Category: Record Reviews

Poses

Rufus Wainwright

(Dreamworks)

When I went to see Rufus Wainwright in Boston, not only did I finally manage to separate him from Elliot Smith but I also came to a pleasant conclusion: Rufus Wainwright is adorable. He’s also gifted with one of those rare, rich voices that can cover up all kinds of blind spots, especially those preposterously poetic lyrics that he’s very fond of writing.

As the kind of artist who merits forgiveness, though, it’s very easy to appreciate this flowery, rococo pop record for its foppery and insistent, careful tunefulness. The sticking point will probably be those lyrics — Wainwright’s choice of metaphor and setting (you know, his “poses”) might make skeptics question his manhood and whether his relationship to earth is as close as his relationship to Middle Earth. Again, though, that voice — to hear it and the way it soars over the record is to fully appreciate the way Wainwright’s Snagglepuss suavity and pipes let him get away with top-heavy, Elizabethan fairy-tale concept songs like “Rebel Prince” and “The Consort” (back to back, even!), liberal use of Bilbo Baggins-y words and phrases like “crucifix,” “entrust,” “endless warring,” and “drawbridge” (without irony, even!), literary references to doomed love like “Tadzio” (as a chorus, even!), and reprising the first song at the end (like Neil Young, even!).

The melodies fly high, reaching peaks on the partially plain-talk rock-pop of “California” and “Grey Gardens.” Since Wainwright is adorable, he might actually be a nice guy, not interested in metaphor, setting, and song as outlets for scorn. Funny thing is, the best lyrics on the album come from one man who isn’t afraid to behave badly — Rufus’ dad, Loudon Wainwright III, whose valentine to his own misanthropy, “One Man Guy,” is given a discreet ravishing by Wainwright, his lovely sister Martha, and Richard Thompson’s kid on guitar. And harmonize? Do they ever. — Addison Engelking

Grade: B+

10,000 Hz. Legend

Air

(Astralwerks)

Most of the elements that made Air’s 1998 debut Moon Safari so charming and widely influential are conspicuously absent from this sophomore album. Gone are the muted horns, the sophisticated retro beats, the smooth washes of keyboards, and the emphasis on songwriting that Nicolas Godin and Jean-Benoit Dunckel used to create a near-perfect, post-party chill-out record that transcended mere nostalgia. Sadly, the new album is an aimless, vacuous affair that alternates between boring and downright excruciating.

Vocals play a much more central role on 10,000 Hz. Legend, with a parade of disembodied automaton voices reducing most songs to kitschy mush. With its steady drums and stark acoustic guitar, “How Does It Make You Feel” would fit perfectly on Air’s wonderfully bleak soundtrack to Sofia Coppola’s film The Virgin Suicides, except for the strained, vaguely masculine electronic voice that delivers stiff love-letter lyrics. In the end, the whole thing is just a joke, as a female robot tells the guy to stop smoking. Ha, ha, huh?

10,000 Hz. Legend combines elements from both Moon Safari and The Virgin Suicides, but Godin and Dunckel can’t seem to find the right proportions. On “Radio #1,” the Suicides sound curdles into the Heavy Metal soundtrack, while “People in the City” and “Sex Born Poison” just ramble on and on.

At least one track lives up to the high standards Moon Safari promised. Structured in three movements, the seven-minute suite “Radian” uses disembodied chants, psychedelic flutes, lush strings, and warped synths to create an intriguingly spacey vibe that recalls Fantastic Planet.

