Author: Werner Trieschmann

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Music Record Reviews

Follow-ups: Power-poppers craft more ace hooks; indie-rockers get bigger, better.

“Yolanda Hayes,” the third song on Fountains of Wayne’s Traffic and Weather, the group’s third album, not counting the two-disc covers and unreleased-tunes collection Out-of-State Plates, begins this way: “Quarter to three/At the DMV/That’s when I saw her/She didn’t see me/Behind window B/Explaining patiently/How she needs to see/Six forms of ID.” That this vivid little snapshot of love blooming in a bureaucratic wasteland is set to a tune so instantly hummable is vintage Fountains of Wayne. Traffic and Weather might not be the unmitigated success of the band’s 2003 Welcome Interstate Managers (which featured the bona fide hit “Stacy’s Mom”), but it’s so filled with hooks and wit that listeners will quickly remember why this band is a rare treasure.

 Like a lot of other great pop acts, Fountains of Wayne’s power springs from a pair of songwriters, Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger. Schlesinger has had success writing for the movies, including the title song to Tom Hanks’1996 That Thing You Do! and the tunes that are a key component to this year’s romantic comedy Music and Lyrics. When working as a team, Collingwood and Schlesinger marry a keen pop ear with lyrics that take the measure of the modern world — the traffic jams, dead-end jobs, the wait for luggage to arrive.

 That last is the case in “Michael and Heather at the Baggage Claim,” a lovely, melancholy ballad propelled by acoustic guitars and “ba-ba-ba” backing vocals. The strained relationship at the heart of the song is summed up in a few lines with a chorus that nails the fatigue: “It’s been a long, long day/Can’t we just be on our way.” That song is followed by “Strapped for Cash,” a fleet, synth-and-horn-heavy number that bounces along like a lost 1980s classic.

Welcome Interstate Managers had added impact because of an overall concept that paired juvenile fantasies with tunes about the weariness of work. Traffic and Weather seems a little more tossed together, and its low points — “Planet of Weed” wants to be hip but is just dull, and “Fire in the Canyon” is singer-songwriter bland — are dispiriting. Still, what shouldn’t be taken for granted is how terrific this album sounds, how Fountains of Wayne is able to give each song its own sonic signature, not to mention memorable choruses. Who knows? The next time you’re waiting for your driver’s license, you might find yourself singing these tunes to pass the time. — Werner Trieschmann

Grade: B+

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Music Record Reviews

Turn the Lights Out–The Ponys

This four-piece post-punk band has made the leap to indie big deal Matador after two thrilling if generally underappreciated albums on indie lesser deal In the Red. The Ponys’ guitar/bass/drums attack isn’t radically different from a thousand rock bands before them, but they are doing it better. The group finds solid riffs — listen to the infectious, bass-driven bounce of “Poser Psychotic” — and then rides them with unapologetic swagger. There’s a sharper focus here than on their last, Celebration Castle, and the addition of a bubbling organ in spots adds unexpected color. You might wish bassist Melissa Elias would sing every once in a while (as she did on Celebration Castle), but the Ponys’ visceral kick and shredded guitar whomp is a true modern-rock wonder. (“Poser Psychotic,” “Double Vision,” “Harakiri”) — Werner Trieschmann

Grade: A

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Music Record Reviews

Lucinda Williams sacrifices perfection on her latest.

Lucinda Williams’ new album, West, is a loose and rambling affair. There are moments of exquisite beauty followed by listless sections that barely make an impression. Most of the songs average over five minutes in length, and “Wrap My Head Around That,” a rap/blues rant, comes in at a robust 9:06. The title speaks of a direction, but the trip Williams takes is anything but a straight line.

There’s nothing unusual about this except that for the Lucinda Williams of old, the idea of an album like West would have been nearly inconceivable. Williams is a notorious perfectionist, and stubborn souls will always face obstacles when trying to squeeze something like art out of the inflexible music industry.

Much has already been made of how Hal Wilner, credited as a co-producer, pushed aside most of Williams’ regulars for a new assortment of backing pros. There’s no doubt the songs here have a marvelous, shimmering sound — soft, almost ambient — that rewards the use of headphones. Wilner has let Williams’ country touches slip away while pulling out too-brief flashes of rock muscle. Williams’ singular cracked voice — a thing of rough Southern beauty — is framed for maximum dramatic effect.

