New and recent releases.
Is there any more eagerly anticipated release this week than Neon Bible? The headlong momentum of “The Well and the Lighthouse” will sound familiar, as will the ear-grabbingly straining, sincere singing of Win Butler, but there is much here that finds this already ambitious band becoming even more daring. Using pipe organ on “Intervention” and “My Body Is a Cage” epitomizes this band’s willingness to say the hell with indie-rock rules and grab for all the sonic splendor they can. And it’s not just that they’ve (probably) got a bigger production budget this time out; the songwriting’s better, more assured. Yes, better than Funeral, much better.
On two listens, this is my favorite ‘70s reissue of the year. Read my rave review here.
This is a band more read about than heard, mentioned in histories of Blondie as Debbie Harry’s first band. Don’t expect to be bowled over by this rare 1968 album, or to find Harry as prominent here as in Blondie (she writes none of the songs and is far from a constant vocal presence), or you’ll be disappointed. This is a charming, well-crafted set of sunshine psych-pop with the usual folk roots, orchestral pretensions, spacey attitude, and of-their-time lyrics (including, on the amusingly titled “There Is But One Truth, Daddy,” a lengthy reading from the children’s book that gave the band its name). The goofy vaudeville rock essayed on a few tracks was never really a good idea in spite of how many bands took a crack at it, but it’s a lot less arch here than in many other bands’ hands. Overall, an enjoyable listen, downright infectious if one is inclined to the genre.
Like most Wackies productions, this is eccentric, but gloriously so. Henry’s career started in the 1960s with The Leaders, after which he was simultaneously a member of The Emotions and The Hippy Boys and then went solo. Who Do You Think I Am? is a 1985 recording that manages to combine Henry’s preference for rock steady and roots rockers with producer/label owner Lloyd “Bullwackie” Barnes’s burgeoning exploration of digital devices and beats. The balance tilts strongly towards the more traditional styles, with the electronic touches like exotic spices and the stripped-down arrangements halfway between dub and dancehall. Over it all rides Henry’s rich, mellow voice. This reissue’s a must for all reggae fans.
The subtitle is “folk and pop sounds of Syria,” which sounds pretty modest, but Souleyman is a superstar in his native country; also, this stuff doesn’t sound like folk or pop. More like double-espresso-powered electro that can’t forget traditional dance rhythms and scales but utterly transforms them. The tinny sound and tape squeals (this stuff is dubbed from 12 years’ worth of cassette releases) somehow fit the overall sound, which is such that it’s hard to tell whether some of the music comes from synthesizers or electronically treated traditional instruments. At one point it sounds like Souleyman shouts “Dervish! Dervish! Dervish” over one of the frenetically swirling solos, and most of this is definitely music to inspire wild whirling. For variety, there are a few much slower tracks, such as #4 with its lengthy oud solo accompanied by organ. Fast or slow, it’s powerful stuff.
My initial reaction to Justin Broadrick’s band Jesu was that it wasn’t Godflesh, his pioneering (in 1988!), pulverizing shotgun wedding of industrial and grindcore. Well, duh. Godflesh wasn’t Napalm Death either. On Conqueror there are still such surprises as piano, but I am sometimes reminded again of Godflesh, because the heaviness is rising. And though Broadrick hasn’t returned to growling, his vocals on some tracks are more forceful than on previous Jesu efforts. The density and abrasiveness are nowhere near Godflesh levels, but the reward is that Broadrick’s mastery of guitar timbre is easier to enjoy, sort of like My Bloody Valentine on Quaaludes.
Lucinda Williams continues her great run with a beautiful, almost meditative album featuring the production talents of Hal Willner. The musicians are a stellar crew, featuring Bill Frisell on guitars and violinist Jenny Scheinman, who provides string arrangements. But, of course, the focus is firmly on Williams’s ultra-realist lyrics and whiskey-cured vocals. For all the traumas she sings about, though, there’s an unshakeable undercurrent of hope that buoys listeners’ spirits, and as much as the music seems low-key on the surface (though there are some burning guitar solos!), palpable intensity roils underneath. All Lucinda fans will love this record.
Jain is currently a New Yorker, but comes by the British folk feel of her music naturally as a native Londoner. Multi-tracking gorgeous vocal harmonies over sparely layered instrumental tracks that can be as starkly beautiful as droning cello and viola (think John Cale’s arrangements for Nico), she’s a musical descendent of Vashti Bunyan (with a hint of Sandy Denny on the many piano-based songs); the best current comparison would be Cat Power in her quietest moments. Thanks to my pal Stu for the suggested comparisons.
Kele Okerere’s lyrics have reached a depth of emotional evocation rarely equaled in mainstream rock nowadays. It would be a shame if indie fans let the increasing polish of Bloc Party’s music turn them off to such excellent songs. This band had already demonstrated its eclecticness on its debut album; this time out the various styles are developed further. Fortunately the great momentum of their post-punk influences is not sacrificed; even in quieter moments the underlying propulsion is palpable, and quick switches from majestic brooding to energetic explosions are often heard. In the space of a few EPs and two albums, Bloc Party has vaulted from showing promise to being one of the best new British bands around.
Never mind crate digging, the new thing is archive digging, and soul is proving to be especially rewarding territory. These 1973 tracks, most previously unreleased, offer yet another sterling example. Amnesty was an Indianapolis band combining the vocal talents of The Embers and the instrumental skills of The Crimson Tide. Their mix of harmony-vocal soul with deep funk will please P-Funk fans, while occasional traces of Afrobeat recall Osibisa and Mandrill. There’s nothing about the thoroughly enjoyable music here that explains why it wasn’t released at the time, until the bit in the booklet notes that says the Lamp label for which they recorded specialized in rock. The 1970s’ loss is our gain now that this killer album has finally appeared.
