — and where have you been hiding all this time? Hidden in an endless sea of subpar products, The Eternal Idol is that one post-Ozzy, post-Dio album which, when placed in context, might just be the biggest surprise in Tony Iommi's entire career. The sessions were a mess, with not one, but two bass players coming and going (Dave Spitz recorded the original parts, quit, was replaced by Bob Daisley, who re-recorded all the parts, then quit); not one, but two drummers coming and going (Eric Singer recorded the original parts, quit, was replaced by ELO's Bev Bevan, who re-recorded some of the parts, then quit); and one vocalist coming and another one going (Ray Gillen recorded the original parts, quit, was replaced by Tony Martin, who re-recorded all the parts... then kinda stuck around).

But over this mess Tony Iommi remains as the anchor, and he seems intent on correcting the silly mistakes of Seventh Star. Gone are the crappy sentimental power ballads, gone is the short-lived fling with «heroic romance» filtered through power chords and synthesizers. The basic idea is to deliver an album that would be the true successor to Heaven And Hell — restoring some of that record's hellfire and putting real power back into Black Sabbath's post-Ozzy brand of «power metal». Naturally, in order to have real power, what you need is reliable powerlines — riffs that eagerly imprint themselves in your brains and trigger fist-clenching and air guitar playing on sight. In all honesty, we had very few of those even in the Dio era; the last time we remember Tony coming up with a genuinely impressive collection was in 1975, with Sabotage. Well, pre­pare yourself for the odd wonder: The Eternal Idol is, without a single doubt, the absolute best collection of original Iommi riffs since 1975. In fact, might even be since 1971.

Yes, the problem is that there is little, if anything, other than the riffs to recommend. The produc­tion is slightly improved over Seventh Star, but most of the basic problems typical of generic Eighties' power metal remain in place. Stiff drums, slightly synthetic guitar tones, even more syn­thetic keyboards, and a bass guitar that is only there strictly for formal purposes. On top of this, we have this new singer who seems to have carefully studied every trick in Dio's handbook, but who is simply not a natural like Ronnie — he knows not how to use the back of his oral cavity, only the front, and, consequently, has no way to properly scare the shit out of the listener. At least he is not trying to be a frickin' rock'n'roll opera star, like Hughes, so when his vocals drift off on you in the context of a decent song, they are not an immediate turn-off.

Ah, but those riffs. If you only have patience for one song, go along with ʽHard Life To Loveʼ, which is basically all riff — heavy, simple, threatening, jumping at you like a hungry tiger locked in its cage, and at a respectable tempo at that. Second champion is ʽBorn To Loseʼ, where the riff is a bit more complex, a bit more high-pitched, maybe even a bit more poppy, but every bit as memorable — not so much in a «threatening» way this time, but being more of an aural tease, if you get what I mean. Give these tunes a better singer, and they will both be better «fast power metal anthems» than ʽNeon Knightsʼ, in a jiffy.

They don't fare too bad in the slow department, either. ʽThe Shiningʼ, selected to open the album as well as be its only single (didn't chart) and its only video (Gothic lighting!), meanders a bit in the intro before a simple, brutal monster riff breaks out with all the verve of Master Of Reality. The big silly drums obscure it, and the production effect strips it of some of the potential power, but this is the same Tony Iommi that had almost made us forgot why the hell did we single him out of the faceless crowd seventeen years back. Martin's call-to-arms ("Rise up! To the shining!") is naïve and ineffective, but the non-vocal rumble behind it is at least loud enough to allow you to attune your ears only to the music — only to the riff — and that's what makes you rise up.

Of the two «supernatural descents into the dark and hellish», ʽNightmareʼ and the title track, it is the former that has the better riff, well adapted to the song's title; ʽEternal Idolʼ tries harder to be epic and religious, evoking a feel of doom that would make it the Tony Martin era equivalent of ʽBlack Sabbathʼ itself — not half-bad, actually, though it does lack the necessary crushing riff, and so Martin's "sinners say your prayers tonight! your judgement day is here!" rings a bit hollow no matter how viciously the drummer smites his skins. Still, it's been a long time since they tried to go for this devilish atmosphere, and it could have been much worse (and soon would be).

