Reviews by verlainemorrison96

'The world is, the world is / Love and life are deep.' Virtuosic but tedious, soulless, charmless, a mode of storytelling that neither inspires nor has its way w/ words and ideas. 'Mechanical music / Adrenaline surge.' It sure is mechanical, but an adrenaline surge not so much: it's dead in the water, it's a million sentences too deep in the sludge of wooden musicianship and barren lyricism to be a surge of anything, the opposite of a rush, more like a prolonged case of nerdism. I'll give it to them for being more pop friendly than they are on 2112, but they're still enemies of pop music. If that record is abysmal, this is really bad. +, Geddy Lee's vocals have to be the most annoying in rock music, like a helium-sucker w/o the comedy, the slapstick.

'I want my MTV'; 'He got the action, he got the motion.' Knopfler intones like Bob Dylan and simplifies like Bruce Springsteen, but he has neither the reality-warping lyricism of BD or the American stamina of BS. He's actually full of BS, which gets in the way of what would be mere mediocrity, getting it together on one song only: 'Walk of Life.' But even that track doesn't approach the pop-rock spirit of Born in the U.S.A., released a year before this goes-on-forever dosage of 'cool.' But it's not cool, it's novocaine, it's a real bummer and a verifiable bore. My favorite Knopfler song is 'Sailing to Philadelphia,' the one about Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon: I think he's better when he has a source. B/c otherwise, he's as bland as sand.

'It's not a cliche / And I wish I could die (ha, ha, ha).' Tho punk was always meant to be taken seriously, there was also a needed element of bluffing, or at the very least, an image. But nothing on this record spells out fake, or overdone, which is a part of the aesthetic problem, tho I guess the chief part of the solution as well: be willing to tell the truth, no matter the cost. But there is a cost, notably a musical one. The record possesses but one track that exemplifies songwriting, the classic 'Public Image.' The rest are yelps and outbursts, believable, crucial perhaps, but not for my ears. And, a steadfast atheist for my entire life, I found myself nodding in agreement to 'Religion I' and 'II,' but not to the beat. I'd take the latter, to be honest.

If they were in it for the money, they'd have learned to incorporate melody in their visions of Britpop. Instead, they merely slam, but are about as soft as Mumford & Sons, the outfit they resemble on their streetwise cover art. No song hits here b/c, tho you'd think w/o melody they'd learn the trade of the riff, they don't possess those either. What's left are Gaz Coombes's prosaic vocals and unremarkable lyrics: 'I am a doctor, I'll be your doctor / I'm on my way, and you won't come down today'; 'I try and find my peace of mind / But I know what I miss.' Each guitar solo is out of place, the horns are a reprieve but never a revelation, they don't have the permanence of pop, the urgency of punk, the shuffle of rock, or, it seems, an ear for music.

'So needless to say / I'm odds and ends, but I'm me.' 'Take on Me' is a synth-pop classic, a tune known by millions but remembered by none: played in countless backgrounds, in the foreground it's actually catchier, impressive even. But the rest is an uninspired meeting of David Bowie and Morrissey. Morten Harket is a failure of pop sensibilities since he bemoans unironically and insincerely, a debacle no hit single can ameliorate. Add to that 80s production that's indeed too of its time, and you've a pop record I'd like to appreciate far more than I do. 'Love is reason enuf' to move on from this one-hit blunder. I was waiting for an a-ha moment. Instead I got plenty of uh-ohs, oy-veys, uff das, and here we go agains.

'It's the money or stop'; ‘I’m useless but not for long’; ‘Get the cool shoeshine.’ Britpop’s white knight Damon Albarn goes virtual, but he’s virtually just as full of shit as if not more phony than he ever was w/ Blur. The record does undoubtedly boast some great tracks - ‘New Genius (Brother),’ ‘Clint Eastwood,’ ‘Rock the House,’ 'Latin Simone’ - but when they start singing about ‘Gravity-y-y-y-y-yyy,’ there’s not much more brit-poping masquerading as hip-hoping and trip-hoping I can take. It’s not lo-fi, it’s no dice, which is fine in bouts, but over the course of 69 minutes is no bueno. Del makes this thing go, but it doesn’t go very far, tho it does go on for too long: good production ruined by bad ideas.

