Budgie - Never Turn Your Back On A Friend (1973)

Tony Bourge. Perhaps better known as the other Tony. While Tony Iommi from Sabbath was churning away some of the most tasty riffs of his era, Tony Bourge was quietly displaying his own sense of awesomeness. Of course, who knew? Within music circles -- which is to say, among respected musicians and fervent fans -- Budgie was just as vital to the influence of the burgeoning metal movement as Sabbath was. Most notably, Metallica and Soundgarden recorded cover versions of Budgie's songs. It's a shame, really, that these guys never made it.

Whatever. Do your part and listen to them. This matters much more than the stupid charts or how many albums they've sold or the fact that they probably won't ever be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum™. Fuck them. Fuck Cleveland. Fuck Clive Davis, LLC. Budgie embodies more of rock and roll than the combined efforts of Bob Seger or Grandmaster Flash or Bonnie Raitt. (That pairing of musicians was purposeful, by the way.) Since when did it become so important to institutionalize music anyway? Just ask Johnny Rotten what he thinks about that. Moving on...

Never Turn Your Back On A Friend is Budgie's finest album. Clocking in with just seven (but moderately long) songs, it begins with their most memorable tune "Breadfan" -- a nasty guitar riff if you've ever heard one.

If you like the blues standard "Baby Please Don't Go," you'll love the (ahem) slightly faster version here; it's not exactly samey like other versions and features vintage Burke Shelley thumping bass. (Think Geddy Lee before Geddy Lee existed.) "Riding My Nightmare" continues their tradition of having a great acoustic song amidst the rest of the thunder. "You're The Biggest Thing Since Powdered Milk" is a great title. So is "In The Grip Of A Tyrefitter's Hand." Oh, and they're great songs too, especially the former, which gradually builds from a warped psychedelic drum sequence to a heavy-laden bass funk and shifts to a rocking jam with some nice Bourge riffage.

Oh so tasty. I love this album. Stop relying on the stale recycled word-of-mouth from your friends, stupid best-of lists, Rolling Stone© magazine, FM radio anywhere, and especially, don't validate that artificial monument by adhering strictly to its tastes. Long live Budgie. Long live rock. A-

Van Halen - OU812 (1988)

There's a lot of Van Halen going around; it's the end of summer and the last hurrahs with beer, barbecues and FM radio are everywhere. It's nice to hear the nastiness of "I'm The One" while at a stoplight or from your neighbor's backyard. Now, I'm not in a very good mood, and I love Van Halen (minus Hagar) without impunity, so I'm basically going to take the time to trash the most terrible album that Eddie has ever thought to commit a guitar track to -- OU812 -- the most un-Van Halen of all Van Halen records. This album is a waste of everything great about these guys. Listen to "The Full Bug" from Diver Down

and then to "Feels So Good" from this messy morass and you'll think you've got two different bands from two different eras.

The good? Well, "Finish What Ya Started," I must admit, is a pretty good song, but only because it's not annoying. Shame on Hagar for thinking we like such cantankerous caterwauling and especially, shame on Eddie and co. for thinking they needed Roth to be a successful band. Besides the insistent irritation offered by Hagar, the rest of the band seems lifeless as if they were ELP putting out Love Beach to fulfill contractual obligations. Speaking of ELP, I hate synths as filler or background or as some kind of supplemental accompaniment. But Keith Emerson rules. And Rick Wakeman rules -- because they transcended the potentially banal use of their instruments, like Max Roach did with percussion (rest in peace, man). This musical diarrhea doesn't deserve the keys it tries to embellish and should be promptly flushed into the cesspool with the other blasé buckets of musical filth produced from the 80s. Oh, and for the record, 5150 sucked, too, just not as much, but that's for later. This album merely built upon the exacting shittiness they were developing then. An F seems too nice.

The Police - Giants Stadium - August 5, 2007

What's to say? Greatest. Show. Ever. For being apart for 22 years, this show didn't exactly have rust; it was just absolutely impeccable. At approximately 1 hour, 45 minutes, it was a bit short generally, but it was such a taut, tight set devoid of small talk that I will forgive them. Oh, and for the record, many may not consider Andy Summers the greatest guitarist ever, but he is without a smidgen of a doubt the greatest 64-year old guitarist in the world. He was shredding without conscience, plugging beautiful riffs and solos in every place he could fit them. Whereas the Andy of studio fame was known more for his splendid musical textures than he was for his individual showmanship and dynamism, the current Andy now indulges in both halves -- and I won't complain, especially when he jumped around stage like he was twenty again. Apparently, Andy was so much out of sorts during the concert that Sting felt it necessary to peek over his shoulders several times as if to say "Are you done showing off yet?" Words, though, really can't describe how amazing it all really was. In the event that I can't procure tickets for their MSG show on Halloween, I will ultimately have to savor this forever. Thanks guys, for getting back together, even if only for this once. A+