So it’s kind of a letdown that West opens with three mid-tempo numbers and threatens to turn off listeners right off the bat. The first, “Are You Alright,” the best of the trio, is a naked and evocative plea for a lost love. But “Learning How To Live” is stretched too thin in its running time of over five minutes.

“Fancy Funeral,” Williams’ chilling but clear-eyed description of the physical and emotional price of burying a loved one (reportedly Williams’ recently deceased mother), is an instant classic that rights the ship. The brooding atmosphere of “Unsuffer Me” matches the darkness that Williams evokes when she sings, “Come into my world of loneliness, of wickedness, of bitterness.” “Come On,” where Williams spits insults at a clumsy lover, practically jumps out of the speakers.

In the past, Williams would have shaved off three or four songs from West and tightened up the others — and delayed the release date by two years. If we have to suffer through some sloppiness to hear more of Williams’ songs sooner, that’s an easy price to pay and an easy choice to make. Bring ’em on. — Werner Trieschmann

Grade: B+

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Music Record Reviews

Food in the Belly-Xavier Rudd

You just don’t hear an electric didgeridoo all that often, but, thankfully, that isn’t the only trick in the musical bag of Aussie-now-living-in-L.A. folkie Xavier Rudd. Tossing out strong melodies anchored by a lively acoustic guitar, Rudd’s singer-songwriter vibe comes directly from the ’70s with attitudes of peace and love in tow. You might shake your head at the other singers Rudd evokes (Paul Simon here, Dave Matthews there), but even if he gets vocally lost in the mix at times, he has enough style to stand out. “Fortune Teller” is the best cut, with the faster tempo and the warpy drone of the didgeridoo making it truly far-out. There are some duds here (usually when it’s just Rudd and his acoustic), but this sweetly exotic record radiates warmth and will wear well over time. (“Fortune Teller,” “Pocket of Peace,” “The Mother”) — 
Werner Trieschmann
Grade: B+

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Music Record Reviews

Like, Love, Lust, and the Open Halls of the Soul-Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter

A lot of critics are going to call this an alt-country record, but Like, Love, Lust … is more psychedelic space rock. That’s not to say Sykes and her Seattle bandmates don’t bring in country-rock touches — the opening harmonica solo might as well be shot through with dust — but they aren’t preoccupied with updating Music Row or cutting into Steve Earle’s market share. What really makes this record work is the way every instrument — be it acoustic or electric — is out front in the mix and milked and miked for every ounce of drama. Guitarist Phil Wandscher is a wonder, setting a smoky scene for the smoldering “How Will We Know” and then on fire for the solo in “LLL.” The lyrics are perhaps the only element that falls short, but it takes a while for you to even notice. — WT

Grade: A–

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Music Record Reviews

Men & Mascara by Julie Roberts

Men & Mascara

Julie Roberts

(Mercury Records)

Julie Roberts has a roadhouse drawl that is at once distinctive (unless you count Lucinda Williams, there’s no female like her in country music) and dangerous. The danger comes in the form of parody, which Roberts flirts with on every note she sings. On Men & Mascara, Roberts’ second album, she wisely gravitates toward slower tempos and old-fashioned tales of men who do wrong and the women who love them. The title track and “Chasing Whiskey” are apt vehicles for Roberts, but “Girl Next Door,” a chirpy number about the good-hearted girl who isn’t the cheerleader, ain’t. “That Ain’t a Crime” is a superheated diva turn and a real chance for Roberts to crash and burn, but she nails it and only makes you wish there were a couple more like it on the album. (“That Ain’t a Crime,” “Men & Mascara”) — Werner Trieschmann

Grade: B

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Music Record Reviews

A Little More Livin’ by Trent Willmon

A Little More Livin’

Trent Willmon

(Columbia)

