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Beth Orton, Central Reservartion (1999)
Beth Orton's sophomore effort, Central Reservation departs from the electronica of her first album, Trailer Park, and brings her acoustic touch and folky, Nick-Drake-meets-Sandy-Denny vocal mood to the front. Piano, steel string guitar and sentimental string arrangements collect around an understated rhythm section that pulses gently in the background. The whole album makes like a lullaby with a backbeat.
The connections to the rave culture that first embraced her aren't completely severed, though. Synth twiddling and hip-hop grooves pop up here and there, and she maintains a slurred, dreamy (read: intoxicated), delivery that wanders lazily around the barely decipherable lyrics.
Like your average rave tune, arrangement, articulation, and in this case, intonation, aren't really going concerns. It's not that she couldn't hit the notes if she wanted to; she's a capable vocalist. But Orton writes and sings to evoke a mood, and not much more. Her songs etch out fuzzy images and nebulous emotions that create atmosphere but little content.
It's a well-crafted
album, even if it doesn't warrant the close read you'd want to give a
Shawn Colvin or Richard Thompson record. Orton's a melancholy folkie magpie
without much to say, but she says it beautifully.
Builder, spring sprang sprung (releasing early 2000)
click here for the Communique interview
with Builder's Mike Crawford
1989
"The water looks blue; if I should jump the ocean would keep
me and my shape.... We can't be found"
-- Water, Mike Crawford, The Spin
1999
"Look through any of my windows. Crawl across my floor.
I'm going to show you things you might never seen before"
-- The Sower, Mike Crawford, Builder
Any review of Builder's debut CD, spring sprang sprung [slated to debut later this fall on Flat Earth Records] will have to contain a word or two about The Spin. In the pre-jackopierce Texas college music scene of the late '80s and early '90s, The Spin was one of the favorite sons among the early alternative bands of Dallas' Deep Ellum. Though described early on as having a "pastoral melodicism," the band's wilder reputation clashed with its staunchly Baptist home base of Baylor University in Waco.
Jump forward to 1999, and former Spin frontman/guitarist Mike Crawford is a changed man. And his band Builder's new album, spring sprang sprung, speaks constantly of this theme of regeneration. Drawing from his own well of musical talent, Crawford, through Builder, has not so much reinvented himself as he has perhaps striven to present a man reinvented.
The songs on spring sprang sprung are full of memorable melodies, clever backing vocals, and articulate, transparent, unapologetically Christian lyrics. Builder's arrangements are very solid for a trio (Jim Cocke plays keyboards and Pete Coatney adds drums), yet frequently take a back seat to to the real and satisfyingly quirky lead vocals.
The songs are diverse glimpses into faith, family, culture and growth. Worth the price of disc alone is The Sower, a radio-ready single which deals with the virtues of sharing one's faith. Sonofagun compares the Godhead's Father/Son relationship to that of an earthly father and son, and asks, "If I had a world to save, would I give you?" Shakespeare once used the term Million Brilliance to describe the star-filled night; Crawford borrows the thought to communicate praise from a husband to a wife (Million Brilliance).
Crawford's use of water as a recurring literary device describing his unfolding emotional and spiritual journey continues into spring sprang sprung on at least three songs, though a once-evident ambivalence from a decade ago ("Take me to the river and push me in / I want to go to my next life" The River Song, The Spin, 1990), has been replaced with a seemingly confident direction ("We'll go down to the riverside / Jump on in we're gonna take a little ride / Don't give up until we reach the other side / You and me in Reverie" Reverie, Builder, 1999).
The pilgrimage Crawford has trod is retold with wide-eyed wonderment, and leaves you wanting more. Therein lies the album's success.
Fleming & John, The Way We Are (1999)
Aliens kidnapped my Diva!!
