TRANS AM
Futureworld (Thrill Jockey)
Like a moth to light, I am inextricably drawn to electronic music, and I freely admit to giving
most electronica the benefit of the doubt. So when Trans Am’s latest release, Futureworld,
arrived, the reflex inclination was to like it. Little did I know that instead of getting a sweet taste of trailblazing techno, I had just purchased a one-way ticket to electro-prog hell.
The Washington, D.C., trio started out in the early ’90s as a post-rock band that took
humorous license in remodeling the overwrought sounds of ’70s and ’80s groups like BTO,
Boston and Yes. Later in their career, they toned down the guitar onslaught and added a heaping scoop of retro-techno. That move garnered some undeserved comparisons to early New Order, but Trans Am never completely abandoned its prog leanings, as the overuse of computerized vocals and unconvincing crescendos on Futureworld clearly shows.
Synthesized vocals really only sounded good once, and that was on Kraftwerk’s Trans
Europe Express back in the ’70s, when the technique was still a novelty. Now we’re all aware of the possibilities - and, in this case, pitfalls - of technology, so on Futureworld, the “synging” goes beyond cliche to become downright annoying. Take “Television Eyes”: It starts out as a thumping tribute to Joy Division, but it’s horribly mangled by vocoders and ends up as pure schlock. Not only are the HAL 9000 vocals irritating, on this album they’re damn near
omnipresent. And when Trans Am ditches the vocals altogether, as on “Futureworld II” and
“Positron,” the hookless and primitivistic droning that’s left is about as exciting as another Yes
reunion.
What’s even more infuriating is to hear a song like “Sad and Young,” which shows that Trans
Am is capable of catchy, shoe-gazing pop. But that’s the last track on the album, and you will
have my heartfelt admiration if you make it that far before ripping this CD out of your player. If
you do slog through the first nine tracks without losing your sanity, I’ve got some GTR albums
you can have.
-Matthew Hilburn
HIP-HOP FROM THE TOP:
It took a while for the do-it-yourself spirit of indie rock to infiltrate
the hip-hop world. The genre has, especially recently, been dominated by larger-than-life personalities who need a costly image-making media machine to do their frontin’. Now, with literally hundreds of DJs and MCs seemingly fed up with the state of big-time hip-hop, an entire culture of indie hip-hop is starting to emerge. Technology is permitting artists to make their own records at low cost and allowing them to distribute their wares through nontraditional means. The hip-hop fan no longer has to be satisfied with the mainstream offerings at the local record store but can surf the Internet straight into the previously obscure world of underground hip-hop. This often-impenetrable realm has been buried so deep that getting even a whiff of all that is out there was, until now, nearly impossible. Even if you did have your finger on the pulse of this burgeoning scene, most underground mix tapes and records were only available at shows or big-city record stores, if at all. Not anymore.
“We’re struggling to keep up with demand,” says Ed Wong, president of Sandbox Automatic
(www.sandboxautomatic.com), a Web-based record store specializing in bringing underground
hip-hop into the daylight. “And it’s all been from word of mouth.”
Sandbox Automatic began in 1995 as a source of information on the NYC hip-hop scene, but in 1997 it began to sell records over the Internet. Last year, the company moved a half-million dollars of merchandise but is expected to do between 50 and 75 percent more business this year. According to Wong, Sandbox now does about 1 percent of the sales for a major album like Black Star and between 15 and 20 percent for more obscure artists.
If you’re after 12-inch singles, vinyl LPs, CDs or mix tapes, Sandbox has it all. Their
catalog has everything from well-known hip-hop labels such as Rawkus, Tommy Boy and Hip Hop Slam to obscure CDs by artists such as Eligh, the Grouch and Abstract Tribe Unique. Some of these undiscovered artists’ CDs look as if they had been made at home; the sound, on the other hand, is fresh, hard-hitting and thumping. For lesser-known acts - and, believe me, a quick scan of the Sandbox catalog will give you an idea of just how many there are - Sandbox provides reliable and cheap distribution, and saves the artists the hassle of having to keep track of orders themselves.
The look of the Web site is bare-bones, but don’t let the simplicity fool you. The staggering diversity of titles reads like a who’s who of underground hip-hop. Many of the listings have “abstracts” that, in addition to listing the album’s tracks, give a brief description of the music. If you want more
information on Sandbox-affiliated artists and labels, there are extensive links to individual artists’ and labels’ Web sites.
One word of warning for hip-hop fans who steer their browsers in Sandbox’s direction: Be ready to drop some cash. (MH)
It took a while for the do-it-yourself spirit of indie rock to infiltrate
the hip-hop world. The genre has, especially recently, been dominated by larger-than-life personalities who need a costly image-making media machine to do their frontin’. Now, with literally hundreds of DJs and MCs seemingly fed up with the state of big-time hip-hop, an entire culture of indie hip-hop is starting to emerge. Technology is permitting artists to make their own records at low cost and allowing them to distribute their wares through nontraditional means. The hip-hop fan no longer has to be satisfied with the mainstream offerings at the local record store but can surf the Internet straight into the previously obscure world of underground hip-hop. This often-impenetrable realm has been buried so deep that getting even a whiff of all that is out there was, until now, nearly impossible. Even if you did have your finger on the pulse of this burgeoning scene, most underground mix tapes and records were only available at shows or big-city record stores, if at all. Not anymore.
“We’re struggling to keep up with demand,” says Ed Wong, president of Sandbox Automatic
(www.sandboxautomatic.com), a Web-based record store specializing in bringing underground
hip-hop into the daylight. “And it’s all been from word of mouth.”
Sandbox Automatic began in 1995 as a source of information on the NYC hip-hop scene, but in 1997 it began to sell records over the Internet. Last year, the company moved a half-million dollars of merchandise but is expected to do between 50 and 75 percent more business this year. According to Wong, Sandbox now does about 1 percent of the sales for a major album like Black Star and between 15 and 20 percent for more obscure artists.
