Talking Heads - Little Creatures (1985)

For being a band frequently described as inaccessible, this record surely has some nice stuff on it. No, I'm not a fan, and I don't concentrate nearly as hard as I do when listening to some of my other recurring faves, but this album is worth a listen every now and again. "And She Was" is a delicious little number that almost leads you into thinking it will remain the awful dreck that tainted nearly everything imaginable during the most egregious musical decade known to man or animal-- fuck you Depeche Mode; you give me daily nightmares -- but it doesn't. "Give Me Back My Name" is pretty creepy. I don't know if the Oxford lads from Radiohead listened to this and wrote "Climbing Up The Walls," but I'm still unsettled by both. "Creatures Of Love" is an alien twang song that somehow works. "I've seen sex and I think it's okay." Maybe it's the way David Byrne sings that ties it all together, I don't know. He's possibly the first lead vocalist who sounds like he's presiding over a demented circus that can somehow carry a tune. "Road To Nowhere" has what sounds like an accordion, I think. I like accordions; you should too. Eat your clam chowder. Ignore tracks 5-8 and enjoy otherwise. B-

Led Zeppelin - Houses Of The Holy (1973)

With the imminent arrival of Valentine's Day, I'd like to switch things up a bit -- after all, have we truly forgotten the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre? No, I haven't the time to massacre seven albums to equal the number of victims, but perhaps -- hear me out -- I can do to one what I would do to seven. Especially if the album is a sacred cow in need of an overdue slaughter whose reputation is supremely undeserving. No, I wasn't there, I didn't get the T-shirt and my zeitgeist card expired a long time ago with my lack of nostalgia. Sorry, I really don't know my victim.

So without further ado, let's venture into the Houses Of The Holy and do some deplorable sacrilege! (Brief caveat: Zep's first four albums are just short of amazing; there, that's my penance rock gods.) I really can't describe how much I loathe this album; it's a complete distillation of all the things that could have went wrong on their previous albums but somehow didn't. Yet, here they are on full display, every popped cyst, abscess and oozing sebaceous gland: egregious imitative blues/reggae/funk pilferings, pointless noodling and guitar wankery, tepid percussion and bass performances, and the seemingly endless caterwauling from the Diocese of this filthy sermon himself, Roberto De Planta of West Bromwich.

What's to say? "The Song Remains The Same" sounds like a bad Zeppelin rip-off; "The Rain Song" is a lot of time I'll never get back; "No Quarter" makes me wish I had one for the jukebox. "D'Yer Mak'er" is atrocious. As soon it starts, I want to pop a brick into Plant's mouth and make him stop. Then, I want Mssr. Page to stop. Then I want John to sober up. Then -- and where is JPJ's mad bass thumping? What can I say, oh my brothers and sisters? -- you know those hypotheticals where people say, oh so-and-so can put out a horrible album and anyone would buy it? This is that album. "The Crunge" is the most awful thing I've ever heard in my life.  "Dancing Days" is a precursor for Plant's later solo material. "The Ocean" is my favorite track to highlight, not because it sucks (though it does), but because I feel like this song exemplifies the excess and pompous nature the band had transformed into. Sure, it sounds like Zep, but a different, more bloated version. All the refinements blurred; all the intricacies swept away in favor of flawless production and the fact that they just didn't have it anymore. The only saving grace to this abortive monstrosity is "Over The Hills And Far Away" -- which I dig and dig so much, perhaps just because it's the only thing on the album I like. Sorry Zep-heads, my purplish tie-dye is comfortable, but I throw it into the wash when listening to this garbage. F

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

AC/DC - Back In Black (1980)