Setlist:

Message In A Bottle
Synchronicity II
Walking On The Moon
Voices Inside My Head
When The World Is Running Down, You Make The Best Of What's Still Around
Don't Stand So Close To Me
Driven To Tears
Truth Hits Everybody
The Bed's Too Big Without You
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
Wrapped Around Your Finger
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
Invisible Sun
Walking In Your Footsteps
Can't Stand Losing You/Reggatta De Blanc Medley
Roxanne

Encore I:
King Of Pain
So Lonely
Every Breath You Take

Encore II:
Next To You

The Police - Ghost In The Machine (1981)

In honor of my going to see these guys on Sunday at the Meadowlands, I've decided to review one of their discs. Choosing, again, was difficult, so I've decided to go with one of their more contentious albums, the one where the band began to disintegrate and not jive as well musically. During this time, Sting supposedly was more in favor of coke than he was in his band-mates, and poor Andy was feeling a bit flustered from the sudden emergence of saxophones and synthesizers, which predominately fill the record. This is not to say that the record is awful because of this -- far from it -- the musicianship is solid; it's the tunes that don't quite feel right -- perhaps I would like to say 'too poppy.' See, The Police are an interesting band insofar as they play more or less pop tunes with a ridiculous set of chops; they kind of straddle the line, but no one would ever accuse them of being poseurs, nor would anyone classify them as art rock or prog rock. This album, I think, crosses that line.

The album opens with "Spirits In The Material World," a strong song featuring the first manifestation of keyboard-driven melodies and Sting's lyrical pop sensibilities. Next, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" is a little more mid-tempo and has more piano and synth, and -- where the hell is Andy? This is what I thought at this point. I mean, when you have a power trio format, you want to hear each member, right, especially when each member is fantastic? All of those synth lines are distracting me from hearing the guitar notes (if there are any)! Andy is noticeably relegated to bit-player for most of this album, and Stew's frenetic energy seems subdued overall as well. "Invisible Sun" is the absolute highlight here, I think; definitely one of my faves. "Rehumanize Yourself" sounds like it got left off Outlandos; it's a nice little Police thrasher; if that's allowed. "Ωmegaman" and "Demolition Man" are good tunes as well, whereas "One World" and "Darkness" are pretty awful. Really, though, for all my little critiques, the album is still very good, but it's still one of their weaker albums. Essential? Oh yeah. What you're looking for? If you like the dreck that embodies the 80s, some of that horrible contemporary sound seeps in here, so a yes for you. For me, it's just a B+.

Black Sabbath - Vol. 4 (1972)

I'm choosing to comment on Vol. 4 for the following reason: back when I was of a lesser musical pedigree, Master Cianan and I used to frequently mull over our favorite Sabbath tunes. Every time, he would mention "Supernaut" with its spectacular opening riff and asked me if I had it. No, I always replied, consequently disappointing him, and leading me to inquire from what album this legendary song came. This ritual continued unchanged every time, and neither could he ever remember the name of the album, nor could I feign attempts to having tried to find it. This is strangely fitting, considering that Vol. 4 seems to be the black sheep among their first five albums, perhaps for its lack of 'popular' tracks, but certainly not for its lack of menace or musical maturity. Even the album title is short of frills, denoting little that is particularly memorable. Hell, Supernaut would have been a great album title; if I had a child, I might name them Supernaut. I'm serious -- just not the part about having children.

So ado without much further of it, let's commence: "Supernaut" is not the only reason you should buy this album, but yet, it really is the reason you should buy it. The main riff is otherworldly, a testament to Iommi's terrific knack for sublime riffage. SUPER FUCKING TASTY is another way of putting it.

Otherwise, the album features vintage heavy tracks: "Snowblind," the album's original title that was changed due to the cocaine allusions; "Cornucopia" and "St. Vitus' Dance" are some wicked numbers indeed; and most importantly, for contrast, "Changes" is a purely piano-driven ditty with my favorite-instrument-which-is-not-the-guitar, the Mellotron, as well as "Laguna Sunrise" being a nicely sequenced track with overlaying acoustic guitars. Overall, though, the album is frenetic, heavy and downright scrumptious. One problem: "FX" is stupid. Supposedly, the sounds are achieved through an echo effect made by Iommi's crucifix banging up against his guitar. How novel, but it's a silly addition to an otherwise flawless album. Still, I won't hold it against the lads. A

U2 - The Joshua Tree (1987)

