The Kinks - Arthur (Or The Decline And Fall Of The British Empire) (1969)

I know a few people who love the Kinks. I know a few who hate them. I know a few who haven't a clue who in the Sarah Palin they are by name, yet have heard "Lola" a billion times or any of the several covers Van Halen has done of their songs ("You Really Got Me," "Where Have All The Good Times Gone?," "Dancing In The Street"). So where, you might ask, do I stand? Well, I think Ray Davies is a solid songwriter, but whose penchant for large themes and minute storytelling is a wee bit messy. Musically, I think the Kinks have a wide variety of interesting riffs and melody changes, but whose total sound is a bit homogenized and therefore makes it difficult for me to remember much. The Kinks are very much like an exercise in the dual existence of quantum mechanics and the theory of relativity insofar as they can't seem to make the tiniest of the tiny mesh with the grandest of the grand. And that's precisely why no Kinks record will ever receive a B grade or higher, since not a one are essential; they feature a few excellent songs and are otherwise comprised of a continuum of sameness. This is not to say the records are bad, either; in fact, I don't think the Kinks have many bad songs at all; they simply don't have too many great ones.

Therefore, let's get specific. Arthur is a concept album; it's long-winded and cumbersome, like an old horse with three legs trotting uphill. I actually tried to really listen to the lyrics on this one and like most rock lyricists, Ray hopes by being descriptive that you'll garner the broader idea. Great job, Ray. The British Empire is declining and I can feel it in every note of this slightly upbeat mid-tempo music you're singing along to. "Shangri-La" is amazing; if every song was like this, I might not have written the aforementioned. Beautiful acoustics and chord changings, a great harpsichord backdrop, nifty interludes, a powerful chorus, eclectic guitar-work -- and it feels epic, even though its five minutes. But for five minutes, "Shangri-La" carries more potency than the entirety of the album. "Victoria" is a solid rocker; but beyond that, everything else is pretty good and I would not be able to name any other songs, even under threat of no more Guinness. There's a reason these guys never became as huge as they could have and also why they've never been completely forgotten -- and sometimes impossible to form an opinion of! Ergo, expect my reviews of their subsequent albums to be eerily similar to this one, and also expect me to avoid doing so for as long as possible. C+

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

Grand Funk Railroad - Caught In The Act (1975)

They've been revered on the Simpsons, broke the Beatles attendance record at Shea Stadium and had the chutzpah to imply that they were America's band. Meanwhile, critics loathed the lilies out of them and their rapid ascension to superstardom deflated just as quickly. So why, pray tell? Well, because these guys -- musically -- are pretty bad. Like many bands, past and present, they had a dozen great songs scattered across amazingly awful albums; but where other bands fizzled, Grand Funk proved that it really is all in the timing. For one, they had a genuine raw energetic live act; secondly, they unabashedly positioned themselves as not-British Invasion; and furthermore, they wrote a fucking ton of songs and released a gazillion and one albums within a few short years. Like the pop bands of today, they realized that constant exposure, for good or for bad, will give you perhaps a few more miles out of the galllon. Mix it all up, swish it around in your mouth and pick only the choice morsels from your teeth, and what you get is this live gem, Caught In The Act.

Ever wonder why Homer says, “You guys don’t know Grand Funk? The wild shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner? The bone-rattling bass of Mel Schacher? The competent drumwork of Don Brewer?” Well, this is the album for you. I personally think Mel Schacher is the main attraction; he plays the bass like he's the lead guitarist. But otherwise, this album is all about heart. No one is ever going to put Mark Farner on a list of even the 100,000 greatest guitarists, real or fictional; and no one is going to practice their chops over Don Brewer's simplistic drum lines? But who cares? This is simplistic, soulful rock in perhaps its greatest setting: a live concert. How else could these guys do a better version of "Gimme Shelter" than the Stones? Its fucking meaty, that's why, whereas the original is just a touch stilted. So gather all ye round, my fellow rock 'n' rollers, play some "Footstompin' Music," eat yourself some "Black Licorice" and come on and ride the railroad, one more time. Oh, and do not, I repeat, do not defer to the studio equivalents. You will be sorely disappointed. A

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

King Crimson - Three Of A Perfect Pair (1984)

I thought perhaps of writing a review in consideration of the holidays, but since I'm not technically writing this anywhere near Christmas and I'm becoming a bit weary of this business, I'm going to simply say nasty clever things about a band I actually like. Or try to. The man and his kingdom of poo will undoubtedly put up a spirited defense in my absence and so I will parry in advance by saying: duh!