In conclusion, if there is one Black Sabbath simply screaming to be remade after all those years, it is The Eternal Idol, pure black gold at heart but marred with the predictable ravages of its time. I have no idea whatsoever how all these riffs came about — and why this weird comeback of Tony's chief talent only perked up for this brief moment in 1987, a year not at all benevolent to the «comeback spirit» of old rockers. But the simple fact remains — at least two or three songs off this album have made it to my personal «post-Ozzy best-of B.S.» compilation, which is far more than could be said of any of the other Martin-era records. A flawed, but auspicious begin­ning, worthy of a thumbs up; too bad that the future would turn out so treacherous. 

Bloodrock: Whirlwind Tongues

BLOODROCK: WHIRLWIND TONGUES (1974)

1) It's Gonna Be Love; 2) Sunday Song; 3) Parallax; 4) Voices; 5) Eleanor Rigby; 6) Stilled By Whirlwind; 7) Guess What I Am; 8) Lady Of Love; 9) Jungle.

I am going against the grain here, including my own old assessment of this album, but I do be­lieve now that Whirlwind Tongues is an ever so slight improvement over Passage where song­writing and impartial self-assessment of the band's abilities are concerned. Not that it matters in the slightest: the Ham-led Bloodrock at their absolute best can only present sufficient interest for historians of the «pretentious pop music scene» in the post-Beatles, pre-punk era, and maybe for a small group of strange people who'd probably scare me shitless if they were to present themselves in person. But still, just for justice' sake: Whirlwind Tongues is weak, but not awful.

The major difference is that this time around, they are not so openly emulating their betters — they still have a serious problem with trying to find their own style, but something is beginning to materialize. Perhaps a sort of folk-rock sound in the vein of contemporary Traffic, but gentler and more sentimental (a.k.a. «sissy»). With an occasional surprise or two, and some basic diversity. No eight-minute epics with bad Moog solos (okay, some bad Moog solos are inevitable, but we could live with these). Mostly boring, sometimes too cute for their own good, but give them a break — they are really trying.

I mean, it must have taken some brainwork to take ʽEleanor Rigbyʼ, speed it up, add flutes, and make it rock, if only ever so softly, right? I must admit that it is a more inventive recasting of the song than Aretha Franklin's, for instance — I much prefer my ʽEleanor Rigbyʼ in a steady tempo, tight, focused, and with flutes than see it turned into a rather chaotic R&B number. Not that the world really needs either of these, but this novelty approach is not at all repugnant. Other than the singer getting a bit too carried away (should have kept it modestly trimmed, without any extra yeah yeah yeahs, I think), it's actually fun.

Other than that, ʽIt's Gonna Be Loveʼ is a solemn soft-rock anthem that suffers from the absence of authentic Crosby, Stills & Nash harmonies (and the presence of one of those corny Moog solos); ʽSunday Songʼ is loungey vaudeville that tries to mix sentimentality with humor; ʽParal­laxʼ is like Blind Faith's ʽDo What You Likeʼ with a Jethro Tull-style flute part thrown in; ʽVoicesʼ speeds along with good confidence and has the album's best riff, which would have been even better if they knew it themselves and got it rid of the distracting «flanging» effects; ʽStilled By Whirlwindʼ is too preachy, too long, has too many instances of the word "propaganda" and em­barrassing falsetto harmonies, but is okay otherwise; ʽGuess What I Amʼ is an awful piano ballad that shows Ham's lack of vocal power in all its anti-glory as the man desperately tries to prove that he can do it all, from tenor to falsetto; ʽLady Of Loveʼ is a simplistic serenade, not particularly redeemed by the heavy use of saxes blended into its primitive keyboard riff; and ʽJungleʼ is the band's attempt at doing something darker and weirder, partially successful, as they populate the minimalistic skeleton with «jungle noises».

Whew, at least there was some incentive to briefly namedrop all the songs on the album. That does not mean it merits a thumbs up, but it does mean there was enough diversity and creativity to evade any accusations of idleness and laziness. No talent, sure, but any idiot with talent can be creative — now creativity without talent, that's gotta count for something! In a way, it almost makes me feel sorry that the band finally called it a day soon afterwards — not sorry enough, though, to hunt for one more final LP, recorded in 1975, but shelved and not released officially until 2000 (as part of the rare 2-CD Triptych edition that combines both Ham-era albums with nine more songs, allegedly joined under the working title Unspoken Words).

