The Free Spirits - Out Of Sight And Sound (1966)

It is said that wikipedia is a somewhat accurate barometer of the relative ubiquity of a band, or writer, or anything, for that matter. Suffice to say that in reviewing the Free Spirits, I am doing so in favor of pulling them out just a touch from otherwise obfuscated obscurity. Originally recommended to me by Master Cianan, himself a treasure trove of rarified goodies, I was completely floored when I heard this album. Everyone by now realizes my obvious bias towards free-wheeling jazz and my sincere disgust in tired blues licks, so it will surprise no one that I like this album. The best way to describe it musically, I think, is that it's a fairly standard collection of pop songs from the 60s in the vein of the Fab Four gone horribly awry -- that is to say, they pissed all over them and added some snazzy brass backdrop. The first song, "Don't Look Now (But Your Head Is Turned Around) is an explosive rock-jazz fusion with the most insane saxophonist. No idea who he is, but he plays over and around everything like he's Robin Goodfellow; and yet when he's not doing so, he's fitting nicely in all the right places. In fact, I can't really think of a piece of music that isn't purely jazz where the saxophone seems more important to the music than any other instrument. Seriously. My faves: "Bad News Cat," "Cosmic Daddy Dancer," "Sunday Telephone" and the aforementioned "Don't Look Now." Oh, and the sitar on "I'm Gonna Be Free" is rad. Check this out if you can. B-

Robert Fripp & Andy Summers - I Advance Masked (1982)

I would first like to mention to those who believe I make sense sometimes that I am soon to be on a very lengthy hiatus in which I may have little to no internet access and therefore am relinquishing control of my site to the perfunctory authority of automatic blogging. Having written numerous reviews in recent days to prepare for such a situation, I therefore apologize fore and aft, hither and thither, etc & etc, for not being able to, perhaps, join in our sometimes rabid discussions. Please know that I have ensured as much insanity for your future reading pleasure (every week, I promise) and hope that I can randomly visit and play the elder berry to your succulent snark. Bob and Cianan: please play nice. So there. Ahem.

The problem with having such disparate but equally excellent guitarists work together is that it's like taking two complete meals and combining them. Suppose that, as an example, Andy Summers is Yorkshire pudding and Robert Fripp is moussaka -- would you want to eat those things together? Well, I would, because in this instance, it's really good. Don't believe me? The title track is proof enough, where Andy does what he's known for doing, which is completely understated textural melodies; and Fripp, true to form, snakes around everything like a blind arpeggio monster. "New Marimba" features a similarity in tone to what Fripp was currently doing with KC and is positively sinister sounding; "Hardy Country," in contrast, sounds very lush and beautiful. In fact, much of the music -- all instrumental, if you couldn't have guessed -- is much more impressionistic and mood-oriented than posing as cohesive, recognizable song types. This is not to say this an album of egocentric noodling, but that the bridge-chorus format many are used to is not present here. That said, there is an interweaving of short little vignettes in-between the longer suites ("Under Bridges Of Silence," "Lakeland/Aquarelle," et al) and I personally find little to embrace in them. Since much of the good in the album comes from the meshing of Fripp and Summers, not fleshing out anything for more than a few minutes doesn't excite me as much. Additionally, given some context, it seems that Andy felt the need to exercise some ideas he couldn't while with the Police, and Fripp -- well, he does whatever the fuck he wants, so this is de rigeur for him. Music is music, after all. B-

Frank Zappa – Weasels Ripped My Flesh (1976)

Avant my ass. I certainly espouse turning musical norms on their head and always prefer experimentalism to traditionalism, but not this time. Sometimes, even Zappa can go too far, which is what he does here in this jarring, musically lopsided Dada noodlefest, replete with abrupt vocal nonsense, pointless jazz motifs and a whole lot of headache.

You know how some music can be listened to in the background? This is not it. This demands not only your attention; it demands that you waste it. Like a cashier who can’t find the sticker on a tomato and insists the manager is on the way, even though you know they aren’t. Like to eat soufflé with a recipe? Listen to “Toads Of The Short Forest,” where Frank intones over the demented proceedings by telling you the time signatures. Want to pay your respects to Eric Dolphy, the jazz saxophonist? Well, Zappa did, by composing “The Eric Dolphy Memorial Barbecue” – a certified piece of near-noise. In the middle of “Prelude To The Afternoon Of A Sexually Aroused Gas Mask,” you can appreciate the gradual throng of moans into one cacophonous aural odor – er, stench; better yet, tune in to the last song, the title track, which sounds like it’s supposed to be one continuous ripping of flesh – which is to say, horrible dissonant static.

