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Reveal, R.E.M. (Warner Bros.)

Accompanying the release of R.E.M.’s 12th studio album, Reveal, is a question repeated by critics, music journalists, and fans alike: Does the band still have it? Depending on whom you ask, “it” refers to A) R.E.M.’s talent for crafting smart, sincere pop songs with intelligent lyrics, B) the band’s trademark jangly sound that influenced countless other groups during the last two decades, or C) relevance.

A lushly orchestrated, sunnily hopeful album, Reveal provides confident answers to each of these queries: yes, no, and who cares.

Reveal consists of a dozen tracks showcasing Michael Stipe’s sophisticated lyrics and vocals and Peter Buck’s graceful guitar work. Penning songs that are emotionally direct without being transparent or obvious, Stipe is at his most declarative here: A third of the songs have full sentences for titles. “She Just Wants to Be” and “Disappear” — with the chorus “Tell me why did you come here?/I came here to disappear” — marry straightforward lyrics to assertive, triumphant melodies that are imbued with a sense of grandeur.

Elsewhere, R.E.M. convey the airy feel of adolescent summers, the album’s running theme. Songs such as “Summer Turns to High” and the gentle “Beachball” shimmer with nostalgia for a time when there is more of life before you than behind you. While the band members are aging (Stipe is 41, which is something like 300 in rock years), they still know how to create the dreamy pop music of youth.

But anyone hoping R.E.M. will return to their jangly roots may find Reveal too synthetic. Many predicted the band would follow U2’s lead and return to their earlier sound, which R.E.M. jettisoned in favor of a starker, more electronic sound on 1998’s Up, the band’s first album without founding drummer Bill Berry. Without Berry’s solid, unshowy drumming, however, such a return is simply impossible.

So, instead of biding their time, R.E.M. take some risks on Reveal, saturating the songs with keyboards and programmed beats. “The Lifting” starts the album with a symphonic wall of synthesizers and background noise, and the soft “I’ve Been High” flutters by on looped beats and Stipe’s breathy vocals. Still, Reveal is more grounded than its predecessor, with more attention going to Buck’s guitar on songs like “The Lifting” and “All the Way to Reno (You’re Gonna Be a Star),” as well as to flourishes like the tender horns on “Beachball” and the Pet Sounds piano on “Beat a Drum.”

As for relevance, when an album is this good, who cares?

— Stephen Deusner

Grade: A-

Blue River, Becc & Hank (self-released)

Two local musicians, Becc Lester and Hank Sable, have just released a CD that fairly swoons in acoustic bliss. Sable (aka Hank of Rod & Hank’s Vintage Guitars) has a crisp but dreamy finger-picking style and a real ear for a pretty guitar tune, and Lester’s voice soars and sighs its way through these mostly unplugged but emotionally charged songs.

Lester was a guest vocalist on Sable’s excellent 1996 release, Rusted, but here it’s more of a true collaboration, with several co-penned tracks by the duo and a joyful interplay of voice and strings. The title song is a juicy piece of country pop that would turn any Nashville songwriter green with envy and make up-and-coming songstresses on Music Row give their pearly white teeth to cover. The melancholy magic of “Some September Morning” is balanced by the up-tempo Spanish flavor of “Barcelona Rain.” The artists write from the heart about major rites of passage in their lives, and the sentiments come ringing through loud and clear. For instance, the lush delicacy of “Heaven Sent,” with Sable’s guitars floating through Regina Eusey’s zephyr-like viola and Lester’s delicate vocals, was inspired by the birth of Sable’s daughter. (Sable just finished making a CD with Eusey as well.)

Despite an occasional lyrical lapse into cliché, it’s an impressive effort (especially considering that this is Lester’s first foray into songwriting). If there’s any justice or good musical taste left in this world, these songs should be all over country radio. — Lisa Lumb

Grade: B+

Becc & Hank will appear at Nancy Apple’s Songwriters’ Stage at the Blue Monkey on Tuesday, June 5th.

