Alice In Chains - Black Gives Way To Blue (2009)

Quite a bit can happen in fourteen years. I graduated high school, went to college, joined the army, went to war, got a good job with more pay and I'm okay. For the surviving members of Alice In Chains, they had to endure the deterioration of their good friend and lead singer Layne Staley to heroin addiction. Any music they may have made was effectively squashed with his death in 2002. So with the release of their new album, Black Gives Way To Blue, their last since 1995, people from all across the interwebs have been prattling about how dare they do such a thing, or how the album is or isn't solid, or how they are trying to replace Staley, or how they no longer sound like themselves anymore and blah blah blah. I could give a fupenny tuck what your rationale is, but he wasn't my friend and I didn't have to cope with his loss, so if they want to make music, so be it. That said:

It's a good album. It does sound like AIC. It has their typical assemblage of minor keys, crunching guitars, interspersed melodies and vocal harmonizing between new vocalist William DuVall and resident guitar hero Jerry Cantrell. It does not seek to replace Staley; it only eulogizes him lyrically. The title track features Elton John on piano and is a beautiful farewell. There's just tons of tastiness otherwise: "A Looking In View," "All Secrets Known," "Check My Brain" -- all heavy, all good. "Your Decision" and "When The Sun Rose Again" is reminiscent of the softer, more melodic stuff from their heyday as well. So you fucking naysayers can STFU already, go play Guitar Hero and listen to Godsmack. B

The Pogues - Red Roses For Me (1984)

With anything Irish, there's always an element of "what the fuck?" wherever we happen to show our pasty freckled faces, so it should be of surprise to no one that the Pogues are invariably multifaceted in this respect. I mean, really, myself and Master Cianan are ample enough of a problem to the world, jettisoning our delectable snark or poo onto unsuspecting citizens like drunken clowns; can you imagine an army of like replicates? Madness... Joking aside, because I've gone completely off subject, the Pogues meld traditional Irish folk melodies and harmonies with a potent musical ferocity akin to the punk of the Sex Pistols, courtesy of resident lyricist/vocalist Shane MacGowan. That's right: this is Irish folk music that will grab you by the throat and crush it. Don't believe me? Imagine a perfectly symmetrical box. Then listen to "Waxie's Dargle." Is the box still there, or has it turn into a collapsed squiggle of lines? I admit for some the thick slurring of seeming vocables may be a bit much at first, but who would you rather recite you lyrical poetry: a drooling drunken Dionysus or a sober stoic Antisthenes? MacGowan's no whiskey tenor, and his occasional gruffness might repel some, but that's the price you pay for singing it honest. Other faves: "Transmetropolitan," "Streams Of Whiskey," "Greenland Whale Fisheries," etc. Oh, "Battle Of Brisbane, too. You can only fault yourself for not listening to this hereafter. B

Blue Öyster Cult - Secret Treaties (1974)

Let's get some things out of the way first; some of this will be generally repetitive, but I feel the need to reassert myself. 1) I love Buck Dharma. Even in songs that I tepidly wave my meh scepter at, I totally dig his guitar-work. 2) BOC lyrics are fucking stupid. Like Pete Sinfield or Bernie Taupin, Sandy Pearlman is a poet (cough, cough) and poets love to relish; therefore 3) poor Eric Bloom, who was tasked with singing this poetry; it's in his sincerity that I find him annoying.