Here's a bit of curlicue logic, so follow me: Fripp never intended to reform KC and had instead formed a band to be called Discipline, which resulted instead in Fripp realizing he had merely reformed KC and they thereunto released the excellent Discipline as KC, circa 1981. Discipline was a dizzying amalgam of tautly conceived tunes featuring lovely arpeggios, delicious bass blurblings and the odd vocal croonings of Adrian Belew. Ever drank powdered Gatorade? When I was in Iraq I used to mix powdered Gatorade into a water bottle particularly because I became disgusted with plain water. Well, sometimes I would be in the unenviable position of drinking most of it and having additional water available, but no extra powder. So what I would do is pour a little bit of water from one bottle into the one I had, hoping to get more bang for my buck. Invariably, it tasted a little less sweet, but was still more bearable than plain water. Still having no access to powder, I would pour just a touch more water into the bottle. The result of my gambling? Colored water. Yuck.

So if you want to listen to Three Of A Perfect Pair, you will be drinking colored water -- a thoroughly diluted mutation of an original with barely any trace of what tasted so good about it in the first place. I obviously won't go more into why Discipline was so good, because that's another review, but be aware that, as my additional aside, Beat (1982), is the equivalent of slightly less sweet admixture before it became ruined. There. F

Ella Fitzgerald - Ella In Berlin: Mack The Knife (1960)

I love scat. It tastes great in tea, looks good atop antique furniture and is extremely amusing when practicing pivot points from G Major to A minor. Most of all, it's best when it comes from the great Ella Fitzgerald, one of my favorite singers of any genre. And if there's anything Ella can do, it's scat. Mid-tempo scat, improvisational scat -- hell, Ella is like the Eddie Van Halen of scat; she can do it without looking like she's exerting any kind of effort, and that's simply unheard of for some people. Can you imagine if she tried "Eruption?"

So why so much ado about this live performance? Well, cutting aside the numerous applause tracks, this is a fairly solid collection of some of Ella's most known songs and includes one of the most memorable renditions of "Mack The Knife," in which Ella completely forgets the words and must improvise on the spot with some amusing filler, notwithstanding her subsequent spot-on imitation of 'ol Satchmo. I mean, wowzas. Also of particular interest is "How High The Moon" -- possibly featuring the best scat solo ever and with some additional improvised melodic renderings. This is not to say you should listen to it just for the scat; Ella's versions of "Just One Of Those Things" and "The Lady Is A Tramp" focus more on Ella's vocal interpretations than her ability to form wordless strings of syllables. And for that, I suggest you listen to them, especially if you happen to be one of those jazz snobs who feel scat has no place in real jazz. I mean, really, fuck you. B-

Queen - Sheer Heart Attack (1974)

I think Jazz is probably Queen's best album, but I think this one more purely exemplifies the diversity of their total sound, and that's why I chose it instead. Perhaps I will review Jazz after this in my frenzied quest to supply you with sustenance in the months ahead while suffering from lack of hatter. Funny, you probably won't be reading this until well after it's been written. Therefore, I am speaking to myself presently, but to an unknown audience in the future who may clap or boo me long after I've fallen below the proscenium. How's that for metafiction, sweetums?

"Brighton Rock" is a fucking doozy. A helluva way to start an album: Freddie's in high register, Brian wants to kick your face in with his Red Special; and oh, I love those harmonic group choruses. "Killer Queen" is another great tune naturally from Paris, guaranteed to blow your mind. Brian's guitar is spot-on again -- I mean, but when isn't it? It's especially tasty here, though, in my humblest of humbles. Additionally, no Queen record can do without their signature pomp track -- you know, camp in not so much its highest form, but perhaps in its nascent state; and that song is "Bring Back That Leroy Brown." Vintage, baby! "Tenement Funster" is another great track; if memory serves, it's Brian who's doing some not-too-shabby vocal duties. Most of the album is otherwise pretty solid, although there are a few weaknesses -- "In The Lap Of The Gods," "She Makes Me (Stormtrooper In Stilettos)," "Dear Friends." Oh damn, I almost forgot "Stone Cold Crazy." Is not that proto-metal at its finest? Rubber tommy water guns and overlapping guitar solos like snakes coils. Lovely stuff. B+

Nirvana - In Utero (1993)

Not that I buy into the whole Cobain mythical genius bullshit, but let's use this album as an example, or evidence if you will, of the emperor's brilliance. That being the case, not only does the emperor have no clothes, but his subjects are stoned out of their fucking minds. This -- a great album? By what measurement on whose yardstick? I find it hard to stomach that a mediocre garage rock album such as this is hoisted so high. Oh and I've no beef bouillon with garage rock, but I do with this fairly unremarkable tripe. Sure, sure, "Dumb" is a great song. I enjoy the living piss out of it. I love "Very Ape." I like "Heart-Shaped Box" and "Rape Me" and even "All Apologies," which I felt was overplayed like hell in 1993. But these are more or less average tunes at best, even what I would consider weak tunes for Nirvana. Great album? Hey Seattle! Over here! Yeah, over here! You fuckers had nothing better to do during the constant rain than to be proud of something. Yes, I know you have a lot to be sorry for -- Pearl Jam, the Mariners -- but come on! This is not that good! In all seriousness, thusly: Nevermind or Incesticide are better albums, period; Cobain is not a great guitarist, as many will tell you; and lastly, Grohl's Foo Fighters have beaten hindsight to the punch by clearly being the better band, and that's not really saying much. C