Inspiration Information, Shuggie Otis (Luaka Bop)

Inspiration Information is close to drum-machine heaven — if there is such a place worth visiting. Recorded in the early ’70s and now re-released by David Byrne’s Luaka Bop label, this is a combination of 1974’s Inspiration Information and four tracks from 1971’s Freedom Flight by guitarist/singer Shuggie Otis, son of California R&B bandleader Johnny Otis (who in the ’50s chose to pass for a black man when he was actually Greek — but that’s another story). The record is full of primitive drum-machine technology and programmed organ beats, and Otis plays just about everything except the horns and the strings on this record.

Sonically, the closest reference point for Inspiration Information would be Sly & the Family Stone’s 1971 coked-out classic There’s a Riot Goin’ On, with its use of drum machines and scratchy funk. Otis doesn’t sound like he was drugged-out or in despair a la Sly on Riot, but he was equally as inventive in the studio. If anything, Otis may have influenced Stone’s last decent record, 1973’s Fresh.

Otis’ “Strawberry Letter 23,” which originally appeared on Freedom Flight, became a number one R&B hit for the Brothers Johnson when they covered it in 1977. Their arrangement was very similar to the version included here. Inspiration Information tanked upon its original release by Epic Records in 1974, and since that time Otis has done the occasional recording session or live gig but not much else. It seems that this album was his best shot and his swan song. Shuggie Otis may be a puzzling case of arrested musical genius, but this record will do nicely as a legacy. — Ross Johnson

Grade: A

The Optimist LP, Turin Brakes (Astralwerks)

On the margins of the recent wave of Brit-pop reside Gale Paridjanian and Olly Knights, two guys making sensitive folk music as Turin Brakes. Armed with acoustic guitars and arcing harmonies, they differentiate themselves from their peers — including the likes of Coldplay and Badly Drawn Boy — by stripping their songs down to the bare minimum.

A confident if flawed effort, the duo’s debut, The Optimist LP, contains some fine moments, including the fragile opener, “Feeling Oblivion,” and the shimmery “Future Boy” (which unfortunately contains some stunningly bad lyrics like “Syphilis is a bitch/but contracting HIV is worse”). And “State of Things” matches chugging, percussion-driven rhythms with a beautifully plaintive, pleading chorus to great effect.

But occasionally, Turin Brakes’ sound is too rigid and underdeveloped. Congas drive the too-slick “Emergency 72” and give the song a lightweight ’70s sound. And on the poorly structured “The Door,” a truncated chorus seems to promise a more dramatic melody than it actually delivers, lending the song a fragmented, unfinished feel.

Despite some tasteful alt-pop flourishes, The Optimist LP possesses a startling austerity that creates a feeling of cohesion rare to debut albums. But it’s this same minimalist approach that sucks the flavor from too many of these songs. — SD

Grade: B-

You can e-mail Chris Herrington at herrington@memphisflyer.com.

Profane, Couch (Matador)

Rock Action, Mogwai (Matador)

Like many indie bands over the last half-decade, Germany’s Couch and the Welsh quintet Mogwai focus on soundscape over song, and both have found very different ways to get around the absence of lead singers. Where one band tightens and quickens its melodies, the other slowly and carefully sculpts emotion from sound.

By naming their second album Profane, Couch seem to promise either a thoroughly computerized sound a la Kraftwerk or a stiff, Teutonic Strum und Drang like Rammstein. In fact, they sound like a live rock band with a tight rhythm section, jangly guitars, and a little synth accompaniment blending together to imply a melody. “Plan” opens the album with Stefanie Böhm’s stark piano against Thomas Geltinger’s sharp drums, each of his percussive strikes hammering like a nail in a coffin. On “Meine Marke,” soft horns create a smoky atmosphere reminiscent of Air. The band builds tension through repetition and variation, slowly working each song to its natural climax. Ultimately, Couch reject the tuneless abstractions of labelmates Jega and Sad Rockets for a sturdier sound firmly rooted in rock-and-roll. On Profane, they suggest a postmodern surf band: upbeat and vigorous, rhythmically propulsive and kinda fun.