That said, let's begin. I've set the bar mighty low, haven't I? Fortunately, this is probably BOC's most cohesive album. When I say there aren't any bad songs, it's because there really aren't any. Despite stupid titles like "Career Of Evil," Subhuman" and "Dominance And Submission," the album is pretty solid. Sure, the harmonies and textures are still a bit odd, but that's BOC. What should really get you ramped up, though, is the album's final three tracks. The tasty opening riffage of "Harvester Of Eyes," the manic flailing (and abrupt ending) of "Flaming Telepaths" and the grandiloquence of "Astronomy" are the main reasons I come back for refills, but there's so much more to them than that. I wish they were streamlined into one long epic song, really, but I suppose sometimes it's more feasible to eat a slice rather than a whole pie. Oh well. I know people know their hits, but hits sometimes are just shining beacons on otherwise incredibly dross albums. With this one, you won't skip a track. Just taste the tastiness already, because Buck Dharma's gonna git you wit it. B

The Stooges - Fun House (1970)

This album is raw. This album is primal. Like a catfish stripped of its whiskers and thrashing violently. Like a mad hatter dying of mercury poisoning and careening sideways from exhaustion. This is the steely without the dan and the grit without the grist -- a veritable low-fi fuzzbox of sounds and sinister sweets. "Down On The Street," the opening track, begins with a filthy guitar riff played by Mr. Ron Asheton, who is a certified fucking monster. It is said that imitation is nothing more than flattery and that it never supersedes an original. Often cited as proto-punk, if punk owes Asheton anything, it's an apology, because it never sounds as good as he does here. My favorite track is the excellent "T.V. Eye" where Asheton rips along to a nasty riff whilst the bass punches along and Iggy sneers. The erratic interweaving guitar solo is priceless as well. "1970" has some tasty sax, very much in the vein of Ornette Coleman, who I've dug into recently. Did I mention that the guitarist is completely awesome? Ok, just making sure; it's hard to type with tea in one hand and my brain in the other. "L.A. Blues," the last song, is complete random bursts of something or the other that somehow sounds coherent -- which I believe is a result of preconditioning from the album's previous six dizzying tracks (minus "Dirt" -- I care little for that one.) It's a shame that they wouldn't go on to bigger and better things after this, but it is what it is. Enjoy. B

Pink Floyd - Ummagumma (1969)

If Atom Heart Mother is a bunch of psychedelic waffling, Ummagumma is undoubtedly its mother. Fortunately for us, the first disc of live material that reflects such sentiment does not continue to the second disc, where the real meat and matters are. Besides a great live version of "Astronomy Domine," the rest of disc one is just pure Grade A distilled psychobabble. Dreck. Drivel. Dross. DRUGS. Disc two is immensely better. There we are treated to three separate suites, a walk through some Grantchester meadows and the unorthodox frontispiece that happens to be in the middle, "Several Species Of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together In A Cave And Grooving With A Pict," which, etymologically speaking, might have something to do with Ummagumma -- not that I would know, though. It's a fucking highlight, that's for sure, in ways that are impossible to describe. "The Narrow Way" suite is possibly the closest thing people who generally like Floyd will latch onto and like, besides "Grantchester Meadows", simply for its resemblance to their later musical output. This is not to say it's homogenized and contrived -- because later Floyd is good, but comparably to the rest of the album's quirkiness, it's quite tame. The "Sysphus" suite is quite erratic in a good way, but completely train-wrecks in the fourth part. Strange, too, how Sysphus plays into this whole Ummagumma theme. Hmmm, think they're trying to say something to us? The second part of the "The Grand Vizier" suite precedes "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast" -- it sucks. Sure, parts one and three are good, but they span a combined 1:41. Otherwise, I suggest a few good listens, but this is more or less a kind of necessary bridge in their development from Piper to Meddle. B

Pink Floyd - Piper At The Gates Of Dawn (1967)