Listen to Fleming & John's latest record and you'll see why. When Fleming McWilliams and John Mark Painter met at Nashville's Belmont College of Music, it was a musical match made in, well, let's see, Heaven? Um, no, that's not quite it. Maybe on Mars or possibly in one of Phil Spector's fitful dreams, after a reckless night of Indian food and belly dancing. Picture a cross between Anne Wilson and Laurie Anderson - nope, nope, nope, scratch that. Imagine what would happen if The Moody Blues, Grace Slick and John Cale...ugh, that ain't it either. Unfortunately all those lovely hypothetical combinations that work so well when describing other acts fail here for one reason: they're grounded on Planet Earth. What Fleming & John do defies gravity, much less description. It's not that the duo's sound is so otherworldly that one can't relate to it. Their influences consist of common Terran music, of the late Twentieth Century American Pop variety. A little post-punk adventurousness here, a little Pet Sounds there, mix in a dash of mid-Sixties wall-of-sound and a voice blessed from On High with more octaves and timbres than the law should allow - but none of this can explain the sounds they make when they play. Their sophomore effort, The Way We Are, builds on the zany art-rock sensibility established on Delusions of Grandeur. Multi-instrumentalist John Mark Painter is a musical savant from the Brian Wilson school of studio wizardry, creating the sonic foundation for wife and singer Fleming's vocal acrobatics and exotic melodies. Painter draws on a wide and varied palette, using instruments like the theremin, sitar, impeccably arranged string sections and other orchestral colors to create tracks that are always spicy and surprising. What is missing from the mix, however, is the lyrical substance to justify all this creative energy. While both are accomplished musically, McWilliams' is still developing as a writer, often times settling for a trite metaphor or awkward phrase that a little more thought and refinement could have shaped up into something worthy of it's aural surroundings. It's clear, though, that her sights are set high; she sites Steinbeck as an inspiration, and delves bravely into vulnerable territory, writing with a fragile honesty about her and Painter's marriage. Fleming and John are an acquired taste, but reward the adventurous listener with a sound quite unlike anything on this planet. Now if they could find some songs to equal that sound, they would be a formidable force indeed.
Over The Rhine, Amateur Shortwave Radio (1999)
Satisfaction came in good measure this summer for Over the Rhine fans as Linford Detweiler and Karin Berquist opened their archives and released ten obscure and wonderful tracks that chronicle bits and pieces of the band's ten-year history. (Detweiler's solo piano release, entitled I Don't Think There's No Need to Bring Nothin', also released concurrently.) Amateur Shortwave Radio's live broadcasts, covers and radio in-studio appearances shed light onto the maturing process of the band and provide a glimpse into their on-stage proficiency.
It's all here. Berquist's moody vocals on a darkly-lit cover of Lennon/McCartney's Blackbird, Ric Hordinski's droning e-bow on Like a Radio, Jack Henderson and Terri Templeton capturing the zeitgeist of the late-nineties incarnation of OtR on Moth, Detweiler's spoken word on Jack's Valentine conjuring up their wonderful live concert appearances, and Brian Kelley's percussion rounding out the whole album. (I almost failed to mention Michael Wilson's consistently brilliant photographs.)
This doesn't
compete with their full studio releases, and doesn't attempt to -- yet
it's a great primer for anyone whom you've been trying to proselytize
into the Rhinelander folds. This is the kind of album that fans eat up,
radio ignores, and will be very valuable in five years when the whole
world is in love with these guys.
Robert Deeble, Earthside Down (1998)
Stripped-down; naked save a delicate drapery of sparse instrumentation--the compositions that comprise Earthside Down balance zenlike simplicity in arrangement with strange, dark complexities in texture, time and lyric. The beautiful/awkward transparency of acoustic guitar, percussion and cello keep the listener at arm's length with tones that ride the fence between occidental and oriental, until the melodic whisper of songwriter Robert Deeble invites the ears closer for self-revelation. (Fitting, then, that the project's CD booklet should be printed upon layered sheets of translucent vellum-- as the onionskin booklet is splayed and read, subsequent pages reveal deeper layers until ultimately the artist's portrait is revealed on the final page of the book. A nice parallel metaphor for my first and subsequent listenings of this noteworthy project.)