Muse - Absolution (2003)

You've got to hand it to these fellows; for being a mere trio, they create a wallop of a sound, yet they verge so close to pure camp that it's a wonder they don't occasionally trip over it. The album's first song proper, "Apocalypse Please," sounds exactly how it would seem, a stomping piano melody amidst a swath of synth backdrop and wailing vocals. Don't ask me about the lyrics because I don't really pay too much attention to that sort of thing, although it seems as though there is a point to it all. But while I care little for lyrics, I certainly don't fudge on vocals. I like Matt Bellamy. Not the best I've heard, but he's damned good and surely worth his bundle of Ukrainian maps. "Sing For Absolution" is a fairly good showcase of some of his operatic versatility, among other things. Did I mention he's also the guitarist and pianist/keyboardist? That's not knocking the bassist or drummer, who play some meaty stuff and wouldn't sound the same without them, but Bellamy is obviously way into music. I mean, as you are hearing the awesomeness that is "Butterflies And Hurricanes," who the fuck expects a classical piano interlude in the middle of it? And if I've mentioned "piano" too much in this review for my fellow rocker fiends, let me flip a bitch and discuss "Stockholm Syndrome," which features possibly one of Muse's best guitar riffs. Fucking tastiness. What I especially love about this song is the seeming unity of the guitar solo to the main melody. Usually solos gargle and noodle and go for the jugular to impress, but this one, while not extravagant, is quite the nicety. What else? "Endlessly" and "Falling Away With You" are beautiful songs. I think "Blackout" and "Time Is Running Out" are songs from the band's earlier years I'm sad to see still around. But otherwise, excellent album. Play it loud. B+

Rolling Stones - Beggar's Banquet (1968)

I realize that despite having some fondness for certain songs by these antichrists of Altamont, their albums are like filibusters designed to kill what precious few good ideas they do come up with. In this instance, "Sympathy For The Devil" and "Street Fightin' Man" are such examples. But it's funny that the first target of my ire, "No Expectations," does exactly by its title. Love boring bluesy piano ballads? Check it out. If bluesy harmonica-laden mid-tempo music is your thing, perhaps check out "Dear Doctor." Oh, you're a bluesy romper kind of person?; check out "Parachute Woman" -- it even has some little harmonica flourishes for good measure. "Jig-Saw Puzzle" couldn't be put together if the band helped me. This album is simply too boring to be a mess, and I really don't think there's much of a difference between it and Goat's Head Soup, another album I trashed, or any other Stones albums, for that matter. It seems to me, in my own revisionist musical history, that the more I listen to the Stones, the more they seem like the bastard son of bad blues music. If they are to be hoisted on some grand pedestal, it's still obviously low enough that I can shit on it, no matter how ornate it may appear. I mean, I still love Keef when he's brilliant, and I don't think anyone can do swagger like Mick can, but enough is enough. Also, for those easily disgusted/offended and with nothing more than sitcoms as the basis of their exposure to comedy, I suggest you not check out Master Cianan's hilarious and completely aristocratic review on this same album. Otherwise, for once, I may actually be seen as a kinder, gentler hatter. D+

The Who - Tommy (1969)

Yeah, I know. The classic Who album. The pinball wizard. The great rock opera. Whatever. This album had been so thoroughly propped up on an untouchable musical throne that, after hearing it for the first time, I thought I was a court jester being played for a codpiece fool. Seriously, this isn't a great album -- it's not terrible, either, but that's not saying much, is it? "Overture" is fantastic. I remember being quite excited to hear such a strong beginning, and then remember spending the next half hour waiting for "Pinball Wizard" to come on. Sure, "Sparks" and "Christmas" are fairly decent numbers, and "Underture" at least tries to be as good as "Overture," but the pomp was obviously draining what power the album possessed and pissing on it. Bad rock opera, bad. After the glorious "Pinball Wizard", it's merely more of the same little narrative vignettes and poor musicianship. "Go To The Mirror!" is a great tune though, as is "Tommy, Can you Hear Me?" I really enjoy "I'm Free" and that's about it. This is simply a monstrous album, long-winded and most certainly diluted. My good friend Borges once remarked that writing cumbersome novels was relatively wasteful in expressing an idea when it could easily been done in a few concise pages. Perhaps Pete decided he really really wanted to build a portcullis when all he needed was a privacy fence. Ditto for Thomas Mann and his stupid magic mountain. C+