Pure madness. How did such an album come to be? Drugs? Most definitely. Zeitgeist? Okay, sure. Syd Barrett? Check. Aurally intoxicating, at times embarrassingly weird, Piper is Floyd's proverbial fist in the face of all music hitherto heretofore. Is it absolutely brilliant? Sometimes. Does it seem positively wretched? Oh yes. But unlike my necessary condemnation of Trout Mask Replica, Piper is far more rewarding in its awkward abundance. "Astronomy Domine?" Delicious. "Lucifer Sam?" Pernicious. "The Gnome?" Who the fuck writes songs about gnomes? The revolting barrage of random cacophony in "Bike?" Genius. And stupid. At the same time. Never has an album (despite my lack of existence in 1967) seemed so perversely fresh. Best ever? Hardly. Important? If I am to conjure up Master Cianan for a moment and his sincere loathing of labeling any album "important," I would say, as I always do, in retort, "Yes! It's important to me!" Just maybe not to you. Rub some oil on your bald soprano. This is the Mad Hatter, over and out. B

Donny Hathaway - Donny Hathway (1971)

This little long player consists of Donny's expansion from his eclectic compositions on Everything Is Everything to then-current musical styles -- which is to say, all of these songs (except one) are covers. Normally, this is a poor decision -- think Bowie's Pin-Ups -- but Donny does to the originals what most do with Dylan songs: make them supremely better. I find Leon Russell's "A Song For You" to be particularly grating, but Donny's version feels like it's his song, and many oblivious to Mr. Russell probably thought it was his to begin with, so who's to argue? It's one of Donny's greatest songs and showcases his seemingly effortless ability to weave his voice around any lyric, mood or musical set-piece. In fact, besides the perfection that is Sinatra, Donny is probably one of the most treasured voices I've ever heard. It's a shame he snuffed it, and even a greater shame that he's being given the Thelonious Monk treatment as a misguided eccentric. "Giving Up" opens the album, and establishes fairly quickly that the cheerful optimism expressed on his first record was not to be repeated here; and despite my own depraved religious sensibilities, the gospel-like numbers -- especially "Put Your Hand In The Hand" -- are thoroughly rousing, even if they are steeped in a subtext of hopeless longing. Covers aside, the vocal renditions may not be as brilliant as on Everything Is Everything or the music as complex as on Extension Of A Man, but the album still bears the mark of Donny, through and through, and deserves consideration just for that. B

Joseph - Stoned Age Man

Well, I usually burst into elated paroxysms for my darling audience to go out and listen to any albums I dig. Ho-hum, good luck with this one. You'll probably have your chance to pay Jesus back that fifty cents you owe him before you ever find this. I think I found the album years ago as a rare resell on Amazon. This guy doesn't even have a wikipedia page (sniff, sniff). Anyway, from what I myself have gathered, Joseph was an up-and-coming guitarist with some tasty bluesy psychedelia chops who got someone's attention back in the 70s. He cut an album, and then vanished into thin air forever. Seriously, despite having been given better accolades over the years, no one knows what happened to him. Obviously, the album did not do well at the time, but is he dead? Did he pull a J.D. Salinger? There is even dispute as to whether his name is Joseph Long or Longoria or Longeria. Certainly, the myth of this all is kind of silly to ponder, but the music itself is worth a listen. Personally, I think the world wouldn't be as pleasant without "Gotta Get Away" and "Stone Age Man," but you can be the judge -- if you can find it. Maybe I'll burn some copies for any interested parties. No, wait; I won't. I found myself under the large and oppressive boot of the military for years; I don't want the RIAA after me. Overall, the album features a nice amalgam of psychedelic blues and Joseph's husky vocal gruffings. I wouldn't kill myself to find it, but as I'm wont to mention, a D-list band from the 70s is oodles and oodles better than any snot being picked today. B

Faith No More - Angel Dust (1992)