If you’re after 12-inch singles, vinyl LPs, CDs or mix tapes, Sandbox has it all. Their
catalog has everything from well-known hip-hop labels such as Rawkus, Tommy Boy and Hip Hop Slam to obscure CDs by artists such as Eligh, the Grouch and Abstract Tribe Unique. Some of these undiscovered artists’ CDs look as if they had been made at home; the sound, on the other hand, is fresh, hard-hitting and thumping. For lesser-known acts - and, believe me, a quick scan of the Sandbox catalog will give you an idea of just how many there are - Sandbox provides reliable and cheap distribution, and saves the artists the hassle of having to keep track of orders themselves.
The look of the Web site is bare-bones, but don’t let the simplicity fool you. The staggering diversity of titles reads like a who’s who of underground hip-hop. Many of the listings have “abstracts” that, in addition to listing the album’s tracks, give a brief description of the music. If you want more
information on Sandbox-affiliated artists and labels, there are extensive links to individual artists’ and labels’ Web sites.
One word of warning for hip-hop fans who steer their browsers in Sandbox’s direction: Be ready to drop some cash. (MH)
Think back to the last time you had a really bizarre dream, the kind in which familiar places suddenly become strange, friends metamorphose and the rules of physics collapse. Now try to imagine the soundtrack. [Entire article]
R.L. Burnside
Friday, April 30; Blue Note (Columbia, Mo.)
For alcohol-fueled, down-and-dirty blues, it doesn’t get much better than
R.L. Burnside. The Mississippi hill- country native has been toiling away in
relative obscurity since the ’50s, releasing precious few recordings for the
Arhoolie and Vogue blues labels. After being discovered in the ’60s by
bluesologist George Mitchell, Burnside made sporadic festival appearances but
devoted most of his time to farming and the occasional gig at Junior Kimbrough’s
Holly Springs juke joint. The ’90s has seen the 72-year-old bluesman discovered
yet again. He recorded A Ass Pocket of Whiskey with Jon Spencer for the hip
Matador label; he has toured extensively; and he even worked with Beck’s
mixmaster, Tom Rothrock, on 1998’s hit-and-miss experimentation with blues
remixing, Come On In (Fat Possum).
Despite the forays into
neo-blues and techno,
there’s no mistaking a
Burnside tune. They’re
raunchy and raw, but what
really makes them stand out
are the deeply hypnotic and
haunting grooves Burnside
can dig with just a few
plucks on his six-string and
a bellowing howl from deep
down in his ample gut. It
won’t take you long to hear
that Burnside learned how to
mine one chord for all its
emotion from Mississippi
Fred McDowell, one of the
genre’s masters. Just listen
to 1994’s rip-roaring Too
Bad Jim - the most ass-kickin’ blues album to come out of Mississippi in a
long time - to see what I’m talking about. This gritty work, along with its
predecessor, 1991’s Bad Luck City, places Burnside on a par with other greats
such as Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker, to whom Burnside owes a great
debt. Backing Burnside is his family band, Sound Machine, featuring his son
Dwayne on bass and son-in-law Calvin Jackson on drums. Fuel up your car, fill
up your ass pocket and make the drive to Columbia to see one of the finest
purveyors of deep-fried blues strut his down-home stuff. (MH)
Friday, April 30; Blue Note (Columbia, Mo.)
For alcohol-fueled, down-and-dirty blues, it doesn’t get much better than
R.L. Burnside. The Mississippi hill- country native has been toiling away in
relative obscurity since the ’50s, releasing precious few recordings for the
Arhoolie and Vogue blues labels. After being discovered in the ’60s by
bluesologist George Mitchell, Burnside made sporadic festival appearances but
devoted most of his time to farming and the occasional gig at Junior Kimbrough’s
Holly Springs juke joint. The ’90s has seen the 72-year-old bluesman discovered
yet again. He recorded A Ass Pocket of Whiskey with Jon Spencer for the hip
Matador label; he has toured extensively; and he even worked with Beck’s
mixmaster, Tom Rothrock, on 1998’s hit-and-miss experimentation with blues
remixing, Come On In (Fat Possum).
Despite the forays into
neo-blues and techno,
there’s no mistaking a
Burnside tune. They’re
raunchy and raw, but what
really makes them stand out
are the deeply hypnotic and
haunting grooves Burnside
can dig with just a few
plucks on his six-string and
a bellowing howl from deep
down in his ample gut. It
won’t take you long to hear
that Burnside learned how to
mine one chord for all its
emotion from Mississippi
Fred McDowell, one of the
genre’s masters. Just listen
to 1994’s rip-roaring Too
Bad Jim - the most ass-kickin’ blues album to come out of Mississippi in a
long time - to see what I’m talking about. This gritty work, along with its
predecessor, 1991’s Bad Luck City, places Burnside on a par with other greats
such as Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker, to whom Burnside owes a great
debt. Backing Burnside is his family band, Sound Machine, featuring his son
Dwayne on bass and son-in-law Calvin Jackson on drums. Fuel up your car, fill
up your ass pocket and make the drive to Columbia to see one of the finest
purveyors of deep-fried blues strut his down-home stuff. (MH)
Landlocked St. Louis is hardly the place you'd expect to find an internationally acclaimed reggae label: There aren't exactly throngs of dreadlocked Rastafarians walking the streets; you'd be hard-pressed to find much reggae on mainstream radio; and, unfortunately, you could probably count the number of reggae concerts in the past year on one hand. [Entire article]
Concert Preview for Sebadoh
By Matthew Hilburn
(This is the unedited version. I forgotto download the edited version while it was up on the Web.)
Sebadoh takes a schizophrenic approach to songwriting. Creative chores are split between Lou Barlow, a popster at heart with folk tendencies and Jason Loewenstein, a punk with a knack for overindulging in distortion. This incoherent tact has often hamstrung studio sets, but the creative duality translates well to the stage largely because it affords them a chance to pick and choose from the highlights of a long, sometimes brilliant career.