Earthside Down is welcoming in that it is not overproduced, nor does it smack of demo project. The minimalist arrangements, vocals, lyrics, production value and packaging all seem cut from a unified artistic vision, which (with a huge credit to record label Jackson Rubio) was not watered down for the sake of mass accessibility. The poetry speaks volumes for those willing to delve a bit:
beneath thick walls of skin and all its allure,
you betrayed yourself in an unguarded moment.
now we are lost, searching the ground for something...
life within loss, like words without sounds
blessed are the poor, the mourners, the meek,
all of us whores, losers and freaks...
--from "junkyard"
The songs are personal, if not personable, and deal with tensions and joys of the human condition; they range from life touched by the divine ('your soul confides in the fundamental thread of God and humankind....jump in the river, wash away your sins..' -- from thread ) to daily struggles ('soft curves and subtle motions her body all reveals... well you'd like to tempt my mind but if you thought you had my will, then you don't know me now...' - from you don't know me now).
Deeble began garnering national notariety around 1991 (fans of the defunct ACM Journal will no doubt remember Robert Deeble's moody single, The Kiss, which graced the publication's second compilation disc), and continued with Days Like These, a 1995 release that has recently seen international distribution
Sixteen Horsepower, Low Estate (1998)
In the few years since Grunge seems to have breathed its last angst-soaked breath, a scattering of artists and bands have initiated a return to rock's roots -- its real roots, that is, not that tired imposter known as "classic rock" -- and have been loosely grouped under the rubric 'Americana.' That's where I figured I would find Colorado's Sixteen Horsepower. Why not? I knew that they used banjos and fiddles, and married punk attitude with rural instrumentation, not unlike UncleTupelo-cum-Wilco-and-Son-Volt, The Old 97's, etc. What could be more Americana than that? What I found was, shall we say, more difficult to pin down than I expected. Oh, I'd been warned. Other reviewers had reported visions of OK Coral shootouts between Joy Division and Hank Williams, Bauhaus backing up The Carter Family, and other equally freakish and frightening combinations. If someone had said, "Hazel Motes fronts The Birthday Party," that might have gotten my attention, but I doubt it. I was complacent.
I placed their 1998 release, Low Estate, into my CD player, and before I could utter the words, "what the..." David Eugene Edwards and Co. come careening out of my speakers like a motley band of mendicant prophets and circuit riders, armed with fiddles, Fender Jaguars, and ten-pound Bibles, grab me by the lapels, pin my ears back, and grimly mutter something to the effect of, "It's for your own good, son - you're coming with us."
Or so it seemed to me at the time. Pete Townsend said of hearing the Sex Pistols for the first time, "I kept thinking, this is really happening—there is some bloke out there who really believes this," and now I think I know how he felt.
It's just the twang and crackle of Edwards' banjo that supports the opening strains of the first track, "Brimstone Rock." His voice creeps in, with an Appalachian drawl that sinks like a valley and cracks in a half-yodel full of fear and desire. "Listen closely to me now, my darlin' girl. There's one who's out to have you, and just His breath will burn your curls. Don't you fret, you neednŐt bother -- don't you fret, no, here comes the Father." (Try those lines next time you're crooning outside your true love's window.) The rhythm section builds up a head of steam, tumbling into an avalanche of minor-key dissonance and whiplash rimshots, and any notion that this might be a send-up of Southern fundamentalist zeal is buried. There can be no question -- Sixteen Horsepower wishes to have your undivided attention.
I kept expecting Edwards to crack a smile, a wink, a smirk - some bit of sarcasm or good ol' rock 'n roll self-consciousness to shine some levity into the dark mood and let me off the hook. Nothing doing. If the Sex Pistols' furious negation was aimed at middle-class banality, Sixteen Horsepower takes on the very Soul of Man, evoking the self-flagellation of Nick Cave and the righteous indignation of some 19th century eschaton in a desperate brew of religious fervor and manic rock energy. This is really happening, Edwards is one bloke who believes what he's singing, and if the experience seems harrowing to some listeners, well, it's meant to be.
Suffice it to say this was not so much a review as a report from the front. Indeed, if anything was reviewed, it was myself. And now you've been warned. So brace yourself, make the pilgrimage to the music retailer of your choice, buy the record, and take what's coming to you. Above all, be afraid. Be very afraid.