Although, let us not exaggerate. Bloodrock were not all that outstanding in their prime, merely worth getting to know if you are a sucker for 1970 — and whichever direction Ham could take the survivors in the mid-Seventies would probably be a dead end, so I guess it's all for the better that we did not get to see the Bloodrock Disco Album, not to mention the Bloodrock Hair Metal Comeback, or be subjected to the «Bloodrock Dig Their New Indie Label So Much They Have Decided To Release Two New Albums Each Year For The Sake Of Their Three Fans» reality show. Having run out of blood (and out of rock) back in 1972, at best, they could be opening shows for the likes of Styx, and how much more embarrassment could this world stand?

Blue Öyster Cult: Secret Treaties

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: SECRET TREATIES (1974)

1) Career Of Evil; 2) Subhuman; 3) Dominance And Submission; 4) ME 262; 5) Cagey Cretins; 6) Harvester Of Eyes; 7) Flaming Telepaths; 8) Astronomy.

Each of these early BÖC albums has its own separate identity, but it is hard to delineate them without resorting to technicalities. If the appropriate keyword combination for the self-titled debut was «ironic mystique» and then Tyranny And Mutation replaced it with «in-yer-face ironic hard rock», well, I'd say Secret Treaties is neither of these things. It is noticeably lighter — still technically «hard rock», but with a stronger nod to pop and, most interestingly, with a certain minimalistic flavor: the riffs are getting more sparse, abrupt, and laconic, occasionally predicting the highly expressive minimalism of AC/DC or even the punkers. Listen to ʽDomi­nance And Submissionʼ and tell me you don't recognize ʽWe're A Happy Familyʼ (incidentally, the Ramones were one of the opening acts for BÖC in early 1977, and the song was on the setlist — how's that for a little detective work?).

As such, I don't know about enjoyability, but they do manage to throw on some extra intrigue after the slight relative disappointment of Tyranny. By calming down a bit and concentrating seriously on musical development and lyrical content, the band produces a «hard-art» record that actually taps into some serious matter — not «proverbially dark» or «theatrically eerie», but snappy in a genuinely disturbing way if you pay sufficient attention. Nowhere more so than on the album opener, ʽCareer Of Evilʼ, a naughty grin of a song that could very well fit onto any Alice Cooper record; all the more amazing that its hyperbolic lyrics, presented from the point of view of the allegorical meanest motherfucker you've ever seen in your life, were penned by Patti Smith (then again, this is the Patti Smith of ʽRock'n'Roll Niggerʼ fame, too). The repeated line "I'm making a career of evil" concludes one of the catchiest choruses in the band's history — so prepare to forever suffer the harboring in your head of a song that threatens to steal wives, inject brains, and "do it to your daughter on a dirt road", yuck. Nasty.

ʽDominance And Submissionʼ hits sparingly, but harsh, its grim simple chords delivering power­ful punches and its lyrics seemingly dealing with the impact of the media on public conscience (I think). The second part of the song (starting off with "In Times Square now people do the polka") is one of the weirdest bits they ever did — the "dominance! / submission! / (radios appear)" sequence is two minutes of sheer delirium, followed by an even more delirious guitar solo, and in combination with all the not-so-innocent references to 1963, 1964, digging ʽThe Locomotionʼ, and questionable rides in backseats with «Susan and her brother, Charles the grinning boy», this is pretty disturbing nostalgia, if you ask me. They overplay it so hotly that, eventually, it becomes more bizarre and/or hilarious than creepy, but fishing creepiness out of the depths of weirdness is a respectable activity in its own rights, isn't it?

They pull the whiskers of public taste even more strongly on ʽME 262ʼ, whose lyrics depict an aerial battle in WWII from the perspective of a German pilot, no less: "Must these Englishmen live that I might die"? Granted, BÖC are an American band, not a British one, and run a slightly lesser risk of being dragged through the mud in New York than they'd run it in London, but still, if you throw in the fact that ʽME 262ʼ is really a happy-sounding barroom boogie number at heart, and that they also illustrated the song vividly on the album cover, that's one hell of a provocative move: "Hitler's on the phone from Berlin, says I'm gonna make you a star...".