Their latest offering, The Sebadoh, is a typical bipolar work. Imagine it as a buffet. As you pick up your plate, your hunger grows as you gaze at the fifteen entrees in front of you. After all, these guys have concocted some spectacularly delicious music, and it’s been a while since their last release, Harmacy, whetted your appetite with its handful of savory tracks.
Unfortunately, like most of Sebadoh’s previous outings, except for III perhaps, the pickings are very hit and miss and sure to leave your stomach growling.
If only Lou Barlow would cook up all the songs on a Sebadoh album. Maybe then, their releases wouldn’t be the disappointing listens they invariably are. The Sebadoh offers up some new sonic trimmings in the form of electronic dabbles and a not-so-lo-fi production quality, but the main courses are sure to leave you sifting through the tracks in search of more tasty tidbits.
The Lou Barlow songs, if they were buffet food, would be like those dainty little baby quiches - they’re good, but there are never enough to fill you up. Barlow shows his best Nick Drake impersonation on most of his tracks, especially on "Tree" and "Love Is Stronger" and the two most groovin’ tracks, "Colorblind" and "Thrive," are also penned by Barlow. The Loewenstein songs (and the one tune whipped up by new drummer Russ Pollard), on the other hand, would be more like those forlorn meatballs sitting covered in gravy skin - plenty to go around but off-putting to all but those with the heartiest of appetites. Despite these recurring problems, a Sebadoh show is delectable and yes, filling thanks largely to the smorgasbord of great songs dating back to 1989.
By Matthew Hilburn
(This is the unedited version. I forgotto download the edited version while it was up on the Web.)
Sebadoh takes a schizophrenic approach to songwriting. Creative chores are split between Lou Barlow, a popster at heart with folk tendencies and Jason Loewenstein, a punk with a knack for overindulging in distortion. This incoherent tact has often hamstrung studio sets, but the creative duality translates well to the stage largely because it affords them a chance to pick and choose from the highlights of a long, sometimes brilliant career.
Their latest offering, The Sebadoh, is a typical bipolar work. Imagine it as a buffet. As you pick up your plate, your hunger grows as you gaze at the fifteen entrees in front of you. After all, these guys have concocted some spectacularly delicious music, and it’s been a while since their last release, Harmacy, whetted your appetite with its handful of savory tracks.
Unfortunately, like most of Sebadoh’s previous outings, except for III perhaps, the pickings are very hit and miss and sure to leave your stomach growling.
If only Lou Barlow would cook up all the songs on a Sebadoh album. Maybe then, their releases wouldn’t be the disappointing listens they invariably are. The Sebadoh offers up some new sonic trimmings in the form of electronic dabbles and a not-so-lo-fi production quality, but the main courses are sure to leave you sifting through the tracks in search of more tasty tidbits.
The Lou Barlow songs, if they were buffet food, would be like those dainty little baby quiches - they’re good, but there are never enough to fill you up. Barlow shows his best Nick Drake impersonation on most of his tracks, especially on "Tree" and "Love Is Stronger" and the two most groovin’ tracks, "Colorblind" and "Thrive," are also penned by Barlow. The Loewenstein songs (and the one tune whipped up by new drummer Russ Pollard), on the other hand, would be more like those forlorn meatballs sitting covered in gravy skin - plenty to go around but off-putting to all but those with the heartiest of appetites. Despite these recurring problems, a Sebadoh show is delectable and yes, filling thanks largely to the smorgasbord of great songs dating back to 1989.
Justin Hinds and the Dominoes
Wednesday, April 28; Club Viva
The hermitlike Justin Hinds is one of the greatest singers ever to emerge from
Jamaica. His long career spans pivotal transitional periods in Jamaican music as
ska evolved into rock steady, which later gave birth to reggae. The
sugar-throated Hinds began his career as a cruise-ship crooner, but it wasn’t
long before his prodigious talents were discovered by legendary Treasure Island
studio producer Duke Reid. As frontman for the Dominoes, which included other
notable stars Dennis Sinclair and Junior Dixon, Hinds began to record at a
ferocious pace. His first hit was 1963’s ska classic “Carry Go Bring Come,”
which was soon followed by a slew of hits that included “King Samuel” and
“Jump Out of the Frying Pan.” Moving to slower rock steady, Hinds kept
churning out such winners as “On a Saturday Night” and “Here I Stand.” Hinds’
relationship with Reid resulted in hundreds of singles, and he was Reid’s
biggest-selling vocalist from 1963-1972. After the bond between Hinds and Reid
inevitably dissolved, Hinds delved into seductive reggae, which also came
naturally to the gifted vocalist. A highlight of this period was 1975’s Jezebel
(Island).
Hinds was always an uncomfortable star, remaining somewhat of a recluse in
his rural home in Steertown, St. Ann. By the late ’70s, Hinds had all but left
what he called the rat race of Kingston behind, but at one point, convinced by
friends to return to recording, he was held up at gunpoint outside the studio. That
violent incident was the last straw for Hinds, who would remain virtually out of
sight until the mid-’80s.
It wasn’t until 1985 that St. Louis’ Nighthawk Records coaxed the all-but-
forgotten Hinds to record the excellent Travel with Love, on which he was
backed by the Wailers. Nighthawk also released Know Jah Better in 1992. Since
then, the solitary singer’s recordings have been mostly compilations issued on
reggae superlabel Trojan Records. Hinds’ hiatuses never dimmed his mellifluous
vocal style, and this rare chance to catch a glimpse of one of Jamaica’s most
important and cloistered singers should not be missed. (MH)
Wednesday, April 28; Club Viva
The hermitlike Justin Hinds is one of the greatest singers ever to emerge from
Jamaica. His long career spans pivotal transitional periods in Jamaican music as
ska evolved into rock steady, which later gave birth to reggae. The
sugar-throated Hinds began his career as a cruise-ship crooner, but it wasn’t
long before his prodigious talents were discovered by legendary Treasure Island
studio producer Duke Reid. As frontman for the Dominoes, which included other
notable stars Dennis Sinclair and Junior Dixon, Hinds began to record at a
ferocious pace. His first hit was 1963’s ska classic “Carry Go Bring Come,”
which was soon followed by a slew of hits that included “King Samuel” and
“Jump Out of the Frying Pan.” Moving to slower rock steady, Hinds kept
churning out such winners as “On a Saturday Night” and “Here I Stand.” Hinds’
relationship with Reid resulted in hundreds of singles, and he was Reid’s
biggest-selling vocalist from 1963-1972. After the bond between Hinds and Reid
inevitably dissolved, Hinds delved into seductive reggae, which also came
naturally to the gifted vocalist. A highlight of this period was 1975’s Jezebel
(Island).