This is sacrilege, I know, but I don't understand why this album receives as much praise as it does. I chock this up to our singles culture wherein people only remember the name of an album because of how many singles it produces. In this case, "Where The Streets Have No Name," "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," "Without Or Without You," In God's Country" and "One Tree Hill" where more or less the releases in the US, UK and abroad. The first three singles are purely indicative of why U2 are truly great tunesmiths; the rest is truly unremarkable filler. Interestingly enough, these same three singles open the album; therefore, after "Bullet The Blue Sky," the fourth track, the album significantly plummets into oblivion. That was too abstract. It basically takes a sloppy wet shit. "In God's Country" tries to stop the bleeding, but let's face it, this album signifies the incontrovertible fact that U2 were too lazy to arrange the songs better, knowing quite well that the enormity and brand of their name alone would guarantee that people would listen to this album no matter how the songs were arranged. Then again, sorting five songs among eleven wouldn't make that much of a difference. It's a shame, really, because The Edge has some tasty riffs. C+

Fantômas - Delìrium Còrdia (2004)

The only reason I still own this album is because Fantômas is an otherwise fantastic band. Not having it amidst their other worthwhile efforts is simply illogical. That said, it still sucks. Let me explain. I love Mr. Bungle, Faith No More, Tomahawk, etc. I love Mike Patton. MIKE PATTON IS GOD. Just kidding. But he can still sing, scat, screech, or rap with the rest of them; hell, when he does that rapturous polyphonic overlay of banshee-like widows with just a mic on Adult Themes For Voice, the man regularly averts the impossible and tells it to go fuck itself. Everything he touches turns to wackadoo. Lovely tottering brain-spewing wackadoo. This album, though, is either so beyond my mental faculties of apprehension and appreciation or it's just a terrible amalgamation of sound made manifest in pure concocted drivel and noise. The only positive thing I can say of this mess is that it's carefully concocted drivel and noise -- like an artist who chooses to paint his magnum opus on loose-leaf with crayons. The timbre of a dreary piano, muffled chanting, occasional aimless riffage and the most anti-climactic final eighteen minutes of nothing but old-school record crackling and silence. This is straight out of Brian Eno's head during a nightmare. Landscapes of wackadoo à la Patton. Oh, and Dave Lombardo generally rules, but he's entirely underused here. A meaningless A for effort; F for everything else.

Deep Purple - Made In Japan (1972)

This is the greatest live rock 'n' roll album ever by pound-for-pound one of the greatest musical lineups ever. Period. Funny thing is, Purple could have just aped these songs on stage and no one would have thought any less of them -- simply because these songs stand up for themselves as classic rock gems. Thankfully, every member was a virtuoso in their own right and brought so much intensity and bravado to these performances that, indeed, you truly wish you could have been there for such remarkable improvisation. Frampton Comes Alive! can kiss it.

The album opens with a frenetic high-octane version of "Highway Star" that otherwise invalidates the studio original. Here, organist Jon Lord butchers his keyboard with furious speed and power, and guitarist Ritchie Blackmore lays down a staggering set of notes while strangling his whammy bar.

The next track, the classical vignette "Child In Time," features Ian Gillan in his uppermost vocal register, an explosive four-minute fret-fest from Mr. Blackmore and then booms to conclusion with some tasty Roger Glover bass. Oh yeah, and Ian Paice rules too. (Drummers simply don't get the credit they deserve.) Next is "Smoke On The Water" -- yeah, the one with one of the great meat-and-bone guitar riffs of all time. Gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh, as Alex would say. "The Mule" has a nice long drum solo from Paice and then afterwards we are treated to an intense jam version of "Strange Kind Of Woman" that features Gillan imitating Blackmore's guitar sequences note for note. Pure awesomeness. "Lazy" is such a swaggering romp it makes no pretense of being otherwise and "Space Truckin'" is a near-twenty minute opus consisting of dueling organ and guitar solos; this is more or less one of the most satisfying finishes to an album ever, and your ears are sure to feel exhausted and battered afterwards. Of course, for some, this album does not end there because in the expanded 2-disc set, we are fortunate to be given three more glorious versions of "Speed King," "Lucille" and "Black Night" not included on the original release. I daresay anyone should have a problem with that. A+

Coldplay - X&Y (2005)

In 1978, in order to fulfill contractual obligations, Emerson, Lake and Palmer released Love Beach, a most heinous and disgusting example of musicianship. AC/DC's Fly On The Wall in 1985 didn't exactly inspire throngs of supporters, either. Even the mighty Sabbath released the less-than-mediocre Never Say Die! in 1978 as the swan song of Mr. Osbourne. Yet, time has since forgiven these indiscretions, these blasé and lax attempts by otherwise fantastic musicians. Some if this has to do with lowered expectations: ELP was some years off its Brain Salad Surgery glory days; Sabbath had already began to show a slight decline in quality; and AC/DC had already released its post-Back In Black letdown several years earlier.