As we move forward, it becomes more and more obvious that Pearlman, Meltzer, and Patti Smith have really formed a «secret treaty» to turn Blue Öyster Cult into a critical weapon, launched against public manipulation and sheep mentality — a title like ʽCagey Cretinsʼ speaks for itself, while the ʽHarvester Of Eyesʼ seems to be a metaphor for your TV set. The lyrics are always ambiguous enough to suggest multiple interpretations (or refrain from interpretation altogether), but the «satirical» interpretation complements the music best of all, adding extra depth to these odd riffs, like the «probing claw» mini-melody of ʽHarvester Of Eyesʼ that seeks to implant itself in your brain and take possession of your ears, eyes, and everything else. And the desperately weeping intonations of ʽFlaming Telepathsʼ go together fairly well with the recurrent line — "I'm after rebellion, I'll settle for lies", which is like a funny retort to the Who's ʽWon't Get Fooled Againʼ. It occupies the album's niche for «mini-epic», with Moog, piano, and guitar solos fueling the big pathos furnace until the song suddenly begins to match its ambitions and overwhelm the senses — regardless of whether you understand who the hell are the "flaming telepaths" in ques­tion and whether the lyrics are supposed to be taken socially, personally, or to the incinerator.

My only problem is with ʽAstronomyʼ, which closes the record off on another grand note, but with some pretense at «soul» — as if somebody thought it'd be a good idea to pay a joint tribute to Elton John and Van Morrison at the same time, but ended up sounding like Journey instead, or some other second-rate/hand quasi-prog band. To succeed at this sort of thing, they'd need at least one or two individual geniuses among them, a great vocalist or a super-flashy soloist or two, but their strength has always been in the collective realm, and from that point of view, ʽAstronomyʼ is neither as weird as ʽRedeemedʼ nor as tightly assembled as ʽMistress Of The Salmon Saltʼ. If it is an intentional send-up of «pretentious», «romantic» values, it would be more logical at least to place it in the middle, because using it as a coda aggrandizes it, want it or not, and it does not seem to deserve any proper aggrandization, I think.

Still, these are minor nitpicks next to how altogether consistent and stimulating the record is — one of the most intellectually challenging hard rock artefacts of 1974. Which is not saying that nobody should ever listen to the self-titled KISS debut from the same year in the event of availa­bility of Secret Treaties, because Secret Treaties is not a headbanger's delight, it just uses hard rock as a useful tool for something completely different, and it is this difference more than any­thing else that earns it a thumbs up. It rocks, sure enough, but more importantly, it's quirky, and it cannot be easily cracked upon one listen — and it's one of those «meta-rock» albums which should really only be appreciated once you've thoroughly gone through all of the usual biggies. If you're only in it for the rock'n'roll, well, better stay away from records where Patti Smith might be responsible for at least some of the words.

Agnetha Fältskog: A

AGNETHA FÄLTSKOG: A (2013)

1) The One Who Loves You Now; 2) When You Really Loved Someone; 3) Perfume In The Breeze; 4) I Was A Flower; 5) I Should've Followed You Home; 6) Past Forever; 7) Dance Your Pain Away; 8) Bubble; 9) Back On Your Radio; 10) I Keep Them On The Floor Beside My Bed.

Although this record was heavily advertised as «Agnetha's first collection of original material in a quarter of a century!», I would urge even diehard ABBA fans not to get too excited, and take this information with a bag of salt. Sure, it is somewhat nice to see the lady still going strong (on the surface at least) — she looks healthy on the album cover (Photoshop?), she sounds pretty on the songs (Autotune?), and she is engaged in various promotional activities — live shows, inter­views, documentaries — that prove she still got energy (stimulants?).

But there is a serious downside: the songs. These songs are not ABBA (not being penned by Benny or Björn), not typical early Agnetha solo (not being selected «by tender» from a bunch of respectable songwriters competing with each other), and they are not Colouring Book-style grateful nostalgia. Instead, the album has been written in its entirety, as well as produced, by Jörgen Eloffson, the guy best known for writing the first hit single for Kelly Clarkson, and prior to that, the co-author of quite a few songs on Britney Spears' first album; as far as I can under­stand, he has a tight association with American Idol, Pop Idol, and all those people.

Friend or no friend, I have no idea why Agnetha consented to let this guy flood her with his compositions. The album's chief influences are bubblegum pop, boy bands, and diva balladry, with the songs more or less evenly distributed between these three categories — there is also a «retro» category, though, represented this time by ʽDance Your Pain Awayʼ, a credible stylization in classic disco that could even be enjoyable if not for the synthesizers, which have infiltrated the song from the modern technopop era. ʽBack On The Radioʼ is somewhat retro as well, I guess, and inevitably brings to mind ʽThat's Why God Made The Radioʼ — the Beach Boys' creative fiasco from the previous year. But this one's worse, because instead of classic Beach Boys har­monies you get a transparently autotuned delivery. Intentionally autotuned, I'd say, as when you use Autotune not to correct vocal weaknesses, but as a symbolic artistic statement — «well, it's a song about the radio, we gotta have a little interference in there». It's still ugly.