I'm listening to this album right now. The crunchy tones, the gritty vocals, the oomph that makes an Oompa Loompa bounce. I mean, is "Hells Bells" not one of the greatest openings to an album ever? Mourning aside, these guys said bon voyage to Bon Scott and hello to Mr. Johnson, and then some. Ok, I'm being crass now. Perhaps my reasoning arises from a sincere inability to express everything all the time, but I must say, if you don't own this album, you mustn't give a fupenny tuck for straight-up rock & roll. "Hells Bells," "Shoot To Thrill," "You Shook Me All Night Long" and "Back In Black" are all radio staples, but they're also ridiculously good, no matter how often you hear them. Yet, four great and amazing songs don't make a great and amazing album, although it is better than the bait-and-shit single tactics record companies use now to get you to recoup losses on egregious bands. Instead, with AC/DC, we are treated to all of the songs having been done extremely well. Nice! And have you given the dog a bone lately? He deserves one, assuredly. Definitely not noise pollution. Definitely not for the background. Listen and relish oh my brothers and sisters, and all that cal. A-

The Foo Fighters - Echoes, Silence, Patience And Grace (2007)

I haven't a slice of bloody cheesecake to offer as to this album's reception due to my year-long hermeticism and lack of contact with the free-wheeling public, but -- I don't think that matters anyway, because no one is going to convince me this album is any good. I think the Foo's had their finest moment in One By One, and then they began to parody themselves. Sure, little vignettes and sonic veerings do surface, but this is the same old schticky Foo. Dave Grohl needs to sub in on another Queens Of The Stone Age album or resurrect his nifty Probot project because he's an excellent drummer; otherwise, hang 'em up guys. The Hatter's milk is beginning to curdle and I'm considering switching to soy if you make me sit through another album. Truth be told, I only got this album for the appearance of Kaki King -- because anything she plays is SUPER FUCKING TASTY, and she doesn't disappoint here, either. Check out "The Ballad Of The Beaconsfield Miners" -- it's so nice, but so short. Ok, and I do like "Let It Die," and "The Pretender" is like an old friend who won't go away, even after you've sent death threats to his mother. Otherwise, enjoy the ick. D+

The Allman Brothers Band - Eat A Peach (1972)

Okay, so I wasn't too vicious with At Fillmore East. So for those with whom I do not share such feel-good affinity for the Allman Brothers, rest assured, I dig the living pig manure out of Eat A Peach. What's not to like? Duane's beautiful slide renderings, the furious "One Way Out," the glorious intertwining of guitar melodies on "Blue Sky." Oh, hell. Listen to it here; it's my favorite from them.

"Little Martha" is also a touch softer, too, but Duane is in prime form. "Melissa" is also a song that's a bit softer, but still has some great guitar work. The only drawback, ahem, is "Mountain Jam," inexorably pulled from the Fillmore sessions and possibly the weakest point for me. I do think "One Way Out" and "Trouble No More" were better showcases for their live energy, but alas. And I do love jams, I truly do, just not by these guys. Rest in peace, Duane. B+

The Allman Brothers Band - Live At The Fillmore East (1971)

Since I've been an irresponsible blogger and haven't posted in awhile, I'm going to attempt to make good with two reviews, both from the Allman Brothers. Bob, listen up, because one of them is about to be mildly slaughtered. So, let's just chase the rabbit down the hole, shall we?

"Okay, the Allman Brothers Band." And so begins for most one of the greatest live albums ever -- except I must have been asleep during class, because I don't understand why. "Statesboro Blues" is proof enough, for sure, if it could only sustain my interest after that. Really, truly wonderful little cover it is. But come on, these fellows have better stuff than what this mediocre mess of a live album has become. Duane Allman and Dickey Betts are phenomenal guitarists, but the three boogie jamfests left me wondering if I could have taken three pilgrimages to Mecca and back before they were done. And I'm not Muslim. And I love jams. There was simply nothing consistently inspiring in "You Don't Love Me," "In Memory Of Elizabeth Reed" and especially "Whipping Post." Really, where were they going other than being novel and fulfilling the pandering of a wanting crowd? Live shows are fantastic, but I'm not entirely sold on most of them being good recordings. Very few can do that. This one sounds like even if you were there it may not have been great, either. C

The Mars Volta - Terminal 5 - January 14, 2008

Let me be very clear. This show consisted of two parts -- the one I hated, and the one I loved. After Cedric and his permed buffon and Omar the cracked-out Hendrix made to the stage with roaring approval, everyone suddenly went deaf. That's because for songs 1-7 of the setlist, the sound check technician thought we were at Wembley Stadium. Much like an atom bomb incinerates everything within blast radius, the Mars Volta destroyed our ears with an adverse Phil Spector wall of sound. Besides the staccato drumming, all I heard was noise and an occasional "exoskeletal" or "humans as ornaments." The saxophonist was blowing, Cedric was wailing, Omar was riffing away -- but I nor the entire tepid audience could hear a thing -- for 90 fucking minutes. I honestly wished for the concert to end.