So what’s to like? The violin-laden “Directly From My Heart To You” (a Little Richard cover), “Oh No,” “Orange County Lumber Truck” and most importantly, “My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Mama,” which, if nothing else, has the greatest interjectory acoustic solo ever, not to mention it being one of Zappa’s best songs. I suggest listening to this with enough time to register to vote. Because this record makes me angry. Anger causes change. Change causes progress. Progress is like tea – it might be sugary or bitter or need a touch more milk, but if you stir it hard enough with your spoon, it might taste good. Well, sometimes. So switch this not-so-bitchen’ LP off your spin machine when you’re done and cast your vote of no confidence in November. Or today. Kiss my sharries. I love swirls. D+

Rainbow - Rising (1976)

I'll admit the only reason I initially bothered with Rainbow was Ritchie Blackmore, who is my favorite guitarist-not-named Hendrix. This is partially because of my absolute loathing of all things Dio. I remember he had his own radio show a few years back and he seemed like a cool guy. Oh wait, that was Dee Snyder. Nevermind. Vocally, Dio is contrived dramatic blech, to be brief. So it's nothing short of amazing that I don't find him annoying. As soon as I heard "Tarot Woman" at my padre's insistence, I was hooked. I usually hate synth (underlying 80s hatred), but the opening line is supremely nifty. And let's face it: at six songs (34 minutes or so), there really isn't any room for these fellows to fuck or fluff up anything. The guitar is ridiculous (as you would expect), especially on "Light In The Black" and that tasty riff that opens "Starstruck." Hell, this is a guitar album, period. People will say it's Deep Purple-lite. I'm not so sure. While Purple is the infinitely better band, Rainbow is much less straightforward rock and more about sounding huge and including wizards and shit. Plus, Rainbow sounds a whole lot darker, perhaps intentionally, than Purple ever did. The real treat of the album is therefore "Stargazer." I never tire of that ominous plodding feel every time I hear it. Orchestras get me tickled, too, particularly when they're used correctly and not as some stupid parlor trick, substitute accompaniment or half-baked pretentious attempt at seriousness from an otherwise doldrum band (insert your candidate here __________ ). So what have you got to lose? Other than your house, job or increased taxes to support a perversely criminal bailout, give this album a spin. It's certainly the best and most consistent of Rainbow's output. Nothing came close to this again. Enjoy. A-

Yankees 1, Rays 7 - September 13, 2008

I'm going to make an exception today by posting on an entirely non-musical subject: namely, my last game at Yankee Stadium. It's been a great run, but the listless, lifeless kind of play I saw today has me concerned for all of baseball, since the Yankees were the last magical thing about it. Derek Jeter had three hits, a couple of nifty defensive grabs and generally played as if it was the World Series. I could care less what people say about him; he's a class act and he loves this game. Many others on the team will go home like any other employee at a job, thankful for their salary but glad the day's over with. Sportswriters will recalculate their sabermetrics on Moose's effectiveness, bookies will cash out in favor of the Yanks not making the playoffs, Joe Schmoe will capitalize on his free agent status at season's end and where will I be, the loyal fan, who feels nothing but emptiness? In fact, I'm not going say anything else other than that pictures really do tell a thousand words. Despite erasing the scoreboard, this picture was taken of me after the game. Cheers to great memories. Cheers to my days as a Bleacher Creature. Cheers to those four World Series, and cheers to the joy that is true baseball -- a child's game, not a man's science.

Metallica - Death Magnetic (2008)

Now that I've officially gotten Metallica's three abominations under my belt, let's turn to Death Magnetic, their newest release and definitely best since the Black Album. First, the bad: the album and songs are a bit formulaic; this is partly due to Metallica pillaging their past forays for inspiration, so in a way, they can't be blamed. Or can they? Part of the problem I had when listening was the occasional over-aping of past material. Sure, it may be fine for Metallica to loot Metallica, but when is enough enough? "The Day That Never Comes" is awful, not least for it sounding like "Unforgiven," then "Orion," then "One" -- all in the same song. In fact, why does it sound more like "Unforgiven III" than the actual song on the album, also named "Unforgiven III?" Both are awful and reminiscent more of their Load-era gobbidge than the old stuff they try to imitate. I also think "Suicide & Redemption" is a sludgy, boozy drunken mess; it's a ten minute instrumental, possibly intended in a similar vein as "Call Of Ktulu" or "Orion," but it's a long aimless wankfest. Speaking of wankfest, Kirk Hammett is all over the place. I have a feeling people will love the three solos he plays in almost every song, but most of them are caroused noodling, completely jarring to the music being played, and seemingly intentionally inserted for the sake of being able to be inserted -- that and some of them you can hear coming before they actually come. I have this cassette tape of me playing the guitar as an ambitious 13-year old musical prodigy (har har har!); on it, you can hear me shredding a million arpeggiated notes in a millisecond -- and it's complete crap. Thanks, Kirk. I now feel like I could've recorded a metal album and been like you.