'This paint-by-numbers life / Is fucking w/ my head.' Inventive and varied, yet frustratingly monotone, Beautiful Freak is neither beautiful enuf nor freaky enuf to sustain my interest. E's vocals, how do I put it, are white, I mean really, really white, and while the instrumentation is compelling at first, it becomes all too predictable as well. But by far the record's worst aspect is the failed juxtaposition of the cute and the tortured, manifest in the weak, try-hard lyrics vocalized by a crooner far too hoarse to belt. It's that whispering quality indie/alt singers reach for but seldom persuasively attain. I can't tell if Bruce Springsteen or Paul McCartney is E's preferred model, but I can tell you that he's a far cry from both. Not whiney: whitey.

‘Good God, I think it’s illiteracy / It’s only a machine that makes money.’ As socially conscious as they ever were, and as much as reggae quests for political awareness, The Wailers are yet less religiously oriented on Catch a Fire than the Rastas tend to be: their religious practice nothing more than syncopated drumming and strumming. Many of these songs, especially ‘Stop That Train’ and ‘Stir It Up,’ have been a part of my personal soundtrack for years, but no track here is short of a classic. ‘I think I might join the fun.’ ‘Fun’ is a descriptor of a whole lot of reggae, but in this case, it bespeaks of the intangibles of the genre: before you know it, you’re having fun, tho Bob and the crew are unironic moralists.

Believe the hype. Farrakhan is certainly not a prophet you oughta listen to. Thing is, neither is Public Enemy. They didn't predict anything: they documented, they related, they integrated, and they funked the fuck out. D wants you to analyze and go deep: 'Listen for lessons I'm saying inside music / that all the critics are blastin' me for.' But they're also 'louder than a bomb,' and got blasted b/c people heard the raw and frighted. Freedom fighting has never been as organized as this, or straight-up weird. Underrated: The Bomb Squad, protagonists of the avant-garde - the grab you by the brain cells, or not, avant-garde.

No character, no split second sense of pop profundity, just a droned out mashup of Radiohead and Jane's Addiction: the bad philosophizing, the bad hard rock. It's not stoner rock - it's not even pointless pop - it's bland and entirely burnt out: I like stoners who're still getting something out of it. Besides, in '98, hip-hop was the thing: Big Pun's Capital Punishment, anyone? Worse than Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains: those guys are in a rut they're trying to escape; these braindeads are in a rut they think is a groove: 'Hispanic Impressions.' Some interesting instrumental moments towards the end, but mostly a yard-age of gar-bage.

Before hip-hop came along, Zeppelin presaged the beat switch and Sabbath mastered it. It's part of their DNA since musical ideas seem to run thru their veins, and tho they're not exactly a jam band, they jam out whenever they can. But they don't noodle, and what you get from this record, especially the gorgeous and unexpected 'Changes,' is a new appreciation for the soulfulness Ozzy boasted, the quiet experimentation of the band, their almost easy listening quality, heavier than anything you've heard before, but sweeter too.

Ska revival, but more like a lyrical playground for Elvis Costello: 'Am I the dog that bit / the hand of the man that feeds it.' Punk has always been a cousin of ska and reggae, politically, culturally, but also musically, since it's relationship to rock-n-roll isn't ambivalent, but it is complicated. This doesn't just have groove tho, it has sweetness and wisdom too: racial, social, insights from all concrete jungles. A bit too repetitive, and tho the DIY vibe is fitting, a bit too raw: they run out of ideas, but I don't tire of what they represent.