A study in measured crescendos and slow climaxes, Mogwai’s third full-length, Rock Action, reverberates with membranous guitars, staticky golem beats, horns, banjos, and somber synths, all adrift on an ocean of strings. There are vocals on Rock Action, and while they are not absolutely necessary to convey the songs’ meanings, they don’t feel superfluous either. After a long intro, Stuart Braithwaite sings plaintively on “Take Me Somewhere Nice,” as well as on “Secret Pint.” On “O I Sleep,” Super Furry Animal Gruff Rhys delivers a quiet vocal performance in his native Welsh. But both sets of vocals are so soft and whispery that they seem to merge with the music. Mogwai accomplish more with pure sound than with vocals. The swell of strings on the intro to “Take Me Somewhere Nice” and the intense, sustained climax of “You Don’t Know Jesus” both convey a dark duality between loss and hope. The album’s most memorable moment is the patient, unraveling coda “2 Rights Make 1 Wrong,” on which an electric banjo fades into an ethereal chorale.

Voice never enters the equation in Couch’s songs, but for Mogwai, it remains a sonic element, delivering little meaning beyond its own sound — which is what these two bands emphasize over all else and where they excel. — Stephen Deusner

Grades: Couch: B+; Mogwai: A-

Memphis In the Morning, Mem Shannon (Shanachie)

On this fourth album, New Orleans bluesman Mem Shannon ventures out of the Crescent City to record. Setting up shop locally at Ardent Studios, with the Memphis Horns in tow, the change of scenery seems to agree with him.

Memphis In the Morning opens with a strong four-song blast of soul-blues. “Drowning On My Feet” combines a funky rhythm section, jumping piano, and the Memphis Horns’ trademark punch into a version of the Memphis sound almost on a par with “Soul Man” and “Who’s Making Love.” The Horns also make their mark on Shannon’s jazzed-up take on B.B. King’s “Why I Sing the Blues,” the record’s only cover and a song of plainspoken social commentary that meshes well with Shannon’s own songwriting style. Things slow down after that with the title track, a lachrymose blues travelogue marked by Shannon’s heavy baritone vocals. This opening quartet is capped by “S.U.V.,” the first inspirational anthem of the current energy crisis, where an exasperated Shannon declares, “I’m sick of these SOBs/They driving these S.U.V.s/And trying to run over me/When I’m in my beat-up car.”

After that impressive introductory sweep, Memphis In the Morning gets a little slower and less engaging, with songs like “Invisible Man” and “Tired Arms” showcasing Shannon’s jazz sensibility. But at its best, Memphis In the Morning earns its title, conjuring nothing less than the work of Memphis’ bluesier soul men — James Carr, O.V. Wright, and Johnnie Taylor. – Chris Herrington

Grade: B+

Second Reckoning, C Average (Kill Rock Stars)

When an artist skillfully straddles the thin line between passion and parody, both can plausibly end up in bed together. The sophomore full-length from the guitar/drums duo C Average does this and renders their moniker moot with a run-of-the-classic-metal spectrum that will put a smile on your face and a needed foot in your posterior. Tongues in mouths that rarely open are planted firmly against cheeks for a 95 percent instrumental ride through a Sabbath/vintage Van Halen terrain laid waste with Society for Creative Anachronism imagery. Second Reckoning is predictably similar to the Fucking Champs in patches, but I like to think of C Average as more of a They Might Be Giants of comic irony metal.

