Chemical Brothers Come With Us (Astralwerks)
With each new album, the Chemical Brothers don't reinvent the wheel so much as rotate the tires. None of their studio albums, including Come With Us, their fourth, have been dramatically different, sonically, from one another -- they're all furious sets of wired rhythms and sasquatch kick drums. That said, the slowly blooming "Star Guitar," wherein a dreamy melody hatches from an array of Ritalin beats, is evidence of a band that is increasingly drawn to disorientingly lush tunes rather than to mere adrenaline anthems. Likewise, "Hoops," lit up with a shimmering double helix of acoustic guitar, is twisted psychedelia that is more strangely beautiful than the Eighties work of the Butthole Surfers.
It's not that Come With Us doesn't rock like a jet engine in a jewel case -- it does -- but it's more striking for the moments when a warped loveliness, like the icy, phased harpsichord gusts of "Pioneer Skies," wafts up and out from among the roar of the sirens and sequencers. The album title itself is a little ironic, though: The Chemical Brothers are patiently finessing their sound, paused by the side of the road and waiting for the rest of the world to catch up with their hyperkinetic, gorgeous beats. (PAT BLASHILL)
Hank Williams III Lovesick, Broke and Driftin' (Curb)
It may be unfair to compare a young singer with his legendary kinfolk, but in Hank III's case, it's impossible not to do so. Like his father, Hank Williams Jr., this latest member of the infamous Williams clan writes his family's history smack into the music: He drinks, he smokes, he hurts, and he's damn proud of it. If Hank III gets stoned and sings all night long, well . . . as his daddy once said, it's a family tradition.
On his second album, Lovesick, Broke and Driftin', Hank III gets wasted on nearly every track and then chalks it up to his legacy. "I can't help the way that I am," he sings in the slow, gospel-like "Whiskey, Weed and Women," and over the country-blues of "Mississippi Mud," he brags, "I take my shot straight out of a jug, and I like to get pure drunk in the Mississippi mud." Elsewhere, Hank III kills his love pangs with five shots of the hard stuff, yodels away his troubles and calls himself a "drinkin', smokin', nighttime ramblin' kind of man."
Hank III's first album, Risin' Outlaw, displayed more of his legendary grandfather's lonesome moan than it did the swagger of his father's outlaw-country sound. Lovesick finds the youngest Hank moving even further into Grandpa's shadows, with a raw, acoustic sound replacing the slicker, Nashville- ish production of his debut. There's more Hawaiian dreaminess in the steel guitars, more railroad chug in the acoustic guitars, more rockabilly thump in the bass and more whine in Hank's vocals.
Most important, Hank III writes all but one song (Bruce Springsteen's "Atlantic City") this time around. And that's where things go south. While poignant tracks like the folky "Cecil Brown" display the sweet melancholy associated with his grandfather's work, Hank III is hardly the songwriter that Hank I was. That wouldn't be worth mentioning if his sound didn't conjure the ghost of Hank Sr. so scrupulously: When Hank III's songwriting gets lazy, as it does on a few of the tracks, the weakest lines ("I'm still here drinking over the good ol' days/When I had my gal and everything was OK") stand out like a mohawk at a rodeo.