Then, brothers, it came. "Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus." Oh, bliss, bliss, and heaven. Gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh. Gravity all nonsense now. "Cygnus" morphed into an extended jam with Cedric climbing the side balcony and spastically plucking the safety wires. "Drunkship Of Lanterns" was simply frenetic. A new tune, off their soon-to-be-released Bedlam In Goliath, "Aberinkula" was positively sick. And then, to end it all, the sickest Volta song you'll ever hear, they played "Day Of The Baphomets." Cedric says he awoke in NYC to the sound of jackhammers and thought it appropriate to end the show in similar fashion. Nice, nice indeed. Too bad the concert just got started right as it ended. C

Setlist:
Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of)
Viscera Eyes
Wax Simulacra
Goliath
Conjugal Burns
Tetragrammaton
Agadez
Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus
Metatron
Drunkship Of Lanterns
Ilyena
Meccamputechture
Aberinkula
Day Of The Baphomets

The Smiths - The Queen Is Dead (1986)

"Sweetness, sweetness; I was only joking when I said I'd like to smash every tooth in your head. Oh, sweetness, sweetness; I was only joking when I said by rights you should be bludgeoned in your bed," so sings Morrissey. Like Sting, he made a name for himself as the vocalist/lyricist in an excellent band (featuring Marquis de Marr, the inscrutable), pumped his head full of pompous snot and tortured the world with his egregious solo work afterwards. But for a brief period of time, Morrissey was splendid. On their third album, The Queen Is Dead, the Smiths unleashed their most complex and textured work yet. First off, Mr. Marr is all over the bloody place, winding and weaving his taut guitar sequences like he didn't know the 80s were supposed to be such dreck. If you don't believe me, listen to "Bigmouth Strikes Again."

Yeah, you know it. This one gets a SUPER FUCKING TASTY from me. "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others," The Boy With A Thorn In His Side" and "Frankly, Mr. Shankly" are superb as well. "Cemetry Gates" -- listen to it, now. You can definitely hear where stellar Brit bands such as the Verve and Radiohead, among others, were influenced. I have very little to say otherwise of this album other than shame on you if you don't have it, and "Never Had No One Ever" is blah. So do yourself a favor and pick up this politically charged, beautifully written, brilliantly played masterwork from the most horrid decade of music known to man. A-

The Beastie Boys - Check Your Head (1992)

Now that the happy from the holidays has been inevitably forgotten, I'm going to get back on the horse and plow and finally post something of mellifluous magnitude. I just looked at the stat counter at the bottoms and noticed many people have been knocking at my door to read the same drivel day-in, day-out without something new to entice them. Meanwhile, behind the facade of an innocent looking bookstore, a certain group of irreverent gentleman nigh on the heels of their neglected Paul's Boutique, came roaring from the ashes of the current music scene (then 1992) with yet another pilfered offering of samples and sounds, and a bit of their self-possessed attitude. Check Your Head is an iffy, irascible assault on the ears, at once familiar and yet still different -- but don't rush to judgment just because I'm not a hip-hop connoisseur; these fellows are famous for a reason, and if "So What'cha Want" doesn't get your attention, I don't know what will. There's a bit of everything here: punk, funk, rap, soul and silliness; but at the end of the day, this isn't the best thing since sliced bread, and had they not had the abundance of samples to use, they would have been like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest -- which is partially why I can't stomach hip-hop: too much sampling. Same with the blues as well as covers that replace original content. So if you want to hear Biz Markie rapping the Beastie Boys name for thirty seconds to the guitar of Nugent's "Homebound" -- it's your cake and you can eat it however you like. But please, cash your chips elsewhere. An exemplary C. And yes, I received permission to sample the clichés.