Riding on the enormous success of "Epic," replete with its closing piano and flopping fish, Faith No More decided to pillage Mr. Bungle's exorbitant little closet via Mike Patton as a conduit. Ergo, the smattering of heavy-riffed funkadelic rap fusion is at its arguable best here in Angel Dust, their fourth album, and second with Vice Chancellor Patton. The album opens with "Land Of Sunshine," a freakish carnival ride of a song with filthy bass and guitar lines and an array of Patton's progressive vocal croonings. "Crack Hitler" has a plunky funk rhythm with a scratchy turntable wah tone, some exemplary synth, and is just utterly fantastic. "Midlife Crisis," perhaps as well-known as "Epic," is an incredibly insidious number, featuring the best of Pattton's vocal theatrics and a medley of infectious beats. Hell, even a rendition of the theme for "Midnight Cowboy" is surprisingly rousing. "Caffeine," "Smaller And Smaller" and especially "Jizzlobber" are particularly heavy as well. "Be Aggressive" has some startling lyrical content in between the thumping notes ("You're the master and I'll take it on my knees" and "I swallow," among other lines) and is almost as odd a selection as is the musical content spanning the album -- which is of course why "Big" Jim Martin left afterwards. Despite his enormous guitar presence and prodigious talents, the vocal influence and direction by Patton served him his eventual walking papers. A shame, really, because Faith No More never quite recovered with subsequent sub-par albums. Get 'em while they're hot. A tautly conceived B.

Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie - Bird And Diz (1950)

After a week of hell, I've returned to invoke (or attempt) my bombastic blather in the disguise of a review with Bird And Diz. Hopefully, my appreciation for jazz won't supersede my musical knowledge of it, but ah well. This collection of songs features a fairly estimable lineup of Charlie Parker on sax, Dizzy Gillespie on trumpet, Thelonious Monk on piano, Buddy Rich on drums and Curly Russell on bass. This is not the Monk everyone knows and loves, though; his playing is rather subdued and uneventful, as is the drumming and bass. Meanwhile, back in the bat cave, Bird and Diz seem to be strangling each other for the whole of the record (possibly the reason for Thelonious' relegation to the background) with mid-tempo caustic soloing and wild melodies in a constant battle for your attention. Occasionally, they do converge ("Mohawk"), but mostly numbers such as the frenetic "Leap Frog" or equally tense "Bloomdido" share an affinity for the joys of musical flight. "An Oscar For Treadwell" is quite nice, too -- in point of fact, of the six songs here, clocking in at a brief 20 minutos, there isn't a bad bit of music at all, but since I'm obviously a rock guy, that doesn't translate as well in terms of my grading pedagogy, either. All in all, you'll dig the piss out of it. Oh, and ho-hum, I'd give Bird the nod in terms of a victor. B

Machine Head - Burn My Eyes (1994)

Machine Head is such a great metal band that I've decided to review them for the first time. Okay, that was a deliberate lie -- a bit of dabbling with Nabokovian invention and self-serving harlequin vanity. Machine Head is a great band, for sure, but I didn't just decide to review them; I've actually already reviewed them here. Despite having a few thousand albums left in the pitch to strike with my pompous pen, I just noticed nigh several minutes ago the phrase "Real Eyes, Realize, Real Lies" on a website and figured that a review of Burn My Eyes was absolutely necessary.

"Real Eyes, Realize, Real Lies" is more or less an instrumental song that features a cornucopia of various news audio samples concerning the L.A. riots. Robb sings the title at some point within the song as well. Mostly, the song is a nice short segue into the album's final track, "Block," a brutal little closer. The album's opener, though, is where Machine Head really started it all. "Davidian" not only sets the pace for the album, but also cements their status as true metal heroes. An uncompromising and anthemic riff monster, Robb tells us to "let freedom ring with a shotgun blast" but kills us instead with the guitars -- which is totally fine by me.