Trying to seek out «niceties» on this album would immediately turn this review into a condescen­ding one, so I am not even going to try — instead, we should probably show our respect to the artist by harshly stating that A is a bunch of crap, and that, no matter how hard she tries (and I don't think she tries hard enough), her generally well-preserved, and still largely beautiful, voice cannot redeem this shallow, by-the-book material. It's better than the Britney Spears songs, I'll give you that, but not by much — certainly not in the production department, which is exactly the same, coating a boring acoustic guitar / piano skeleton with a tasteless mixture of electronic per­cussion, synths, and strings. Its emotional palette is completely predictable, and so are its hooks.

In short, I have nothing against Agnetha slipping into soft, slow, nostalgic «granny mode» — given her age, this would only be natural — but it is the most ridiculous thing in the world to let your «granny mode» be controlled by the guy who makes a living writing for American Idol. As far as I know, Jeff Lynne, Russ Ballard, and Justin Hayward are still living — and maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea, either, to finally acknowledge Elvis Costello and his burning desire to make himself useful to an ABBA member. I mean, the possibilities are really endless, so what the hell?.. Thumbs down, and here's hoping Lady A lives and thrives long enough to get the message. At least, as of 2013, she can still sing, and feel, and think, but she sure as hell doesn't keep herself good company.

Blackmore's Night: Shadow Of The Moon

BLACKMORE'S NIGHT: SHADOW OF THE MOON (1997)

1) Shadow Of The Moon; 2) The Clock Ticks On; 3) Be Mine Tonight; 4) Play Minstrel Play; 5) Ocean Gypsy; 6) Minstrel Hall; 7) Magical World; 8) Writing On The Wall; 9) Renaissance Fair; 10) Memmingen; 11) No Second Chance; 12) Mond Tanz; 13) Spirit Of The Sea; 14) Greensleeves; 15) Wish You Were Here.

Ritchie Blackmore. Most people will remember him for early Deep Purple, some will for early Dio-era Rainbow, still others — shudder — for the later «hit era» Rainbow, but you know what? Listening to this album, the first in a new career and a new life, makes me absolutely convinced that it was not until this transformation from a blazing rock god into a humble minstrel that he had really found his true heart's content. And in the overall context of his life and his deeds, this finding makes me genuinely feel good for him.

Normally, this «neo-medieval» stylistics, the roots of which probably go all the way back to bands like Amazing Blondel in the early 1970s and maybe even further back to God knows where, is about as cringeworthy as a tacky mansion in «medieval» style, erected somewhere on the pro­perty by some tasteless nouveau riche. The melodies are stiff and manneristic, the arrangements tepidly polite, the lyrics overloaded with clichés that betray only a superficial acquaintance with the verbal art of Chaucer's, let alone King Alfred's, times. All of these flaws are vividly present on the first album by Blackmore's Night, and more — obviously produced on a modest budget, the record keeps substituting electronic replacements for genuine instruments. Synthesized trum­pets? Works wonders in the authenticity department, you know.

But then again, who are we kidding? Shadow Of The Moon has nothing to do with authenticity, and if you box Ritchie into a corner, or maybe even if you don't, he will probably admit that him­self. Shadow Of The Moon is simply part of his fantasy, which began with his encounter with Candice Night (Candice Lauren Isralow, to be precise), a young fan born in the year of Fireball, in 1989 — and ended with the formation of this duet, in which Blackmore plays the part of a traveling minstrel (always with his trusty boots on!) and Candice plays the part of his romantic fantasy, whichever it happens to be at the moment (empress, princess, lady in waiting, innocent peasant girl, witchy woman, gypsy, fortune teller, fairy queen — anything, as long as it has nothing to do with the real world).