That said, the good: some of the solos actually work quite well (the bad ones are just indelibly bad), as do the plenitude of riffs. James Hetfield used to eat riffs for breakfast; he returns to do just that here. In some instances, riffs change as quickly as they can be digested and the intent for most of the album seemed to be: faster faster faster. For that, I tip my hat to "That Was Just Your Life," "All Nightmare Long" and "My Apocalypse" (the requisite "Damage Inc. or "Metal Militia" or "Dyer's Eve" of the album). "End Of The Line" and "Broken, Beat And Scarred" are also pretty good. Hmm, what else? Robert Trujillo is pretty non-existent; a touch of bass here and there, but it's mostly the Hetfield show. It's a less-than-average album, for sure, but in light of recent history -- say the last however many dismal years -- it's a welcome comeback, even if I expect nothing better from them ever again, since it's painfully obvious they just don't have it anymore and if they weren't appropriating from themselves, they probably would've fared worse. The intent seems genuine and earnest, but the fact is, these guys aren't angry anymore, even if they tried to master the puppets again. C-

Metallica - St. Anger (2003)

Today will be a twofer. First I will do an inevitable, completely unoriginal but personally necessary savaging of Metallica's St. Anger and then shift to their newest album, Death Magnetic, simply to contrast why they've sort of redeemed themselves and why they still suck. First things first.

St. Anger needs no explanation, really, for those familiar with it. It's possibly one of the worst albums ever, notwithstanding from whom and under what circumstances it came to be. Thankfully, as the new album will show, this album seems to have been their proverbial low point: whining, introspective (dare I say "emo") lyrics, Lars the Grouch banging his trash cans, weakly repetitive riffs in songs with no discernible melodies, themes, structure or anything resembling rational order. They tried to sound raw; they instead sounded raucous and unkempt. They tried to sound aggressive; they sounded like someone lit a bag of poop on their porch and ran. Long, unending and diffuse, this is the messiest, most awfully conceived, written or produced poseur of an album by any metal/rock/alternative band ever (except perhaps for Coldplay's two recent fetuses). Not owning it means one more slot on your CD rack, or the equivalent of roughly 70MB of free space on your hard drive, iPod, etc. I actually own it, but that's more because I'm a diseased OCD completionist. So hurrah to those of you who enjoy this kind of garbage. I certainly don't. And for those who seek to come to its defense -- shame on you; I won't even stoop to indulge you. F

The Doors - The Doors (1967)

There are those that find Jim Morrison to be a flimsy poetaster, Robby Krieger an egregious six-stringed nightmare, Ray Manzarek a dawdling hunchback of a keyboardist and John Densmore a lifeless militaristic percussionist, but together they were The Doors, and together they were fantastic. This, their debut, is particular striking for its uniqueness as much for its variance in style, not to mention that it sounded nothing like the flower power summer of love kaleidoscope folk music then-currently being peddled. This is not to say it's a dark album -- in fact, I've heard music tailored to sound dark (minor keys, moodscapes, et al) and this album isn't so much dark as it is exploratory. (Run away, kitty cat.) So if you've been living under a tofu plant or you like safe, pleasant music -- this album isn't for you. But I'm sure it is because I don't think I've attracted too many pop fans here. If I have, I've scared them away -- the exception being Chuck, who still likes the Killers, despite my insistence that he please stop. In fact, most reading this probably love this album, sans one person I am quite aware of.

So who's with me in saying that the instrumental they criminally lop off for FM radio in "Light My Fire" is exquisitely awesome; or that "Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)" is deliciously unsettling in a Brechtian sense; or that, despite your current or past penchants, you vote unanimously that if you were to do drugs, "The End" would be the song that you do them to? I love the drugged feel of "End Of The Night" nearly as much as I love the silliness of "Twentieth Century Fox." Oh, and "Crystal Ship" -- if everyone anyone has a second, please leave a comment if you don't like this song. I'm really curious -- really. I really love that song. Otherwise, maybe they really didn't break on through to the other side, but they did make a helluva great album. And even though I will most assuredly give all their albums (maybe except Morrison Hotel) the same grade, this one is the most deserving. A

The Prodigy - Experience (1992)