Trent Willmon’s rollicking sophomore album is likely the only country record you’ll hear this year that references S&M (in “Surprise”). That subversive jolt isn’t done in the name of shock but because it’s one more telling detail in service to Willmon’s well-observed domestic tales and celebrations of life — nearly all of them songs you’ll be happy to have in your life. The most dramatic is “Louisiana Rain,” a long, blues-guitar-soaked ballad that lets Willmon show off his voice. The fiddle-propelled “So Am I,” which speaks knowingly of the joys of being poor and in love, is perhaps the happiest three minutes-plus on a country record this year. Too bad “A Night in the Ground” is too literal and just plain creepy to be rousing. But it’s only one clunker in a nice collection of winners. (“Good One Comin’ On,” “So Am I,” “Surprise”) — WT

Grade: A-

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Music Music Features

Make ‘Em Eat Crow

Thanks to the huge popularity of 1993’s Tuesday Night Music Club, Sheryl Crow ensured her obit wasn’t just going to run in her hometown Kennett, Missouri, newspaper and wasn’t going to have as the lone highlight that she was a backup singer on Michael Jackson’s Bad and Don Henley’s End of the Innocence tours.

But Music Club‘s “All I Wanna Do” ruled the airwaves in the summer of 1994, Crow cleaned up in the Grammys in 1995, and her career was launched. Over the years Crow has maintained a steady presence on the charts and solidified her status as that increasingly rare thing: a genuine rock star. Her recent split with cyclist Lance Armstrong added a new wrinkle to her loaded fame profile: celebrity breakup. And her battle with breast cancer that cut short her ’06 tour (and which pushed back her Memphis date by several months) was covered by most major media outlets. Since her debut, Crow has sold something in the neighborhood of 25 million albums. And, oh yeah, she’s in her mid-40s and still beautiful.

Most music critics are all too happy to piss in this punchbowl. Crow, who admittedly does herself no favors by being so eager to appear wherever there’s a camera or microphone, is tagged as dull, vacant, unoriginal, and not much of a rocker. TrouserPress.com is especially blunt: “Sheryl Crow is not all that. She’s … the recipient of far more adult-rock acclaim and success than her music deserves and, worst of all, not much of a singer. The actual content of her debut is among the least [of Crow’s] cultural offenses.”

I disagree. First of all — and really this should go without saying — Crow’s music deserves exactly the kind of wild success it has achieved. Nobody is forcing consumers to the stores. Crow is a throwback: an old-fashioned lover of the hook, lessons she no doubt learned while playing those arenas with Henley and Jackson. “My Favorite Mistake,” “If It Makes You Happy,” and “Soak Up the Sun” are just three examples of songs with no express purpose but to bore their way into your skull and stay there.

Think this hitmaking is easy? Ask Liz Phair. The feisty alt rocker who, as it so happens, made a guest appearance on Crow’s C’mon, C’mon, has recently gambled her well-earned indie reputation on a blatant shot at scaling Billboard‘s singles chart. Phair’s last two slickly produced, hook-heavy albums haven’t yielded one half of a Crow-sized hit but have unleashed a tidal wave of critical venom (though not from this critic, who sees Phair’s pop move as a savvy and successful artistic decision).

The other thing that Trouser Press gets wrong and that has become fairly clear by 2006: Tuesday Night Music Club is a mess. Generated by a collection of session musicians and songwriters — the most prominent being David Baerwald of David and David (a duo that scored a hit in the ’80s with “Welcome to the Boomtown”) — Music Club is a curious showcase for a new artist. Though she has co-writing credits on the 11 songs and she would reap the rewards, it only takes one listen to understand that Crow is clearly just along for the bumpy ride.

With its mention of Aldous Huxley in the second verse of the first song, Music Club betrays itself as a dumb album written by people hoping to sound smart. At every opportunity, it tosses out quirky musical curves and tries to stuff 1,000 words in a 100-word jar. The “apropos of nothing” phrase crammed in “All I Wanna Do” is as subtle as Las Vegas neon in a one-room apartment.

There’s no doubt that on her 1996 sophomore release Crow aimed to distance herself from the Music Club gang as much as possible. That she titled the album Sheryl Crow and wrote most of the songs by herself only underlined that point. She’s proven since that she can write mega-hits and, on occasion, plumb emotional depths that Music Club couldn’t touch.