You've probably heard it but couldn't name it or locate it. The opening track, for which this is one of the ones to hear before you die, is an iconic instrumental that's been frequently featured in things not related to green onions (apparently, the name of a cat whose walk they tried to recreate w/ that storied riff). In '62, this album must have already felt like a throwback of sorts: the no vocals thing, a strange statement to make at a time when rock-n-roll was defining itself as guitar + voice music. But a classic thing, 'tis, w/ organs vital and at times haunting: 'Stranger on the Shore.'

'Hello, I'm Johnny Cash.' Hardly a live album: alive is more its tune, since this one gets into your bones. From one to the next, the tracks here roll effortlessly, a set perfectly balanced w/ the upbeat and the tragic. In reality, it's all tragic, the right mode for this captive audience, now clearly feeling the pangs of freedom, at least for the moment. Cash is the definition of an American classic, in the lineage of Hawthorne and Ice Cube: America's dark side, but a vital dark, 'the green green grass of home.'

Clearer than the previous two, tho just as punishing, Bossanova is aptly christened. Something's relaxed, has come into its own, namely Black Francis, who's learned Tom Waits's secrets of the weird trade. 'We will wade in the shine of the ever / We will wade in the tides of the summer'; 'Time is an arrangement / Time is an arranger / I am a derangement.' Juxtaposition, not so much: more like life itself, fire and all. Who'd thought fire'd be the chief element of our best pop music? Welp, they dug for it, and found it a salve for their brokenness, a balm for too much togetherness: 'It is time for stormy weather.' That's hard-luck; that's cheer and relief. Not heaven. 'Havalina.'

I painfully recall a friend of a friend remarking that this was 'elevator music.' If so, it's an elevator I'd happily live the rest of my life in. Modal, it's also a model and a middle ground. Never too cool for school, it's yet cooler than you are, and more snappily happening. I've now heard it n+1 times: better—vivider—each.

'I'm caught up in the rapture of love / Nothing else can compare.' Not as smooth as Sade, or as dynamite as Smokey Robinson, Anita Baker still spawns two classic tracks: 'Sweet Love' and 'Caught Up in the Rapture.' The other songs are not as memorable, tho her voice is, w/ underrated scatting abilities and a sexuality to boot: a quiet storm, perhaps, but also tempestuous, full-bodied. 'Mystery' reminds me of Eddie Holman's 'Lonely Girl'; the rest, of what's to come in R&B. For that, I'd happily listen again. Specially, w/ red wine and not a whole lot to wear.

Heavier than The Who, more soulful than The Kinks, conceptual but not yet progressive, Ogden's Nut Gone Flake is an essential 60s record, a psychedelic romp, a spree of ingenuity. 'Love is like a voice in my head / Keeps turning 'round the things that we said.' Energized by vaudeville, Delta blues, and Britishisms (but not too many), it succeeds on multiple levels. If it lacks anything, it's precision and an iota of substance, but mainly it's a Shakespearean comedy + rock-n-roll. Real rock-n-roll, that is.

'Destroying w/o mercy / To benefit the Aryan race.' The songs are short and Dave Lombardo's drumming is a mess of punky dynamism, but the lyrics cannot be thicker, and the ideas, if you can call them that, more flatly unimaginative. Reign In Crud, mostly.

'Here comes my face / Out of the crowd.' Lust isn't always very lustful on Lust For Life: something other than a sexual energy defines this record's temper. Iggy takes advantage of Bowie's bold and leakproof production, prompting an experience that is never more explosive than it is composed. If Fun House is the zenith of runaway vigor, Lust For Life is in a sense more straightforward, even tho the musical ideas are more complex, the lyrics more dynamic. Initiated w/ the bang of all bangs, the album never quite settles, but it also doesn't take a sledgehammer to life: 'And when you're tumbling down / You just look better.' That's more respectful than lusty, but then again, maybe it can be both at once. An exceptional record.