Hinds was always an uncomfortable star, remaining somewhat of a recluse in
his rural home in Steertown, St. Ann. By the late ’70s, Hinds had all but left
what he called the rat race of Kingston behind, but at one point, convinced by
friends to return to recording, he was held up at gunpoint outside the studio. That
violent incident was the last straw for Hinds, who would remain virtually out of
sight until the mid-’80s.
It wasn’t until 1985 that St. Louis’ Nighthawk Records coaxed the all-but-
forgotten Hinds to record the excellent Travel with Love, on which he was
backed by the Wailers. Nighthawk also released Know Jah Better in 1992. Since
then, the solitary singer’s recordings have been mostly compilations issued on
reggae superlabel Trojan Records. Hinds’ hiatuses never dimmed his mellifluous
vocal style, and this rare chance to catch a glimpse of one of Jamaica’s most
important and cloistered singers should not be missed. (MH)
SUMMER DUBBIN’
With longer, warmer days upon us, it’s time to dust off your
reggae discs or, better yet, delve into the world of recent retrospectives and new
releases.
British-based Blood and Fire has to be the best reggae label around. Not
only do they put out great music, their packaging and liner notes are as slick
and informative, if not more so, than those of any record label around. In
remembrance of the murder of dub legend King Tubby 10 years ago, Blood and
Fire has released Dub Like Dirt, an exhilarating homage to the reverend of
reverb. With 16 Bunny Lee’s Aggrovators tracks mixed by such Tubby
followers as Prince Jammy, Prince Phillip, Pat Kelly and the King himself,
Dub Like Dirt will make an excellent addition to any reggae collection. If
“Guidance Dub,” King Tubby’s reworking of Horace Andy’s hit “Guiding Star,”
doesn’t convince you that King Tubby is one of the great studio pioneers of
all time, you’d better adjust the bass settings on your stereo.
Johnny Clarke is another overlooked star of the reggae scene. Thanks again
to Blood and Fire for bringing us Dreader Dread, 1976-1978, a fine overview of
one of the sweetest Jamaican voices ever to sing. Here you’ll find Clarke’s
prodigious talents backed by reggae studio stalwarts Robbie Shakespeare
(bass), Earl “Chinna” Smith (guitar) and Sly Dunbar (drums), as well as a host of
other talented studio musicians. “Dread a Dread” is simply infectious, and so are
the covers of Peter Tosh’s “I’m the Toughest” and Bob Marley’s “Time Will Tell.”
Almost every track was mixed at King Tubby’s studio, so you can be sure the
sound is top-ranking.
If you’re still not sure, you could always grab Blood and Fire’s Heavyweight 3
sampler. It culls the best of their most recent releases, including cuts from the
albums above and will no doubt have you asking your record store to order more
Blood and Fire.
Greensleeves, another British reggae label, focuses more on new talent. One
such artist they hope will be the next neo-roots star is Bushman, a.k.a. Dwight
Duncan. His second effort, Total Commitment, updates the roots sound with
R&B, jazz and blues influences. There are also a few nods to dance-hall as well
(but it all works best when Bushman sticks with roots). The first track, “Worries
and Problems,” is a winner, but the rest of the album, though not at all bad,
pales in comparison. Still, it’s good to see younger Jamaicans returning to roots,
and we can only hope more will follow.
Make a little room next to your copy of Bob Marley’s Legend for some
lesser-known but equally good music. It’ll surely make your summer nattier.
(MH)
With longer, warmer days upon us, it’s time to dust off your
reggae discs or, better yet, delve into the world of recent retrospectives and new
releases.
British-based Blood and Fire has to be the best reggae label around. Not
only do they put out great music, their packaging and liner notes are as slick
and informative, if not more so, than those of any record label around. In
remembrance of the murder of dub legend King Tubby 10 years ago, Blood and
Fire has released Dub Like Dirt, an exhilarating homage to the reverend of
reverb. With 16 Bunny Lee’s Aggrovators tracks mixed by such Tubby
followers as Prince Jammy, Prince Phillip, Pat Kelly and the King himself,
Dub Like Dirt will make an excellent addition to any reggae collection. If
“Guidance Dub,” King Tubby’s reworking of Horace Andy’s hit “Guiding Star,”
doesn’t convince you that King Tubby is one of the great studio pioneers of
all time, you’d better adjust the bass settings on your stereo.
Johnny Clarke is another overlooked star of the reggae scene. Thanks again
to Blood and Fire for bringing us Dreader Dread, 1976-1978, a fine overview of
one of the sweetest Jamaican voices ever to sing. Here you’ll find Clarke’s
prodigious talents backed by reggae studio stalwarts Robbie Shakespeare
(bass), Earl “Chinna” Smith (guitar) and Sly Dunbar (drums), as well as a host of
other talented studio musicians. “Dread a Dread” is simply infectious, and so are
the covers of Peter Tosh’s “I’m the Toughest” and Bob Marley’s “Time Will Tell.”
Almost every track was mixed at King Tubby’s studio, so you can be sure the
sound is top-ranking.
If you’re still not sure, you could always grab Blood and Fire’s Heavyweight 3
sampler. It culls the best of their most recent releases, including cuts from the
albums above and will no doubt have you asking your record store to order more
Blood and Fire.