Just listen to “The Book” on Sheryl Crow. The lyrics, about a writer betraying a love through a novel (maybe Crow was striking back at Baerwald?) are clear, concise, and right on target. Even better, on that same album, is the devastating breakup song “Home.” Here Crow triumphs as singer — take that, Trouser Press! — by coming across as bruised, fearful, weary, and resigned all at once.

And she’s not done. Her latest, Wildflower, fades off toward the end but not without delivering some thrilling pop moments. “Perfect Lie” is wrapped in soaring strings and delivered with a go-for-broke aplomb, and “Chances Are” goes one better with its trippy swirl of Indian-flavored postmodern paranoia.

But it’s nothing new for Crow, and that the majority of card-carrying music critics are wrong about her is nothing new for them either.

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Music Music Features

“Hicktown”

Jason Aldean grew up in Macon, Georgia, population 97,000, give or take a few thousand. That’s interesting because it means the city doesn’t qualify as a “hicktown,” the name of Aldean’s stomping country-rock anthem about a deep-fried paradise where grandmas are getting lit before playing bingo and where stripping the gears out of trucks in mud holes is a way of life.

“I grew up on the outskirts of Macon,” says Aldean, 28, in town for a show at Cactus Jack’s where he’ll play songs off his debut album, Jason Aldean. “It was kind of rural. I got the best of both worlds, really. I had farmland all around me, but in 15 minutes I could be in downtown Macon.”

This rural/city existence sums up nicely the latest generation of Nashville newbies, who were weaned in part on rock and hip-hop radio and are more than a few steps removed from the sacred Grand Ole Opry pedal-steel tradition of George Jones and Hank Williams. Aldean doesn’t even have to open his mouth to show his non-trad ways — the noticeable earrings flashing from his ears do the trick.

“I don’t get a lot of flack anymore about [the earrings],” Aldean says. “I don’t really think about it that much. Thing is, hell, I’m not the only one. Keith Urban has about six in one ear.”

Aldean grew up under the influence of his father’s love for traditional country and with Bon Jovi and Guns N’ Roses blaring from boom boxes at high school parties. Aldean, who started performing at Macon’s VFW hall when he was 14, gravitated toward the Nashville sound, especially during the time when, as he notes, “the whole world was going country,” and Garth Brooks was king.

All this means that Aldean fits right in the current state of country music, which has seen a critical and commercial uptick over the past couple of years. His CD might not have the kick and bite of fellow rookie Miranda Lambert’s Kerosene or the consistent songwriting depth of Bobby Pinson’s Man Like Me, but its pleasures are earned and undeniable. “Hicktown” is a stone blast, and “Amarillo Sky,” an ode to the struggles of farming life, soars. Through it all, Aldean’s voice demonstrates seemingly

effortless power.

The other thing that sets Jason Aldean firmly in modern-day Nashville is the veritable army of songwriters employed. Aldean is responsible for some of the songs, but most are penned by several writers, including Pinson and the red-hot John Rich of Big & Rich.

“I actually met [Rich] through the publishing company,” notes Aldean. “We were writing songs for the same company. He’s one of the best songwriters in town. He’s definitely had a good year with singles and songwriting.”

That Aldean was allowed to get his vocal cords on songs by Rich indicates the powers-that-be thought highly of the young talent. But there were years of struggle in Nashville for Aldean as he attempted to land a record deal — a story that’s all too familiar to those who know the ways of the cutthroat town.

But now Aldean is reveling in the success of “Hicktown,” which has been bolstered by a raucous video (complete with monster trucks in big mud holes) in heavy rotation on CMT. The hit means that Aldean can extend his tour but this time as an opening act for Rascal Flatts. It means that he will likely be invited back to play at the church of old country, the Grand Ole Opry. And Aldean isn’t so much a newbie or a rebel to understate or downplay the significance of that:

“Oh yeah, that’s something I wanted to accomplish. That’s always been a big dream of mine.”

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Music Music Features

After the Goldrush Went Bust

Little Rock’s the Boondogs make expert bedroom dream pop buttressed by rock-solid melodies, subtle but powerful guitar work, and the scratched-throat beauty of husband-wife band leaders Jason Weinheimer and Indy Grotto.