Ever since they seriously hooked up, I think, they were living this fantasy in real life to some extent, so it was only natural that, eventually, something like this would come out. Fans were expectedly devastated: a Blackmore album without a single Blackmore electric solo? In fact, an album where his role was essentially reduced to that of songwriter and basic accompanist? Him, Ritchie Blackmore of the Huge Ego, which we all had to accept and cherish? Unbelievable, and sacrilegious. Was this Candice Night gal his Yoko Ono, putting him under her spell and making a humble slave out of the world's fiercest electric guitar hero?..

Not quite. There are two kinds of people who always punish Shadow Of The Moon with one-star ratings. The first kind simply wants Blackmore to go on being a guitar god — that's the silly kind, because if you don't want to be a guitar god no more, it's useless to force yourself. The second kind just cringes and calls the music tacky — which it certainly is. Except they are for­getting that every band in which Ritchie has done time has always been tacky, right from the earliest days of Deep Purple. Remember their cover of the Beatles' ʽHelp!ʼ on the debut album? Now if that ain't tacky, I don't know what is.

Yes, like most of this faux-Renaissance muzak, the songs, taken at face value, are stiff, boring, and corny, and not at all redeemed by the technical aspects of their execution — Blackmore's guitar playing (mostly acoustic, although he does not completely shun the electric sound) is intentionally very modest, whereas Night's vocals are pleasantly passable: she is no new Annie Haslam in terms of range or power, and no new Sandy Denny in terms of expression and spiritu­ality, she just sings in a nice tone. Not particularly irritating or memorable. Not much to hate, not a lot to love. Fine wardrobe, though.

Where this album, and most of its follow-ups, really succeeds is in making you understand just how much the both of them dig doing it. Forget the rock god image — this is what Blackmore has really been waiting for all his life: a fair lady companion to allow him to drown his ego in a world of dark shadows, green meadows, magic spells, crystal balls, greensleeves, and mandolins. De­spite the technically unimpressive arrangements, it is clear that they spent a shitload of time working out all the little twists on these songs. ʽMagical Worldʼ, in the middle of the record, is their personal statement of purpose: "...In our hearts / We share the same dream / Feelings so strong / We just must carry on / On to our magical world". Trivial, but true: the dedication with which they approach the construction of this «magical world» is worth admiration.

Most of the songs are Blackmore originals (with occasional lyrics from Candice), with two ex­ceptions: ʽOcean Gypsyʼ is a cover of an old Renaissance tune (a predictable choice), while the closing ʽWish You Were Hereʼ is a cover of... no, not Pink Floyd and certainly not Badfinger, but a 1995 single by the Swedish band Rednex, whose members were neither rednecks nor neo-medievalists, but somehow this lonesome ballad got stuck with Blackmore's Night anyway. But on the whole, listing individual highlights is a pointless endeavour — the «originals», employing mostly traditional folk phrasing, smoothly roll on without much stylistic change or musical de­velopment. You'd have to be a serious fan of baroque music to spot the differences — and then, if you were a serious fan of baroque music, you'd probably have no reason whatsoever to entertain yourself with an album like this, when you could be listening to Lully or Telemann instead.

None other than Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson in person makes a welcome guest appearance on ʽPlay Minstrel Playʼ, cheering up the stage with some rousing flute solos; and none other than Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in person has a cameo on ʽWriting On The Wallʼ, the corniest number on the entire record — for some reason, not only did they have the strange idea to begin it with a synthesizer quotation from Swan Lake, but they also decided to deck the rest of the ballad with a speedy disco arrangement, about as appropriate in the context of the album as a skyscraper in the middle of a Papuan village. Maybe at the last moment somebody had the bright idea that it would be wrong for the artists to stay completely out of touch with modern reality, so they threw on «one for the nightclubs» at the last moment. Not good for the vibe, and the vibe is pretty much the only reason one could care about the record in the first place.

Additionally, the album is just too damn long — over an hour, with most of the songs sharing the same magical-mystical mood; as happy as they must have been making it, it is not certain that the average listener would necessarily subscribe to this «let the magic never stop!» ideology. Trim­ming the record at the expense of some of its «samey» numbers might have made me pay more attention to its individual components — as it is, I'm forced to treat it as yer average fairywood mushroom muzak. I totally get this escapist vibe, and I like how it is presented with reserve and humility, but recommending this album for somebody who is not fascinated with the spirit of Ritchie Blackmore would be an impossibility. I guess Candice Night could be called «kinda hot» in recompense, but when it comes to witchy women and gypsies, I guess I'm more of a sucker for Stevie Nicks in the end. Candice just looks way too healthy for my tastes.