Another winning attribute of this record is that it’s LONG — a nice feature in an era of half-hour full-lengths with more filler and the same price. Economic, powerful, and hilarious — “Starhok” will suck you in with its Halenesque beauty, “Strider ’88” will wow you by opening with one of the greatest prank phone calls ever, and fantastic Blue Cheer (“Parchmen’s Farm”) and Sonics (“The Witch”) covers make for an 80-minute listen that’s over before it feels like 10.– Andrew Earles

Grade: B+

Speed of Sound, Rosie Flores (Eminent Records)

Throughout her decades-long career, Rosie Flores has had rotten timing. Her take on country was too traditional for the ’80s California cowpunk scene or the later alt-country revival (she once aspired to be the new Kitty Wells). And she’s too much of a rocker and not blond or insipid enough to fit into the current mainstream country mode. Despite all this, she’s managed to garner acclaim from both critics and her peers and build a devoted fan base along the way. Flores is the undisputed queen of the dancehall with her always fiery live shows, and she’s one hellacious guitarist, excelling in rockabilly licks and beyond.

Speed of Sound, her seventh solo album, is her most eclectic work to date and stronger for it, serving up a little torch, a bit more twang, and some tasty stronger stuff. She switches gender on Buck Owens’ rockabilly tune “Hot Dog,” transforming it into a teaser dripping with sexual innuendo. Flores plays the chanteuse on “Devil Love” then turns around and rips and shreds a Bo Diddley backbeat on the primal “Don’t Take It Away.” Speed of Sound should firmly secure Flores’ place in the Texas pantheon of great guitar-slinging, roots-music players. — Lisa Lumb

Grade: B+

You can e-mail Chris Herrington at herrington@memphisflyer.com.

Survivor

Destiny’s Child

(Columbia)

Like much of the rest of the country, I fell in love with Destiny’s Child over the radio. “Bills, Bills, Bills” may have made them sound like what they looked like — lab-created TLC wannabes — but the irresistibly horny and sassy teenpop of “Bugaboo” set them apart. And that breakthrough was only a set-up for the megaton bomb to come, one of the most beautiful singles ever made: “Say My Name.” After that, the world was theirs — the very jumpin’ “Jumpin’ Jumpin'” and the rousing sisters-are-doing-it-for-themselves anthem “Independent Women I” completed a historically pleasurable pop trifecta.

But even though I think the sound of Beyoncé Knowles saying the word “question” has been the most exciting thing on the radio for months now, the Charlie’s Angels-themed “Independent Women” went down with an aftertaste: I don’t like to take my pop pleasure in the form of cross-promotional product for a crummy movie. So I was really hoping that when “Independent Women” showed up on Destiny’s Child’s own album — as opposed to the Charlie’s Angels soundtrack — it would be in a remix that dispensed with the film references.

Instead, the very first words spoken on Survivor are “Lucy Liu.” It’s a crass moment that, disappointingly, sets the stage for the rest of the album. I got off more on Destiny’s Child than pretty much anything else in pop music in the last year, but Survivor just pisses me off. It’s an after-the-gold-rush record that comes across catty and preachy, self-righteous and hypocritical.

On the second song, the ubiquitous title track, one of Destiny’s children announces, “If I surround myself with positive things I’ll gain prosperity,” implying that Beyoncé, Kelli, and Michelle are rich and famous because they’re better than the have-nots, not just musically and physically but morally too. It’s that kind of vain self-regard (Jeez, “Destiny’s Child”? We should have seen this coming) that leads them to follow the sexed-up dance-floor winner “Bootylicious” with an unbecoming bit of woman-bashing — “Nasty Girl.” These women sell sex as much as anyone, so who the hell are they to attack a woman for showing “cleavage from here to Mexico.” To call the song’s subject “trashy,” “sleazy,” and “classless” because she needs to “put some clothes on”? Or, most irritatingly, to preach to her, “You make it hard for women like me/who try to have some integrity”?

On “Fancy,” they attack another woman for trying to steal their “shine” (“Where’s your self-esteem?/Try to find your own identity”). They end the album with a uselessly indulgent “Gospel Medley” (God’s on their side too) and an “Outro” that lets them tell each other how great they are (“I think you got angel wings,” one Child exclaims to another).