Third Day, Time (1999)
Marietta, Georgia-based Third Day doesn't need to prove themselves to the small-pond Christian music market-- nine number one radio singles, accolades from Billboard Magazine, Grammy nominations, Dove awards and half a million in sales chalk up their success with no effort. But the band has come of age with their third release, Time, and it's hoping to broaden its mainstream base while adding to a successful CCM radio following.
Time is a strong album in anyone's changer, and the band's accomplished Southern roots rock makes you picture an older group of musicians than the goatee-wearing kids on the CD cover. At press time, their radio single I Have Always Loved You had already risen to the top of the CHR charts and was charting well on the AC charts to boot.
Hot spots
on the record include Believe and Don't Say Goodbye. The
recording is warm and rough and authentic. Probably the strongest album
to surface from within the established CCM ranks in a few years.
Tom
Waits, Mule Variations (1999)
Tom Waits has always fascinated me, maybe because he's so purposely enigmatic. We rarely get glimpses of the real guy. Instead, he gives us the thoughts of the many characters whose skin he so effortlessly inhabits. Someone once described him as an actor portraying the strangest pop singer who ever lived. That gruff facade and his recent interest in hiding songs under cacophony make him an acquired taste for many people. But his ability to place his finger so accurately on the pulse of his characters makes me think he really puts a lot of thought into the people he sings about, and I suspect that Mule Variations is his most personal album to date.
Mule Variations has just as many characters as always, as many unsolved mysteries, unexplained incidents. Maybe more. But a thread runs through these songs. These songs, over and over, are the voices of people evaluating their lives -- their own, or other people's lives, or just life -- they've turned and looked back at the path they've drawn between "home" and here, feeling death at their backs, and they're all reaching their own conclusions about that life but, curiously, measuring it by comparing it to home and wondering about what's outside of "this big blue world."
The cowboy who's "been everywhere, boys" recounts his life, the places he's been, the lessons he's learned (that if you use that 44 they'll slap you with 99 years), and mostly just hopes that his horse knows the way home -- something's going to have to carry him back to Evelyn's kitchen where Gyp will curl up at his feet.
There's the house that's abandoned on someone's block -- "Folks moved out of it a long time ago, and they took all their things, and they never came back." It's the house where nobody lives. What happened there? Here's what the singer concludes after describing the house with the cracked paint: "So if you find someone, someone to have, someone to hold, don't trade it for silver, don't trade it for gold". In "Hold On", someone sums it up more cynically like this: "Well, you build it up, you wreck it down, you burn your mansion to the ground."
Even a drifter describes his world as a house where "dirt is my rug and I sleep like a baby," where he reads the Bible by a 40-watt bulb, or sleeps "in the graveyard, it was cool and still." "Some men are searching for the Holy Grail, but there ain't nothing sweeter than a-ridin the rails," even though he "woke up in this morning with the cold water, the cold water, the cold water".
At the end, Waits brings things full circle with the modern/traditional spiritual "Come On Up To the House" -- our understanding of heaven is like home, after all. "The world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through, come on up to the house. All your cryin don't do no good ... come down off the cross, we can use the wood."
Half of these songs walk right up to the edge of sentimentality, but not one of them crosses over -- each one is tender but real. Waits does his best to annoy you with "Big in Japan" and "Eyeball Kid," but he seems less interested in that game this time around, almost like he included them because it's expected. They're not throwaways -- they're filled with clever lyrics, but they feel a little left of the album's center. Even his spoken word "What's He Building" seems less inspired than the poem-like things he's done before, such as "9th & Hennepin" and "The Ocean Doesn't Want Me Today."
It's the sincerity of the soft folk songs and ballads that betrays the real Tom Waits, I suspect. The themes of home and family and life's work, that most of the songs are co-written with his wife and Jersey Girl Kathleen Brennan, and that he said he took the last six years off to spend more time with his kids, lead me to believe that this album is more introspective and heartfelt that it seems at first glance. And it sounds great -- Mark Ribot's guitar is clear and understated, the arrangements are simple and varied with dobro, piano, pump organ, harmonica, and sax. And like all great albums, Mule Variations is more rewarding after a little digging.