Greensleeves, another British reggae label, focuses more on new talent. One
such artist they hope will be the next neo-roots star is Bushman, a.k.a. Dwight
Duncan. His second effort, Total Commitment, updates the roots sound with
R&B, jazz and blues influences. There are also a few nods to dance-hall as well
(but it all works best when Bushman sticks with roots). The first track, “Worries
and Problems,” is a winner, but the rest of the album, though not at all bad,
pales in comparison. Still, it’s good to see younger Jamaicans returning to roots,
and we can only hope more will follow.
Make a little room next to your copy of Bob Marley’s Legend for some
lesser-known but equally good music. It’ll surely make your summer nattier.
(MH)
Goldie
Ring of Saturn (ffrr/Island)
If you believe the hype, Goldie is the king of drum & bass, the first techno
maestro to emerge from obscure depths of London’s jungle underground to
become a breakbeat superstar. That was until the supermodel-dating celebrity
nearly lost himself while tiptoeing in the treacherous twilight zone where
head-spinning and hard-hitting drum & bass duels (and loses to) banal jazz-funk.
After the arch and prog-ish Saturn Returnz, a high-profile, two-CD epic that
never seemed to end, Ring of Saturn, as the title suggests, finds the
gold-toothed bad boy orbiting his previous work and gravitating ever so slightly to
his more frenetic and whacked-out origins. Thank God - let’s hope the
jazz-funk fusion Martians never abduct him again.
Still, for all of Goldie’s introspection, Ring of Saturn finds the one-time
innovator sounding uncharacteristically dated. With other, more intelligent and
deeper trance-inducing drum & bass out there - LTJ Bukem, DJ Crystl, Roni
Size and Omni Trio, to name a few - it’s hard to see why you’d go back to
Goldie.
Though Ring of Saturn is a scaled-back, almost minimalist 40-minute
interpretation of its much longer predecessor, many of the tracks are still tinged
with the overwrought pretentiousness that castrated Saturn Returnz. “Mother VIP
(Vocal Mix)” mangles the near-druglike effects good drum & bass can elicit
simply because of the prominent vocals, which should be, at the very most,
background mantras. The same problem plagues “What You Won’t Do for Love
(Radio Edit).” Of the 10 tracks, the only ones likely to send you into your own
orbit are “Temper, Temper (Optical Remix)” and “Kaiser Salsek,” which boast
visceral beat-juggling and wide-open dubscapes that hark back to Goldie’s
earlier work, like his 1993 groundbreaking piece “Terminator,” which brought
drum & bass out from its reclusive sanctum.
So though Ring of Saturn finds Goldie returning to the same rich vein that
made him a star, in his absence others were able to mine their own riches,
leaving drum & bass king Goldie with nothing left but fool’s gold.
-Matthew Hilburn
Ring of Saturn (ffrr/Island)
If you believe the hype, Goldie is the king of drum & bass, the first techno
maestro to emerge from obscure depths of London’s jungle underground to
become a breakbeat superstar. That was until the supermodel-dating celebrity
nearly lost himself while tiptoeing in the treacherous twilight zone where
head-spinning and hard-hitting drum & bass duels (and loses to) banal jazz-funk.
After the arch and prog-ish Saturn Returnz, a high-profile, two-CD epic that
never seemed to end, Ring of Saturn, as the title suggests, finds the
gold-toothed bad boy orbiting his previous work and gravitating ever so slightly to
his more frenetic and whacked-out origins. Thank God - let’s hope the
jazz-funk fusion Martians never abduct him again.
Still, for all of Goldie’s introspection, Ring of Saturn finds the one-time
innovator sounding uncharacteristically dated. With other, more intelligent and
deeper trance-inducing drum & bass out there - LTJ Bukem, DJ Crystl, Roni
Size and Omni Trio, to name a few - it’s hard to see why you’d go back to
Goldie.
Though Ring of Saturn is a scaled-back, almost minimalist 40-minute
interpretation of its much longer predecessor, many of the tracks are still tinged
with the overwrought pretentiousness that castrated Saturn Returnz. “Mother VIP
(Vocal Mix)” mangles the near-druglike effects good drum & bass can elicit
simply because of the prominent vocals, which should be, at the very most,
background mantras. The same problem plagues “What You Won’t Do for Love
(Radio Edit).” Of the 10 tracks, the only ones likely to send you into your own
orbit are “Temper, Temper (Optical Remix)” and “Kaiser Salsek,” which boast
visceral beat-juggling and wide-open dubscapes that hark back to Goldie’s
earlier work, like his 1993 groundbreaking piece “Terminator,” which brought
drum & bass out from its reclusive sanctum.
So though Ring of Saturn finds Goldie returning to the same rich vein that
made him a star, in his absence others were able to mine their own riches,
leaving drum & bass king Goldie with nothing left but fool’s gold.
-Matthew Hilburn
Until recently, the designation "big in Japan" was, for all intents and purposes, a slap in the face to most pop/rock musicians. [Entire article]
VARIOUS ARTISTS
Respect Is Burning, Volume 2 (Astralwerks)
Why is it that most people, even music lovers, in this country roll their eyes at the mere mention of the word “techno”? Honestly, it always leaves me a bit puzzled. That is, until I heard Respect Is Burning, Volume 2, a collection of French dance music made for people on Ecstasy, who - one could deduce from this fluffy CD - gush, giggle and guffaw at anything wiith a beat.
Respect Is Burning showcases 11 mostly indistinguishable house tracks, all hovering around the interminable seven-minute mark. They all seem to slog into one another without any noticeable difference. The CD cover says they’re all by different artists, but the inspiration for nearly all of them, without a doubt, is Chic, the kings of disco.
Complete with leather-lunged divas belting out the platitudes, disco high-hats keeping up a 120-beats-per-minute pace, faux-funk bass grooves and the occasional Nile Rodgers riff, nothing here caused me to hit the rewind button to go back for more. Instead, I wanted to get out the old Chic CDs and reminisce.
