|
|
|
|
Record Reviews
AUGUST 4, 1997:
THE SEA AND CAKE
Long, tall Marcia Ball's probably had enough record reviews comparing her
music
to gumbo that she could feed a couple Third World nations with the detritus.
On her
latest album, Let Me Play With Your Poodle, Ball isn't trying any new
recipes,
because her cooking is just too good. Banging the keyboards on the ribald,
title-song
opener, Ball blends a rollicking mix of Louisiana R&B, Texas
boogie-woogie, swamp
pop, and torchy ballads by drafting some of Austin's best players. Ball's own
compositions
(she wrote five of the album's 13 tracks) more than hold up to solid covers
like
Delbert McClinton's "Can't Trust My Heart" and Randy Newman's
"Louisiana
1927," but even when she's shining on her own, some of Ball's richest
material
is a group effort: On "How Big a Fool," Ball shares singing duties
with
Doyle Bramhall, which makes me ache for more, more, more of his soulful
sound, and
"Why Women Cry," which includes gorgeous backing vocals from
Kristin DeWitt,
whose vocals rise above the Jubilettes' sweet voices and soars like a
crystalline
bird. Next time someone asks, "What does Austin music sound like?"
get
them their own Poodle to play with.
Wrong-Eyed Jesus (Luaka Bop/Warner Bros.)
The present-day South is even more complex than the now-clichéd Big
Daddy-isms
of Tennessee Williams; it's all there -- a boiling brew of sex, oppression,
guilt,
religion, and genuine menace shimmering beneath a peaceful summer bucolia.
Writers
such as Faulkner, Walker Percy, and Flannery O'Connor get right to the heart
of this,
and so does former pro surfer/Pentecostal fundamentalist/fashion
model/filmmaker/cab
driver Jim White, though the spiraling miasma of Wrong-Eyed Jesus also
pulls
in a bit of folk artist Howard Finster and evangelist Jimmy Swaggart on its
way.
The Wise Blood of rock & roll? Not really, but White's a real
storyteller,
his dark songs full of rich characters dripping with widescreen sensibility
and swathed
in religious piety, backed with an oddball acoustic soundscape reminiscent of
a kudzu-draped
Tom Waits. The electronics obscuring White's voice are annoying and
unnecessary,
especially without a lyric sheet. Yet Wrong-Eyed Jesus' ambitious
originality
can't help but impress. "Sometimes I feel so goddamned trapped by
everything
that I know," White sings, underscoring just how much he has taken in
from his
rather cataclysmic existence. Novelty? Maybe, yeah. But that doesn't stop
this enthralling
debut from being one of the year's most unexpected surprises.
BLUE MOUNTAIN Homegrown (Roadrunner)
At what point does alternative country become Americana become Bob Seger?
How
'bout on "Generic America," roughly half-way through Blue
Mountain's rugged
second album. A restless road song down any back highway into the heartland,
"Generic
America" veers a little too close to its name. Not so of opener
"Bloody
98," another cruising tune, barreling along on a banjo like the Allman
Brothers'
bus loaded with a whiskeyed-up jug band. The another-town, another-blur
"Dead
End Street," with its melancholy jangle and nice hook, also finds its
destination
back among the pines. Most of this Oxford, Mississippi trio's music
finds
its way to that weather-beaten cabin of its youth -- and in a lot livelier
fashion
than the group's 1995 debut, Dog Days, a moody, sometimes sleepy
affair reminiscent
of Son Volt or Uncle Tupelo. When Homegrown ambles gamely up to that
front
porch, on the worn voice of Cary Hudson (under the law, any musician with the
last
name "Hudson" cannot disgrace Garth), it's so tangled in a briar's
patch
of country, folk, and blues, that you begin to wonder at what point
alternative country
becomes Americana becomes Bob Seger. (Blue Mountain plays Liberty Lunch
Friday,
August 1.)
RTFM! (Reprise)
The latest effort from Cham-bana, Illinois' Poster Children is a
self-programmed
enhanced CD, but luckily for me and my technological ineptitude, the songs
are what's
worth raving about. The P-Kids approach their work, their music, as they have
for
10 years, with as much vitality, ingenuity, and enthusiasm (not to mention
volume)
as any band that's been around half/twice as long, continuing to introduce
new elements
to their blinding rock-blast. The dance beat of "21st Century"
picks up
and improves where Junior Citizen left off, and more importantly,
über-bassist
Rose Marshack is singing now. She's always had a mike, and often contributed
to the
thickness of the group's vocals; here, she's full on singing back-up, even
harmonizing,
and it's brilliant. "DreamSmall" is made sublime by Marshack's
presence,
her deceptively delicate voice aaahh-ing under the barely contained surface
tension
of the song, while "King of the Hill" provides indisputable
evidence that
her voice is a huge asset to their future direction. My advice? BTFCD!
The Lion for Real (Mouth Almighty/Mercury)
TIMOTHY LEARY Beyond Life with Timothy Leary (Mouth Almighty/Mercury)
Although these two posthumous spoken word releases both start with the
same "celebration
of a generational icon" premise, the end results couldn't be much more
disparate.
The Lion for Real is a playful yet highly congruent mix of composition
and
recitation of 17 poems from Ginsberg's Collected Works 1947-1980. The
music
builds a wandering narrative that twists and turns its way around Ginsberg's
formidable
verse. Given the first-rate assemblage of fringe composer/musicians such as
Bill
Frisell, Lenny Pickett, and Marc Ribot, the notion of music simply as a matte
for
the poetry is quickly rendered obsolete. "The Shrouded Stranger"
finds
Ribot enriching Ginsberg's images of a transient's hopeless sexual yearnings
with
locomotive rhythms and the scattershot squeaks and squabbles of industry.