Still, it took Hank Jr. twelve years and thirtysome albums to find his own voice, but when he found it, he became a major force in country and rock. At the rate Hank III is going, we won't have to wait nearly as long to hear his best work. (MARK KEMP)
Jaguar Wright Denials, Delusions and Decisions (MCA)
Somewhere in the second verse of the deliciously syncopated, psychedelically harmonized "I Don't Know," Jaguar Wright puts her cards on the table. Tormented by a no-good lover, exasperated by that old tug of war between desire and reason, she tells him, "I pay you money just to leave me lonely." It might be a stock line in a done-me-wrong song, but the twenty-four-year-old Wright -- who was heard dispensing gospel fury on Jay-Z's MTV Unplugged late last year -- delivers it with Philly-girl no-bullshit attitude and choir-singer conviction. That's the way she sings everything on the astoundingly eclectic Denials, Delusions and Decisions, which represents the latest from the Philly soul revolution. Wright's voice can be full of frustration, yet somehow she's poised enough to execute coy, remarkably agile jazz-diva leaps. And no matter what kind of mood she's in -- whether slithering like a predator through a hip-hop joint (the string-orchestra-blessed "Ain't Nobody Playin'") or carving up a rival ("2 Two Many") or offering a nine-minute motivational sermon on the topic of "Self Love" -- Wright has that gift for telling a story with just the bends and cracks in her voice. (TOM MOON)
Montell Jordan Montell Jordan (Uni)
Montell Jordan's last big hit, 1999's "Get It On Tonite," was all about scheming behind his lady's back and being a player. Well, it seems the ball is no longer in his court. On his self-titled fifth album, we find Jordan on his knees, discovering what happens when you mistreat the one you love. On the jazzy ballad "You're the Right One," he expresses his regret at losing his girl . . . but only after he finds her at the altar with someone else. "Can't Take It No More" is more of the same too-little too-late lamentation. Just guess the theme of "Coulda Woulda Shoulda." But, Jordan isn't all tears and roses. For those who long for the partying Jordan of yore, there's "MJ's Anthem," a slicker and more cynical "This Is How We Do It" for the Jordan of 2002. Here, he gives his usual props to the West Side, chastises bootleggers and greedy record companies and touts his platinum status enough to make Kid Rock blush. On the rest of the album, Jordan doesn't offer anything that drastically deviates from what we've heard from him before. Nevertheless, the dance anthems are still head-bobbers, the ballads are sensual, and it's a good bet to go platinum. (K.G. ROTH)
Dream Theater Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence (Elektra)
The music of Dream Theater -- a metal-flake blend of Styx drama and ELP grandeur -- seems to divide listeners into "love 'em" and "hate 'em" camps. The band's sixth album, an ambitious double-CD titled Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence, is unlikely to alter that dichotomy. The thing is, with Dream Theater, you know what you're getting: musical virtuosity and technical perfection. The five songs on Disc One have all of the above in spades, with "The Glass Prison" and "Misunderstood" ranking among the best songs in Dream Theater's catalog. It is on the second disc's all-encompassing title track, however, that the group really brings it on home. Less a song than an eight-part spiritual pilgrimage, "Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence" is a gorgeous conceptual masterpiece exploring the many facets of mental illness. Despite the seriousness of the material, lyrics are poetically matter-of-fact, but never morose or too heavy handed. Musically, influences as disparate as Pink Floyd, Metallica and Yes creep in and lend an uplifting feel to the work. For fans of Dream Theater, it is "Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence" that will separate the zealots from the mere enthusiasts. (GAIL WORLEY)
Dawn Robinson Dawn (Q/Atlantic)
Dawn Robinson, late of the girl group extraordinaire En Vogue and the funky-cool Lucy Pearl, finally strikes out on her solo own with this stellar self-titled collection. Moving beyond the Lucy Pearl unpleasantness and her much-publicized financial troubles, Robinson successfully explores the different aspects of R&B that have always informed her singing and songwriting while establishing an M.O. removed from her sometimes turbulent career thus far. The album's midempo opener "Set It Off" moves with the same easy sexiness that helped Michael Jackson sway hips with "Off the Wall," providing a perfect entree into Robinson's declaration of independence. The Afro-Caribbean percussive rhythms of "How Long" provide gravitas to the whispers of Robinson's En Vogue past, while the funk-rocker "You Will Never" makes clear that she won't be hampered by unpleasant memories, even fresh ones. The richness of Robinson's voice is undeniable; her ability to choose producers that advance her vision (Ivan Barios and Carvin Haggins, fresh from helping shape Jill Scott's success, for instance) is a welcome surprise. (ELSIE ST. LEGER)
The Extra Glenns Martial Arts Weekend (Absolutely Kosher)
John Darnielle (The Mountain Goats, "Last Plane to Jakarta" fanzine) and Franklin Bruno (Nothing Painted Blue, freelance rock critic) revisit their decade-old side-project, which dates back to the early days of the Shrimper label, and fashion an indie-rock travelogue that poetically transports listeners to destinations as far-flung as Baltimore, Sebastopol (California), Sydney and Marrakesh. The twelve-song effort reveals the pair's shared predilection for literate wordplay -- yes, that's a reference to Kierkegaard in "Going to Michigan" -- and nimble guitar work. Bruno's also a very capable pianist ("Baltimore," "Twelve Hands High," the cover of Leonard Cohen's "Memories") whose diverse keyboard work keeps Martial Arts Weekend as entertaining and surprising as Darnielle's lyrics. (MARK WOODLIEF)
Kasey Chambers Barricades and Brickwalls (Warner Brothers)
It's the down-under sequel to O Brother, Where Art Thou?: The child of nomad hippie parents, Kasey Chambers grows up hunting foxes in the wilds of the Australian outback and living in a house without electricity or even a radio. One day Dad takes his twelve-year-old daughter to a Lucinda Williams concert, and her fate is sealed: Chambers would become an Aussie superstar, while still retaining the magical naivete of a true country girl who can summon the bygone keen of abandoned bluegrass angels.