So, for what it’s worth, here’s what you’ll find on Respect Is Burning: Daft Punk, Dimitri from Paris, Les Rhythmes Digitales, Freeeze, Stardust and Motorbass, as well as New York’s Romanthony and Chezere and others.
Respect Is Burning reminds me of MoWax’s Mo Groove Volume 1 compilation from the early ’90s, which featured forgettable tracks from Federation and Marden Hill but was spared from the trade-in bin by one track from DJ Shadow. There’s no DJ Shadow on this CD, but if there is a saving grace to be found here, it would have to be Clement’s “Casa Campo,” an appealing, if slightly repetitive, mix of flamencoesque guitar and high bpm.
Respect Is Burning should go down in flames as retro-chic for retro-minded folks who don’t demand much from their music. If you want some real music to dance the night away, go buy a Chic album, because it’s their lush groove and soul that this album tries, very unsuccessfully, to emulate. Burn, baby, burn.
-Matthew Hilburn
Respect Is Burning, Volume 2 (Astralwerks)
Why is it that most people, even music lovers, in this country roll their eyes at the mere mention of the word “techno”? Honestly, it always leaves me a bit puzzled. That is, until I heard Respect Is Burning, Volume 2, a collection of French dance music made for people on Ecstasy, who - one could deduce from this fluffy CD - gush, giggle and guffaw at anything wiith a beat.
Respect Is Burning showcases 11 mostly indistinguishable house tracks, all hovering around the interminable seven-minute mark. They all seem to slog into one another without any noticeable difference. The CD cover says they’re all by different artists, but the inspiration for nearly all of them, without a doubt, is Chic, the kings of disco.
Complete with leather-lunged divas belting out the platitudes, disco high-hats keeping up a 120-beats-per-minute pace, faux-funk bass grooves and the occasional Nile Rodgers riff, nothing here caused me to hit the rewind button to go back for more. Instead, I wanted to get out the old Chic CDs and reminisce.
So, for what it’s worth, here’s what you’ll find on Respect Is Burning: Daft Punk, Dimitri from Paris, Les Rhythmes Digitales, Freeeze, Stardust and Motorbass, as well as New York’s Romanthony and Chezere and others.
Respect Is Burning reminds me of MoWax’s Mo Groove Volume 1 compilation from the early ’90s, which featured forgettable tracks from Federation and Marden Hill but was spared from the trade-in bin by one track from DJ Shadow. There’s no DJ Shadow on this CD, but if there is a saving grace to be found here, it would have to be Clement’s “Casa Campo,” an appealing, if slightly repetitive, mix of flamencoesque guitar and high bpm.
Respect Is Burning should go down in flames as retro-chic for retro-minded folks who don’t demand much from their music. If you want some real music to dance the night away, go buy a Chic album, because it’s their lush groove and soul that this album tries, very unsuccessfully, to emulate. Burn, baby, burn.
-Matthew Hilburn
Rob Swift has fat ambitions: He wants to change the way you hear the turntable. [Entire article]
SCHNEIDER TM
Moist (City Slang UK)
Robotronic, electro-ambient - whatever you want to call the genre - it would seem, has come full circle. Now, some 25 years after Kraftwerk plugged in their pocket calculators and programmed the first primitive beeps and blips of what would become the electronic-music revolution, the Germans are at it again, this time building on innovations made by English and Americans who drove Kraftwerk’s autobahn to uncharted and wholly warped dimensions.
One German who must have been listening to all of this is Schneider TM, a.k.a. Dirk Dresselhaus, who picks up the creative fires for sonic wanderlust from fellow one-man analog geeks Aphex Twin and Plastikman - fire, to be sure, because Moist is one of the warmest electro-ambient albums around and a far cry from the coolly chromatic Kraftwerk.
This is not to say Moist is a masterpiece like the Twin’s Selected Ambient Works 85-92, but it hints at abounding potential and, yes, even some emotion. On Moist, Schneider TM seems to be searching for his own niche, and the result is a refreshing sense of experimentation that along the way ranges from emulating Two Lone Swordsmen on the opener, “Moist,” to My Bloody Valentine on “Starfuck.” Dresselhaus also claims to have been influenced by the Velvet Underground, although that’s not readily apparent, except maybe if you consider the smeared guitar feedback on “Starfuck.” Sure, there are some misses - the glaring faux-funk misstep “Moonboots,” for example - but nothing here is too minimal to grasp or too jarring to give you a headache.
In fact, one might even go so far as to call this a pop album, because so many of the tracks are immediately rewarding and accessible. The entire album is liberally sprinkled with catchy hooks (most notably “Masters”), “Eiweiss” hints at melancholy and the closer, “Camping,” affects a near-convincing poignancy.
Until recently, one could count the tasteful contributions the Germans have made to popular music on one hand, but now there seems to be a quickly fermenting scene in the land of beer and sauerkraut with artists like To Rococo Rot, Burger/Ink, Pole, and Mouse on Mars all creating a buzz. You’ll find no 99 red balloons or big-haired scorpions among these new technophiles, so add Schneider TM to the growing list of German musicians to watch and listen to. After all, Germany is long overdue for another seminal artist like Kraftwerk.
-Matthew Hilburn
Moist (City Slang UK)
Robotronic, electro-ambient - whatever you want to call the genre - it would seem, has come full circle. Now, some 25 years after Kraftwerk plugged in their pocket calculators and programmed the first primitive beeps and blips of what would become the electronic-music revolution, the Germans are at it again, this time building on innovations made by English and Americans who drove Kraftwerk’s autobahn to uncharted and wholly warped dimensions.
One German who must have been listening to all of this is Schneider TM, a.k.a. Dirk Dresselhaus, who picks up the creative fires for sonic wanderlust from fellow one-man analog geeks Aphex Twin and Plastikman - fire, to be sure, because Moist is one of the warmest electro-ambient albums around and a far cry from the coolly chromatic Kraftwerk.