“Apple Pie A La Mode” is sexy and eccentric like a good Prince record, and a few of the more conservative cuts (“Bootylicious,” a cover of the Bee Gees’ “Emotion”) could sneak up on you via radio, but outside of “Independent Women I,” I don’t hear anything here great enough to overcome Survivor‘s ugly, self-loving, empathetically bereft attitude. A major disappointment. — Chris Herrington

Grade: C+

Why Men Fail

Neilson Hubbard

(Parasol)

In the current mope-rock sweepstakes, Mississippi singer-songwriter Neilson Hubbard isn’t as conventionally melodic as Elliot Smith, as literary as Ron Sexsmith, or as intense or singular a talent as Conor “Bright Eyes” Oberest, but he does have his niche. More than anyone else working the beat, Hubbard evokes the brittle beauty of mope-rock milestones such as Big Star’s Third/Sister Lovers and Chris Bell’s I Am the Cosmos. In fact, Why Men Fail conjures those records so much that Hubbard might be to late-period Big Star what Teenage Fanclub once was to early, power-pop Big Star.

Recorded locally at Easley-McCain Recording, this second Hubbard album lays his breathy, emotive mumble over a great batch of bent melodies and a jangle-rock foundation — with R.E.M. comrade and Continental Drifter Peter Holsapple and Nashville guitar ringer Will Kimbrough lending essential helping hands. Why Men Fail is aurally invigorating, moving effortlessly from the sweet crunch of the rocker “The Last American Hero” to the downbeat piano balladry of “The Girl That Killed September,” but it takes a while (perhaps due to those affecting but at times near-impenetrable vocals) for Hubbard’s songs to sink in. — CH

Grade: B+

Neilson Hubbard will be at the Hi-Tone Café on Saturday, May 19th, with Jennifer Jackson.

Sound Time

Chief Stephen Osita Osadebe and his Nigerian Soundmakers

(IndigeDisc)

One of the giants of Nigerian highlife music, Osadebe was a gold-selling pop star in his homeland from the mid-’60s well into the ’80s, but his music has been almost entirely unavailable in the U.S. This collection, which condenses a 40-year career to seven tracks — none under six minutes and one almost 20 — recorded between 1970 and 1985, is likely as good an introduction as we’re going to get.

Osadebe’s highlife — a West African pop music with roots in calypso, samba, and jazz, among other sources — is more polite than that of his more famous countryman, Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti, but you can hear the roots of Fela’s sound here. Each song has a bright, shimmering flow driven by wah-wah guitars, clattering percussion, and jazz-like horns. Relaxing without being tepid, exploratory without solos — this is “jam” music for those who scoff at the concept. — CH

Grade: A-

Argyle Heir

The Ladybug Transistor

(Merge Records)

The Ladybug Transistor got a big boost last year when they co-starred in the movie High Fidelity. They didn’t actually appear in the film per se, nor was their music included on the soundtrack. But there on the end of a shelf holding volumes of vinyl in John Cusack’s entryway, appearing in almost every scene in his apartment, hung a poster from a Ladybug Transistor live show.

It seems odd that the group was so closely identified with Cusack’s confused character. The band’s agreeably retro sound would be a much better fit for the shy-but-sweet Dick, who might play the band’s latest album, Argyle Heir, first thing in the morning — before Barry arrives to blast Katrina and the Waves.

While it occasionally veers into Ren Fest territory, Argyle Heir is full of inventive, thoughtful, collegiate pop music that splits the difference between flower-child psychedelia and ’60s retro pop. The Ladybug Transistor place equal emphasis on songwriting and sound, so songs like “Perfect For Shattering” and “Nico Norte” are both lushly orchestrated and nicely catchy. And concise: Only one track, “Going Up North (Icicles),” exceeds four minutes.

Placid and unobtrusive, Argyle Heir is ultimately a perfect soundtrack for any early morning. — Stephen Deusner

Grade: B

You can e-mail Chris Herrington at herrington@memphisflyer.com.