Chambers may hail from the land of kangaroos and AC/DC, but her spirit lies in the Tennessee mountain home of pre-showbiz Dolly Parton, wrapped in poverty's coat of many colors and pleading with the local harlot not to steal her man. On her second album, this instinctive craftswoman sings country with a renegade grace that Nashville tends to smother. "I'll be damned if you're not my man before the sun goes down," she declares within the first swaggering minute, as cranky guitars pound down power chords.
Like kindred souls Emmylou Harris, Steve Earle and Gram Parsons, Chambers shakes hands with rock, pop and blues while standing steadfastly on country soil. Produced by her brother Nash, Barricades and Brickwalls' no-nonsense clarity could've been recorded anytime during the last forty-odd years. Just as the age-old folk and bluegrass tunes of O Brother, Where Art Thou? resonated with a new audience, this restless twenty-five-year-old updates yesteryear's classic forms principally through her assured presence. Chambers sings with the expressiveness of a Grand Old Opry entertainer: Unlike singer-songwriters who excel at the internal mechanics of their craft but fumble the notes and sound the same on every song, Chambers is a performer.
But she's also a vibrant tunesmith, with famous fans to prove it. This sequel comes loaded with cult-hero cameos -- veteran Nashville picker Buddy Miller, Australian rock icon Paul Kelly, Pennsylvanian songwriter Matthew Ryan, Aussie punkabilly band the Living End and Lucinda Williams herself. As that genre-crossing lineup suggests, Barricades and Brickwalls authoritatively flips from style to style. "A Little Bit Lonesome" is as blue as swingin' bluegrass can get, and her cover of "Still Feeling Blue" sounds more like an AM country classic than Gram Parsons' own masterfully played but vocally strained 1973 original. The snappy drums and melancholic guitars of "Not Pretty Enough" edge Chambers into glossy Lilith Fair territory without selling short the song's hurt. She's even better at playing the remorseless heartbreaker on haunted, ball-busting tracks like "Runaway Train" and "Crossfire" as she connects the dots between Hank Williams and Polly Jean Harvey with a charisma that's simultaneously masculine and feminine, ghostly and contemporary. It's her own star power -- not her friends' -- that holds together the album's extremes.
Chambers' vocal chops also mask her lyrical shortcomings. Without her nuanced delivery, all the thunder, wind, birds, water, wise men and anchors of "This Mountain" wouldn't amount to anything beyond well-worn generalities. Her nature references get more specific on "Nullabor Song," an ode to childhood days spent chasing dingoes, but she still cries rivers and mixes metaphors. Her pen doesn't sharpen when it turns to human relationships, as hackneyed phrases collapsing against each other throughout "Falling Into You" attest. Her best lines sound like throwaways: "If you don't hate me, you'll learn to," she spits on "Crossfire." "If you're not pissed off at the world then you're just not paying attention," she wails in "Ignorance."
Despite Nashville's flaws, the city still shoots out sharper lyrics than most rockers give it credit for. If Chambers could welcome that wit and bring her outback scope to that city's shortsighted outlook, they'd both be better off. For now, Chambers is a star Method actress writing her own B-movie script. She's got the technique, soul and experience. All she needs now are some words worthy of her cry's own poetry. (BARRY WALTERS)
(January 28, 2002)