This is not to say Moist is a masterpiece like the Twin’s Selected Ambient Works 85-92, but it hints at abounding potential and, yes, even some emotion. On Moist, Schneider TM seems to be searching for his own niche, and the result is a refreshing sense of experimentation that along the way ranges from emulating Two Lone Swordsmen on the opener, “Moist,” to My Bloody Valentine on “Starfuck.” Dresselhaus also claims to have been influenced by the Velvet Underground, although that’s not readily apparent, except maybe if you consider the smeared guitar feedback on “Starfuck.” Sure, there are some misses - the glaring faux-funk misstep “Moonboots,” for example - but nothing here is too minimal to grasp or too jarring to give you a headache.
In fact, one might even go so far as to call this a pop album, because so many of the tracks are immediately rewarding and accessible. The entire album is liberally sprinkled with catchy hooks (most notably “Masters”), “Eiweiss” hints at melancholy and the closer, “Camping,” affects a near-convincing poignancy.
Until recently, one could count the tasteful contributions the Germans have made to popular music on one hand, but now there seems to be a quickly fermenting scene in the land of beer and sauerkraut with artists like To Rococo Rot, Burger/Ink, Pole, and Mouse on Mars all creating a buzz. You’ll find no 99 red balloons or big-haired scorpions among these new technophiles, so add Schneider TM to the growing list of German musicians to watch and listen to. After all, Germany is long overdue for another seminal artist like Kraftwerk.
-Matthew Hilburn
Abyssinians
Tuesday, Feb. 9; La Onda
If you’re a reggae fan, I shouldn’t have to give you any reasons to go see the Abyssinians, because you no doubt already know them from their seminal roots masterpiece Satta Massagana and its dub counterpart, Declaration of Dub, both of which rank as pillars of reggae. The Jamaican trio has been making records since 1969, and the hit single from their debut of the same name, “Satta Massagana,” has since become an oft-covered standard (sadly, the album was out of print until it was re-released by Heartbeat Records last year). Early in their career, they were known primarily in Jamaica, but they later exploded onto the world stage with 1978’s highly acclaimed Arise. One of the most fiercely Rastafarian bands around, the Abyssinians may not be the tightest vocal trio to emerge from Jamaica, but they are one of the most intensely natty; virtually every track they’ve recorded is a compelling exploration of the deepest, darkest, ganja-stoked reggae. (MH)
Tuesday, Feb. 9; La Onda
If you’re a reggae fan, I shouldn’t have to give you any reasons to go see the Abyssinians, because you no doubt already know them from their seminal roots masterpiece Satta Massagana and its dub counterpart, Declaration of Dub, both of which rank as pillars of reggae. The Jamaican trio has been making records since 1969, and the hit single from their debut of the same name, “Satta Massagana,” has since become an oft-covered standard (sadly, the album was out of print until it was re-released by Heartbeat Records last year). Early in their career, they were known primarily in Jamaica, but they later exploded onto the world stage with 1978’s highly acclaimed Arise. One of the most fiercely Rastafarian bands around, the Abyssinians may not be the tightest vocal trio to emerge from Jamaica, but they are one of the most intensely natty; virtually every track they’ve recorded is a compelling exploration of the deepest, darkest, ganja-stoked reggae. (MH)
Vanilla Ice
Friday, Feb. 5; Galaxy
Vanilla Ice, a.k.a. Robert Van Winkle, once sat on top of the rap world. He sold millions of records, made two movies, made a sex book with Madonna, all the while earning dumptrucks full of money. Then his 15 minutes were up, and the man who put the V in VIP lost millions to rap kingmaker Suge Knight in a shady deal, churned out laughable cheese-rap ballads and got heavily into drugs. It seemed that His Vanillaness had melted under the heat of superstardom. Now the Iceman is trying to thaw his frozen career with a new album, Hard to Swallow (Universal); a new look; and a new-found belief in God. Gone are the parachute pants, the 6-inch pompadour and the gold chains. Instead of sporting Filas, Vanilla Ice wears ripped shirts, tattoos and a close-cropped haircut that screams for the street cred he’s never going to get. His new sound, a funk/metal hybrid reminiscent of Korn, forgoes the inane bad-boy rap, the bitch-dissin’ and the frontin’ of his earlier work and is more on the introspective tip. All of this begs the question of whether we really want to know what’s going on inside the Iceman’s mind. That indeed could be hard to swallow. Once he let himself be typecast as a clown, the image became indelible.Oh, yeah, if you must ask, he still does “Ice Ice Baby.” (MH)
Friday, Feb. 5; Galaxy
Vanilla Ice, a.k.a. Robert Van Winkle, once sat on top of the rap world. He sold millions of records, made two movies, made a sex book with Madonna, all the while earning dumptrucks full of money. Then his 15 minutes were up, and the man who put the V in VIP lost millions to rap kingmaker Suge Knight in a shady deal, churned out laughable cheese-rap ballads and got heavily into drugs. It seemed that His Vanillaness had melted under the heat of superstardom. Now the Iceman is trying to thaw his frozen career with a new album, Hard to Swallow (Universal); a new look; and a new-found belief in God. Gone are the parachute pants, the 6-inch pompadour and the gold chains. Instead of sporting Filas, Vanilla Ice wears ripped shirts, tattoos and a close-cropped haircut that screams for the street cred he’s never going to get. His new sound, a funk/metal hybrid reminiscent of Korn, forgoes the inane bad-boy rap, the bitch-dissin’ and the frontin’ of his earlier work and is more on the introspective tip. All of this begs the question of whether we really want to know what’s going on inside the Iceman’s mind. That indeed could be hard to swallow. Once he let himself be typecast as a clown, the image became indelible.Oh, yeah, if you must ask, he still does “Ice Ice Baby.” (MH)
Pan-American - Pan American (Kranky)
By Matthew Hilburn
I fell into bed exhausted, half-drunk and teetering on the edge of consciousness. I reached down for my headphones and pressed the play button as my head eased back into the soft pillow. As the ethereal, dubby sounds of Pan-American began to gently bounce over my eardrums, I felt myself being washed away into a netherworld where I could not tell if I was dreaming or fully conscious.