Godin and Dunckel seem almost desperate not to tread old ground or repeat themselves, and they avoid their strengths and venture into new territory. But this approach plays exclusively to their weaknesses. It seems almost inevitable then that they would fall on their faces with this release. Still, it didn’t have to be such a long and embarrassing fall. — Stephen Deusner

Grade: C

Identikit

Burning Airlines

(Desoto Records)

Why does a moderately big brain usually sink the leaky boat known as rock music? It doesn’t always have to happen that way, but quite often the cerebral approach to things that go guitar-bass-drums hamstrings listening pleasure. That almost happens here on the second album from Burning Airlines (yes, named after a Brian Eno song, a warning signal in itself), where sincere yet quirky wordplay combines with sprung rhythms and muscular guitar playing. The result is a record that overwhelms more than it entertains. However, these former members of Jawbox and Government Issue somehow make the fussy ride to Cerebral Rock City kind of enjoyable at times.

The most easily identifiable reference point would be the first three Wire records. The influence of those arty, English pseudo-punk rockers can be heard in the strangest places. The Grifters have always sounded like they had a Wire LP or two in their record collections, come to think of it. And Burning Airlines often sounds like a pale version of the Grifters or the Gang of Four, another obvious reference point here. Guitarist J. Robbins resembles Gang of Four’s Andy Gill in his staccato, chord-based playing. Gill was a big fan of Wilko Johnson, guitarist for English pub band Dr. Feelgood, so it’s kind of ironic to note that big-brained post-rockers like Burning Airlines may have unwittingly gotten a big chunk of their guitar sound from the likes of boozy old pub rockers Dr. Feelgood. They also sound a bit like Fugazi (they’re from Washington, D.C., so how could they not borrow a little predictable fury from their neighbors?) and, well, Jawbox, albeit a less cluttered and less noisy version. A little stern and way too smart for their own good, Burning Airlines needs to relax and stop studying so hard. — Ross Johnson

Grade: B

Spankmaster

Kool Keith

(Overcore/TVT Records)

It takes multiple personalities to enjoy Kool Keith, aka Black Elvis, aka Dr. Octagon, aka Dr. Doooom, aka countless site-specific cameo personas. Roughly two years ago, all of these aliases were worth following. Whatever his name, Keith Thornton, former leader of the great lost rap crew Ultramagnetic MCs, was an avant-garde hip-hop hero whose major innovation — turning rhymes into breakneck-speed automatic writing that excludes boast or even sense — could not be denied. Medical manuals, serial murders, butt sex — it was all grist for the mill, and it ranged in quality from “whoa!” to “what?”.

On Spankmaster, Kool Keith the sex monster crafts a creepy, really really bass-heavy and almost uniformly unpleasant vibe you could call ear-porn for the mentally ill. When he isn’t raving about thongs or finding new places to shoot his wad, Keith’s obsessions and targets are so absurd (Mack trucks, weak MCs who are also NBA players) they might be funny if only Keith weren’t so clearly serious — the “I hate you” from “Maxin In the Shade” is most remarkable because, in context, it is a direct, narcissistic expression that is remarkably unrevealing, impersonal, and, therefore, inhuman. Whoa, kind of like actual porn! — AE

Grade: C

Lucy Ford

Atmosphere

(Rhyme Sayers)

The perpetual miracle of pop music is the way undeniable cultural eruptions emanate from unlikely or marginalized sources. Whine all you want about plastic teen-pop (which produces its own miracles occasionally) and corporate consolidation, but our most democratic art form constantly renews itself, giving voice to lives that might otherwise remain unexplored.

The latest case in point could be Atmosphere, an indie-hip-hop duo from lily-white Minnesota. Consisting of DJ Ant and MC Slug, Atmosphere has recently released the finest indie-hop record I’ve ever laid ears on. Slug, the group’s 27-year-old, multiracial mouthpiece, has been an iconic figure in the Twin Cities for years now but has recently seen his reputation start to spread nationwide, even drawing rave reviews from such rock-crit gatekeepers as Robert Christgau and Greil Marcus. Lucy Ford, originally released as two vinyl EPs, shows why.

Ant’s soundscapes are sharp and tasteful but don’t generally call attention to themselves. Rather the music just sets a solid foundation for Slug’s impassioned, witty flow — a deeply personal, excursionary vocal style that may not be “tight” by conventional hip-hop standards but can snap back on beat for moments of head-bobbing abandon.