Other compositions,
such as Michael Blair's dark and lonely music for "Scribble,"
suffice by
merely setting a perfect mood. The album finally explodes into bawdy and
bluesy irreverance
on "C'mon Jack," which spies Ginsberg whimpering "Spank me and
fuck
me" while Todd Rundgren makes authentic back-handed spanking noises.
When you
contrast Ginsberg's standing in American poetry with his refreshing penchant
for
silliness, you can't help but miss the guy. Leary's beyond-the-grave offering
is
more piecemeal in its approach. Culled from two conversations taken 30 years
apart,
the first eight tracks of Beyond Life are bits and pieces of Leary's
stream-of-consciousness
spliced together to create a vaguely coherent narrative about the process of
passing
on. The accompanying music is a sleek, repetitive synthscape that melds
Tangerine
Dream to Ofra Haza. A new version of the Moody Blues' "Legend of a
Mind"
and an elegy from Al Jourgensen entitled "Lion's Mouth" are also
included,
but neither really contribute much to the album's theme. More eloquent is
Ginsberg's
"A Tale of the Tribe" (originally a preface to Leary's 1971 Jail
Notes),
an eternal summation of Leary's role in history. Even though Beyond
Life isn't
the coup de grâce that The Lion for Real is, it does offer
compelling
evidence that the psychedelic experience is excellent training for the more
conventional
notion of death-with-dignity.
AUDIOWEB (Mother/Island)
Manchester may hold the world's record for the most hype over the least
decent
bands (excluding Austin, of course), but The Scene That Wouldn't Die
continues to
pump 'em out with negligible signs of surcease. New popsters Audioweb have
arrived
with surprisingly little forewarning, though much of that could be blamed on
frontman
Martin's annoyingly monotone soprano warblings. That is, after all, the first
thing
that strikes you after cueing up the CD -- "that voice," reed-thin
and
twitty, sounding like Morrissey on a twisty-balloon-poodle's-worth of helium.
Vocals
aside, the band's pop chops are strong, and while they're no competition for
Scots
hooligans Baby Chaos, Audioweb are true to their name, sucking you into a
gooey net
of catchy, dub-heavy hooks and raucous guitars. Sounds more Wolverhampton to
me,
but Brit musical geography is malleable on the best of days. Their cover of
"Bankrobber"
is inspired, beginning in the traditional Jones/Strummer mode, then easing
effortlessly
into a near full-scale rave-up by the final fourth. Not your usual Manchester
scene,
but then I suppose anything at all is better than another silly Spice Girls
clone.
Presents the Carnival featuring Refugee Allstars (Ruffhouse/Columbia)
Hip-hop is not East/West, hip-hop is worldwide. Such is the lesson of the
Carnival,
a bold musical statement so eclectic and global that it constitutes nothing
short
of a hip-hop landmark. On this solo shoutout, Jean, the Fugee's chief
cultural and
creative liaison, reveals himself not as the self-indulgent hustler with
studio tape
to burn you might expect, but as a true border-bending street poet and
renegade --
with a grasp on Harlem and Havana. Indeed, for all the witty old-skool
bounce
of "Bubblegoose" or "To All the Girls" (a freaky tip of
the hat
to Willie Nelson), the real revolution comes within the album's four closing
songs:
homespun Afro-Caribbean folk and soul authentically delivered in Haitian
Creole.
The effect of said multiculturalism, plus Latin legend Celia Cruz's priceless
cameo
on a funky retelling of "Guantanemera," is a reminder that hip-hop,
from
the Wu to MC Solar is primarily about rhythm & groove, not solely race,
class,
or economics. And just as the diversity of the Neville Brothers' loose, but
gripping,
reading of Jean's "Mona Lisa," and a spooky but respectful Marley
impression
from Jean on "Gunpowder" give more reason to reevaluate hip-hop's
traditional
lyrical xenophobia and repetitive flow, Carnival is also an excuse to
reconsider
the Fugees themselves (`Pras' Michel and Lauryn Hill surface as Allstars), a
group
whose concept has never seemed livelier. For that matter, neither has
hip-hop.
JESUS ALEMANY AND CUBANISMO Malémbe (Hannibal)
One recent Afro-Cuban release of major importance was Cubanismo,
recorded
by an all-star Cuban band organized by the brilliant trumpeter Jesus Alemany.
The
CD gained attention not only due to its excellence, but also because producer
Joe
Boyd -- in order to beat the American trade embargo -- recorded it in Havana.
It
proved so successful that Boyd cut another there with pianist Alfredo
Rodriguez,
and now we have a second Cubanismo CD by Alemany and many of the men who
appeared
on the previous one. Their music, while rooted in the work of the great Cuban
bands
of the Forties (like Arsenio Rodriguez's and Machito's Afro Cubop outfit),
has a
strong, updated jazz flavor, which is evident in the soloing of Alemany, who
seems
to have drawn ideas not only from Cuban greats like Alejandro "El
Negro"
Vivar, Chapotin, and "Chocolate" Armenteros, but Dizzy Gillespie
and Freddie
Hubbard. Virtually every moment here is a joy to listen to. The instrumental
and
vocal solos and ensemble work are consistently inspired and creative, and the
interplay
of the rhythm section members uncannily cohesive. Impressive as well are the
original
compositions and arrangements. If anything Malémbe surpasses
Alemany's
first Hannibal CD, and that's saying a lot.
|
 |
 
|
|
 |
© 1995-98 Weekly Wire . Austin Chronicle . Info Booth . Powered by Dispatch |
|
MARCIA BALL
JIM
WHITE
WYCLEF JEAN