With that, let me now begin with Coldplay's 2005 dirty bomb X&Y, our newly crowned perennial stinker. If Coldplay were a prostitute, this album is perhaps the equivalent of their having come back to gobble up the sloppy seconds. Factor in the fact that A Rush Of Blood To The Head was easily the equivalent of them breaking their proverbial hymen, and such antics make this all the more messier and bloodier an album. First off, what's there to review, since this album sounds oddly the same, no matter what track you're listening to? This is perfectly squandered drool, better left on your pillow than in your ear, which is precisely where Mr. Martin puts it. A wonder a man with so much passion for global politics and free trade could actually write something so insipid and crass and manage to still sell it -- which is, of course, what separates this album from the aforementioned others: its remarkable thrust into the limelight as the album of the ages and subsequent stepping stone for Coldplay to become the next U2. Ahem. Bono has great vocal range and chops; Chris Martin, at best, is able to project a nasally tinny of a falsetto, a more or less cheap imitation of his hero Thom Yorke. If Coldplay is now considered big, it's the big in the sense of a vacuum, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Millions of sold records does not a great album make; and this album is arguably one of the worst albums ever made, marketed and sold. Unfortunately for us, we'll probably never forget about it. A big fat F encrusted in platinum.

Queens Of The Stone Age - Era Vulgaris (2007)

Musically, 2007 has been fairly uninspiring, and it's nearly July. This should be cause for general melancholia and lament, but 2006 was like this as well, as was 2005 and so there can be no true sense of loss unless you've essentially lost something you cherish first, right? It's evident when Paul McCartney is still able to sell records that people are a bit starved for something, anything -- even the grossly recycled. Indeed, it's quite difficult nowadays to sift through all these products and find something you like without resorting to the familiar; they simply don't make bands like they used to. If not for The Police getting back together -- oh glory for everything that is right in this world -- and an expected release from Radiohead, I expect this year to be an otherwise abysmal wash. Anything that may prove me wrong is quite welcome.

Well, thank you, Queens Of The Stone Age, for being the first in line. I was initially skeptical due to my reception of Lullabies To Paralyze in 2005, and still insist that album simply stops trying a little more than halfway through, despite its brilliant first half. I was even more worried when this album's lifeless opener, "Turnin' On The Screw", which couldn't find a screwdriver, let alone the screw. Yet, this proved to be indicative of nothing, because Era Vulgaris is quite the prodigious album, with only one other dud undeserving of doffing ("I'm Designer"). The interesting thing is not so much that it merely raises the amplitude from their last effort, but that it does so in a myriad of ways, carving its irreverent sexual intensity with astonishing menace. "Battery Acid" sounds like the mechanical pounding of robot paranoia; "Into The Hollow" is an elegant psychedelic groove; "Sick, Sick, Sick" is just sick, as it name suggests, with wailing flourishes and delirious riffage;

and "Misfit Love" flails in manic swarming drones. But don't let Homme's low-key guitar ministrations and bass amps fool you; softer numbers like "Make It Wit Chu" and "Suture Up Your Future" still evoke similar feelings of rawness with exacting precision. Other beauties: "River In The Road," "Run Pig Run" and especially "3's & 7's." In short, these guys remind us not only that rock still lives, but why it's so damn good. Rinse, wash, repeat. Rinse, wash, repeat. B+

Frank Sinatra - It Might As Well Be Swing (1964)

A few admonitions: I don't review collections or compilations; Sinatra simply has too many releases (even without compilations) to account for; I am less knowledgeable of voice than I am music, so expect less depth in my musings; and lastly, Sinatra has more or less a perfect voice, thereby leaving his work not so much to be critiqued from a vocal perspective, but from that of song selection and musical accompaniment. With that, let me begin by saying that Count Basie is a fine choice for musical accompaniment, keeping a light swagger throughout the selections, be they mid-tempo swing numbers ("Wives And Lovers"; "I Wish You Love") to more lively romps ("I Believe In You"; "Hello, Dolly!"). Frank is in form himself, to the surprise of none, belting out his styled phrasings without so much a strain. He even improvises a different verse for 'ol Satchmo in "Hello, Dolly!" My choice cuts are "Fly Me To The Moon (In Other Words)" and "The Best Is Yet To Come," but I believe Frank's overall playful exuberance and enjoyment enhances the remaining performances. This is not to say, though, that there isn't a feeling of sameness. "I Can't Stop Loving You," "I Wanna Be Around" and "The Good Life" are throwaways for me, and possibly why this album isn't absolutely jaw-dropping. Overalll, it's a good listen, but not entirely great. B-