Mark Nelson, guitarist for space-rock outfit Labradford has gone solo under the name Pan American on this, a self-titled debut from Kranky Records. Splinters of whispers, chilly organs, faint hints of twangy guitars, space-dub bass and ratcheting electronic pings and blips recall early Aphex Twin, but the space walking sound of Pan-American is warmer, richer and more enticing. More importantly, none of the tracks begins with a cold, metallic and frightening mechanical sound which seems to have become the signature of this brand of ambient-electronica. Nothing here sounds as if it had been recorded in a post-modern slaughterhouse.
Unlike Nelson's main gig Labradford, which at times can be a bit arch, inaccessible and downright soporific, Pan-American manages, on each track, to find a compelling groove -- a very mellow, stepping groove to be sure, but one which creates an enveloping primordial musical ooze that lulls, pacifies and, odd as it may sound, invigorates. This is not boring stuff -- far from it. In fact, Nelson's adeptly structured sonic landscapes are lush, dense and highly rhythmical. Many of the tracks play on a similar melodic theme which makes them flow into one another with a calming seamlessness. In a further effort at sublime tranquillity, "Lake Supplies" utilizes a soothingly hypnotic hammer dulcimer for an additional mystic quality.
Mystical is nice, but what really separates Pan-American from the electro-ambient pack is the influence of dub. Like a warming Jamaican sunset lurking just beneath the frosty surfaces, dub's elemental heat shines through, melting each track just enough to make them vibrant. Pan-American proves that atmospheric music doesn't have to be alienating and frigid. Despite the late hour, the alcohol and the comfort of my bed, Pan-American kept me fully focused for its entirety. It was so good that when I woke up, I thought I had dreamed it.
By Matthew Hilburn
I fell into bed exhausted, half-drunk and teetering on the edge of consciousness. I reached down for my headphones and pressed the play button as my head eased back into the soft pillow. As the ethereal, dubby sounds of Pan-American began to gently bounce over my eardrums, I felt myself being washed away into a netherworld where I could not tell if I was dreaming or fully conscious.
Mark Nelson, guitarist for space-rock outfit Labradford has gone solo under the name Pan American on this, a self-titled debut from Kranky Records. Splinters of whispers, chilly organs, faint hints of twangy guitars, space-dub bass and ratcheting electronic pings and blips recall early Aphex Twin, but the space walking sound of Pan-American is warmer, richer and more enticing. More importantly, none of the tracks begins with a cold, metallic and frightening mechanical sound which seems to have become the signature of this brand of ambient-electronica. Nothing here sounds as if it had been recorded in a post-modern slaughterhouse.
Unlike Nelson's main gig Labradford, which at times can be a bit arch, inaccessible and downright soporific, Pan-American manages, on each track, to find a compelling groove -- a very mellow, stepping groove to be sure, but one which creates an enveloping primordial musical ooze that lulls, pacifies and, odd as it may sound, invigorates. This is not boring stuff -- far from it. In fact, Nelson's adeptly structured sonic landscapes are lush, dense and highly rhythmical. Many of the tracks play on a similar melodic theme which makes them flow into one another with a calming seamlessness. In a further effort at sublime tranquillity, "Lake Supplies" utilizes a soothingly hypnotic hammer dulcimer for an additional mystic quality.
Mystical is nice, but what really separates Pan-American from the electro-ambient pack is the influence of dub. Like a warming Jamaican sunset lurking just beneath the frosty surfaces, dub's elemental heat shines through, melting each track just enough to make them vibrant. Pan-American proves that atmospheric music doesn't have to be alienating and frigid. Despite the late hour, the alcohol and the comfort of my bed, Pan-American kept me fully focused for its entirety. It was so good that when I woke up, I thought I had dreamed it.
Old 97’s
Sunday, Jan. 17; the Duck Room
If you decide to check out the Old 97’s, you better make sure you’re able to slam-dance and do the Texas two-step with equal fervor. Part Mekons-esque punk and part Kinky Friedman country clowns, the Old 97’s bring a refreshing and boisterous energy to the often languid country-rock genre. The Dallas-based quartet is touring in support of its most recent release - almost a year old at this point - Too Far to Care (Elektra), which scoreed big after the irresistible single “Timebomb” was featured in the movie Clay Pigeons.
Unlike other alt-country acts such as Son Volt and the Bottle Rockets, the Old 97’s inject standard broken-heart country anthems with a full dose of Texas adrenaline, without getting too full of themselves or moving too far from their country roots. Formed in 1993, the band got its start on Chicago alt-country stalwart Bloodshot Records before jumping to the more monied pastures of a major label. They’re held together by singer-guitarist Rhett Miller’s cathartic vocals and frenzied guitar twang; he’s capable of both touching sentimentality and rip-roaring, four-on-the-floor good-time music without pretense or faux-twangy posturing. (MH)
Sunday, Jan. 17; the Duck Room
If you decide to check out the Old 97’s, you better make sure you’re able to slam-dance and do the Texas two-step with equal fervor. Part Mekons-esque punk and part Kinky Friedman country clowns, the Old 97’s bring a refreshing and boisterous energy to the often languid country-rock genre. The Dallas-based quartet is touring in support of its most recent release - almost a year old at this point - Too Far to Care (Elektra), which scoreed big after the irresistible single “Timebomb” was featured in the movie Clay Pigeons.
Unlike other alt-country acts such as Son Volt and the Bottle Rockets, the Old 97’s inject standard broken-heart country anthems with a full dose of Texas adrenaline, without getting too full of themselves or moving too far from their country roots. Formed in 1993, the band got its start on Chicago alt-country stalwart Bloodshot Records before jumping to the more monied pastures of a major label. They’re held together by singer-guitarist Rhett Miller’s cathartic vocals and frenzied guitar twang; he’s capable of both touching sentimentality and rip-roaring, four-on-the-floor good-time music without pretense or faux-twangy posturing. (MH)