"Old" and "Blood For Blood" are equally wicked as well with their revamped thrash tendencies. Overall, a solid and well-deserved debut by a band who would greatly reward us with an even more sophisticated metal album for the ages. And that concert is still ringing in my ears, in a tinnitus kind of way; but it was great. B

Joe Strummer And The Mescaleros - Streetcore (2003)

Although I just reviewed The Clash, I feel this inordinate sense of duty to highlight the late great Joe Strummer on account of the recently released film about him, Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten, which I won't be able to see (limited release) because of Hollywood's corporate stranglehold on the American dollar; if Joe were here, he'd offer up viewings everywhere out of his own pockets. Anyhow, for those not in the know, Joe did not disappear completely after The Clash, although he did have a dark period for many years. Formed in 1999, Joe And The Mescaleros released three solid albums: Rock Art And The X-Ray Style , Global A Go-Go and Streetcore (which was released following his death and reportedly features mostly first takes for the vocals). The first two albums are quite diverse in a worldly sense and feature folk rhythms, multi-cultural musical styles (African, Irish, etc.) and reggae dubs.

Streetcore, though, is what I would call a return to the Clash sound -- not entirely, but it's quite prominent. In fact, I think Streetcore is a better album than the sloppy but popular Combat Rock and the sprawling 36-song muddled monstrosity that is Sandinista. Disagree with me; go for it, but not until you listen to it because I know you probably haven't. "Coma Girl," the first track, sounds like a long lost Clash song with its familiar punky riff, but before it can even sink in, "Get Down Moses" -- a swaggering reggae romp -- gives you this swelling feeling inside you, as if you know that what you're hearing is indeed something very special.

"Redemption Song" is an acoustic cover of the Bob Marley song and is definitely, like Marley's ruminations on his own mortality at its writing, a plaintive rendition for Joe's imminent passing. "Burnin' Streets" is probably, I would say, the best song on the album, although I'm at a loss for words on how to describe it other than it's a touch sad when Joe sings about how "London is burning" -- except this time sans the menace or growl like he would in the Clash's hey-day. Still, by the time you're done listening, you may have -- as I had -- a feeling of lingering excitement -- an unconscious precursor of the next Joe Strummer release. And then you remember the congenital heart defect. And then all you can ever do is just listen again. Rest in peace, Joe. B

The Mars Volta - De-Loused In The Comatorium (2003)

The Mars Volta: currently wearing the helm of Prog Band Extraordinaire. Well, not quite. As those who know me in life have heard me gripe, the Mars Volta think they are better than they actually are, and have the pretensions of grandiosity of a great prog band, but sound more like they try to advertise themselves as a prog band rather than just be one. As first evidenced here, their freshman effort, De-Loused In The Comatorium, is a fable in artificiality.

The album begins strongly enough with "Son Et Lumiere" -- a nice opener if any into what is arguably the album's finest track, "Inertiatic ESP," a wicked number with shifting time signatures, dissonant guitar phrasings and all kinds of other things goin' on, man. Unfortunately, it ends with what I call "drugscapes" -- music otherwise horrible to even the most progressive of music listeners but that only drug addicts can appreciate (or the band members themselves). Drugscapes contain nothing of intrinsic musical value and are nothing more than flavoring particles in a sentence; like the German doch, they add nothing but pretense and pomp. (More on this later.) "Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of)" is a good song, but I worry sometimes that Cedric's wailings resemble modern-day emo angst; and this perplexes me, mostly for the need for reliance on such childish expressionist emotion. "Drunkship Of Lanterns" is yet another centerpiece of quality on the album and I always dig this one.

Otherwise, let me return to the most horrendous use of drugscapes during the most pivotal track on the album, "Cicatriz ESP." All the makings of a great epic song exist, but the band apparently prefers the proverbial l'art pour l'art sentiment here, as it inserts a meaningless and seemingly endless four-or-so-minute drugscape that utterly annihilates the glorious momentum the song had held hitherto -- which is precisely the difference between good prog and bad prog: no meaningless dawdling. In the very least, a poseur prog band must realize that its much more intelligent listeners can recognize the difference between weak jams and random space effects as meaningless dawdling. Alas. "Eriatarka," "Televators" and "Tira Me A Las Arenas" are weak. Unfortunately, these fellows greatly improve upon their strengths for their next album, Frances The Mute, but stupidly ignore their weaknesses. For now, though, let's stick with one subject. B