This is certainly not an album I would normally endorse at first glance, but I'll do just that, simply because I love it and also because I would prefer to puncture any presuppositions anyone may have of me that I hate pop, country, or anything that isn't rock. (Actually, I loathe country, so pardon the retraction.) For those familiar with The Prodigy, you probably remember that controversial "Smack My Bitch Up" video, or maybe "Breathe" from the incessant play it used to receive on MTV -- when MTV used to play music videos. Fat Of The Land is still a pretty good album, as was its predecessor Music For The Jilted Generation, but Prodigy's best stuff begins with their first, this excellent gem from 1992. From the grandstand bit of piano exposition on "Wind It Up" to the dizzying breakbeats of "Music Reach 1/2/3/4" or the booming bass thumps from "Everybody In The Place (115 And Rising)," it's hard not to feel the jungle vibe, baby. Bells, whistles, chipmunk vocals, and even some notable samples -- "I am the god of hellfire, and I bring you fire" from Crazy World Of Arthur Brown's "Fire"-- the album is an eclectic and dense compendium of layered hooks and polyphonic electronic structures gone awry, all from the sprawling and prodigious brainwork of Liam Howlett, a classically trained pianist who makes his chops known more through composition than customary virtuoso playing. It's electronic, it's fascinatingly weird and it's devoid of guitars and a central singer. But if you like your tea difficult, which I do, these leaves simply originate from foreign lands but still taste quite good, especially when mixed with local cream. It'll take your brain to another dimension. Pay close attention. B+

Richard Ashcroft - Human Conditions (2002)

After reading Chuck's almost entirely deserved beating of Richard Ashcroft's Keys To The World, and since I just recently reviewed the Verve -- a much better musical outfit than Ashcroft could and will ever be -- I'm offering up his 2002 stinker, definitely the worst of his solo output, for slaughter. Problem is, it stinks so bad I'd rather just let the bathroom air out for awhile and take a stroll outside to pretend to puff some cancer sticks. Here, read this while I'm gone. Richard Ashcroft does; you should, too.

1. Wash and condition your hair. Blow your hair dry with a round brush to remove wave. Use a ceramic flat iron to straighten naturally curly hair. 2. Section off the hair on the top of your head. Make a part at each of the temples, to the back of the head. Clip the hair on the top or your head together so that no stray hairs hang down. 3. Use a rat tail comb to back comb the hair around the border of the part. Rat the hair in the back of the head as well as the sides. 4. Spray the back combed hair with aerosol hairspray to give extra support hair extensions. 5. Use dark hair extensions for light hair, or light hair extensions for dark hair. Clip the extensions into sections of back combed hair. 6. Unclip the hair on the top of the hair. Smooth the hair down over the hair extensions. Divide the bangs into two sections. Back comb the under section of hair and spray it. Clip hair extensions to the bang area. 7. Smooth the top layer of bangs over the extension. Run your fingers through the hair to smooth it. Spray the entire hairdo with a quick shot of aerosol spray.

This album makes me feel massive indifference towards everything. Poverty. War. Salmonella. Elections. Rock star hair. Whatever. It's hard to feel good about anything for most of this half bummed-out acid trip, half-Sting pretense of an endeavor when there really isn't anything to care about. Even the world's ugliest dog got more loving than this speckled bit of rot. "Check The Meaning," as close to a song as you can probably assess one to be, is the first track and the only thing resembling human decency that I can imagine Ashcroft envisioned for us to enjoy. I like it sometimes. He probably loves this album. Everything else -- is just like that middle paragraph you may or may not have suffered all the way through. F

Mr. Bungle - Disco Volante (1995)

Apparently I've ingested a tincture of Lethe because I swear I've already reviewed this, even though I am certain I haven't, which is to say I may have, but probably shan't, and you should just keep drinking your tea, because I've got no more sugar. Regardless, for those in the know, rewind for me please back to 1995, when augurs lacked erotic taint -- at least publicly -- and Kyuss, bless them lads, were still playing. Enter Mike Patton and Co. and their deranged musical madness straight from the toilets of the Archdiocese of Montevideo. Nothing short of what I affectionately would call "organized chaos," Disco Volante is not for the easily amused, nor for those looking for anything pleasantly auricular. Like a Protean shape-shifter thrashing in unexpected bondage, Bungle alternates between jazz, techno, funk, death metal -- to name just a few -- seamlessly in a matter of seconds, multiple times within songs and continuously for the course of the album, all the while with Patton at the wheel mangling his vocals through his effects boxes. It is simply nothing like you've ever heard before or since.

I mean, come on, what would you pay to see your highly diseased host of this aborted musical intestine flailing around his living room in clownish fashion to the strains of "Ma Meeshka Mow Skwoz?" I have made several performances throughout the years and -- unlike Metallica -- I've still got some oomph in these legs. Favorite tracks: the aforementioned "Skwoz," the Scooby snacks of "Carry Stress In The Jaw," the delicious "Desert Search For Techno Allah" and my favorite lyric of the album, from "Merry Go Bye Bye"-- "The deaths were faked, the laughs were cries / But resurrections are doing fine / You got me walking into suicide / And I'll be there right by your side / In reproduction at your merry go bye bye."

So have at it, bring a clean pair of underwear and remember, it's not how you shave the bunny, but how much gel you use. A-