The rise of indie-yuppie acts like Death Cab for Cutie (who just jumped from indie to major label) and practically any other group appearing on a soundtrack from The O.C. ought to signal great times ahead for the Boondogs, especially since Fever Dreams, the band’s newest album on Little Rock’s Max Recordings label, wipes the floor with Death Cab’s Plans.

But the Boondogs know better. The band’s ship was supposed to come in with the late-’90s dot-com tide, specifically the Garageband.com site, a widely praised venture spearheaded by the Talking Heads’ Jerry Harrison. Garageband accepted mp3s from unknowns and unsigneds from all over the country and let online listeners vote for who should win a major-label contract.

In 1997, the Boondogs put out their first album, Smarter Than Some, on Valmar, a Little Rock label that lasted less than a year. Short of moving to New York City or Austin, something the Boondogs had no intention of doing, the group was running out of options to break their sound wider than the city limits of Little Rock.

“I read about [Garageband] in The New York Times and uploaded two songs the next day,” Weinheimer says. “We had our music at mp3.com already, but nothing really came of that. The Garageband model was appealing for two reasons: the air of legitimacy that Jerry Harrison brought and the power-to-the-people aspect of the contest.”

As it turns out, the people, at least the ones who clicked on the Garageband site, were taken with the Boondogs’ sound, which, at the time, was slightly salted with alt-country atmospherics.

By November 1999, when the first Garageband contest voting closed, the Boondogs had the first and second most popular songs (“Carbon or Gold” and “40 Day Ahab”) and were awarded the first record contract given out over the Internet. The signing made national news wires. Things looked good for the little band from Little Rock. The high didn’t last long.

“It took us almost four months to get a contract together,” Weinheimer notes ruefully. “The first contract [Garageband] sent us was not even close to fair and agreeable. The scary thing is we heard that three other bands signed the ‘standard’ contract with no negotiations whatsoever.”

Garageband, with all of its dot-com sparkle, was turning out to be yet one more label with more hopes and dreams than expertise. Still, the Boondogs had the sweet $250,000 first prize to cover expenses for a new CD, which was recorded in Memphis’ Ardent Studios with the highly regarded Jim Dickinson on board as producer.

“We knew from the very beginning there were people running the show who had no idea how to put a record out,” Weinheimer says. “We acted in good faith, though, and hoped for the best. Of course we got cash up front to be safe. In the end, they spent approximately $300,000 on the band, and we got to have a lot of fun making the record and playing a bunch. They were in breach of contract early on for not putting our record out in time, but they kept us happy with generous tour support and the like. About six months before [Garageband] closed up, we saw what was happening and just decided to ride it out.”

Though they retained the rights to all the songs generated in the Ardent sessions, the Boondogs declined to put out an album they felt wasn’t ready and, with Garageband gone, would have had no backing. Instead, the band kept at it in Little Rock and, starting in 2001, made and released two EPs and a full-length CD recorded on home studio equipment. Inevitable lineup changes, fewer and fewer live dates, and Weinheimer and Grotto having their first child seemed to signal a major slowing down for the Boondogs.

But Fever Dreams demonstrates that the band’s larger ambitions aren’t dead. Produced by Fat Possum founder Bruce Watson in his Water Valley, Mississippi, schoolhouse studio, Fever Dreams‘ lyrics speak of restlessness, anxiety, and paranoia while the well-appointed pop music beneath it is as lush as a bed of silk.

“You won’t believe what I saw in a dream/It’s the end of the world as we know it/The end” goes the opening of Fever Dreams. Grotto and Weinheimer trade songs throughout, a conversation of sorts, with Grotto’s shimmering “I Don’t Belong” being one of the record’s many highlights.

“A friend heard the record and asked what our fascination with the apocalypse was all about,” Weinheimer says. “But he missed the point. It’s really just an obsession with the apocalypse as metaphor. I mean, ‘the end of the world as we know it’ could really just be the end of a nice dinner. The check comes; it’s time to pay. What a drag. Who wants to go home?”

The Boondogs’ home is Little Rock, but their sound is larger than that. Hopefully they won’t need an Internet start-up to have that message heard this time.