Slug’s pleas and testimonials here can be remarkably introspective and confessional — hip hop as “therapy on top of turntable riffs” — but Lucy Ford may also be the most empathetic album in the genre’s now 25-year history, a tour de force for an MC with “enough love to pass around and then some.”

The album opens with “Between the Lines,” a triptych of edgy character sketches. The song begins audaciously with a compassionate yet wary portrait of an overcooked cop (“See the policeman/Notice the lonely man/How do you think he keeps his head on straight?/Feel his rhythm “) then moves on to a potentially psychotic young woman who has lost it at the movies (“Lovely little case study/Castaway cutie/Masturbating in the back of that matinee movie” — take that, Chuck Berry!) before finishing with a suicidal rapper — who may or may not be Slug himself — trying to make it through a tour (“Tonight’s the last day/Put the butt in the ashtray/Lock the door and slit both wrists backstage”). The vignettes are separated by the tightrope-walking chorus “I just/Might just/Feel somebody/I just/Might just/Kill somebody.”

All over Lucy Ford Slug takes hip hop places it’s never been before — catching a “glimpse of religion” watching a 40-year-old woman masturbating (a motif, obviously) on “The Woman With the Tattooed Hands,” taking a road trip to Fargo in a “car full of anxiety” on “Mama Had a Baby and His Head Popped Off,” witnessing a grain-elevator suicide on a farm in northern Minnesota on “Nothing But Sunshine.”

And Slug also flips emotional tones with easy virtuosity — playful on “It Goes” and funny on the off-kilter blues “Guns and Cigarettes,” deadly serious on the angry treatise “Tears For the Sheep” (which begins “A city of fools/I want to bash whoever’s responsible for this incomprehensible lack of passion”) and the hip-hop-as-emo “Don’t Ever Fucking Question That” (a valentine right down to the “I love you”).

In addition to “Between the Lines,” the standouts (song-of-the-year candidates) are “Like Today” and “Party For the Fight to Write.” The former is a bohemian rewrite of Ice Cube’s “Today Was a Good Day” that makes the mundane — sleep in, grab your headphones, hit the record store, book store, coffee shop, plop down and rubberneck (“In the summertime/Women wear a lot of skin/And if I sit in one spot I can take ’em all in”) — seem somehow visionary. The latter is a propulsive, bass-driven anthem that casts an understanding yet militant eye on the splintering factions in the so-called hip-hop community. On this song, Slug is a spy in the house of bling, mistaken by hip-hop moguls and soldiers as “Happy-go-lucky/Just another face/Head-bobbin’ nobody” before he rises to issue a challenge — “Alright/Get your money right/But tonight I want you to take a side.” But Slug spikes the thorny metasong with an inspired, unifying chorus: “Some got pencils and some got guns/Some know how to stand and some of them run/We don’t all get along/But we sing the same song/Party for the fight to write.”

Half flat-out brilliant and half way beyond filler, this collection of “theory, stories, truth, and myths” might be the most compelling and vital record I’ve heard all year. Anyone who wants to love Eminem but doesn’t think he’s enlightened enough should go find this record right now. For more info on Atmosphere check out www.rhymesayers.com. — Chris Herrington

Grade: A

Never Make It Home

Split Lip Rayfield

(Bloodshot)

There’s been an abundance of new-timey bluegrass groups lately: the jazz intonation of the Squirrel Nut Zippers, the country inflection of the Scud Mountain Boys, and the punk infusion of the Bad Livers all represent variations on the genre, while the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou? reintroduced consumers to Ralph Stanley, bluegrass originator and fiddler extraordinaire. The possibility that bluegrass would emerge — in the 21st century, no less — near the forefront of alternative country trends seemed highly unlikely, yet popular opinion proves otherwise.

Enter Split Lip Rayfield. Like all “real” bluegrass bands, this Wichita-based group features guitar and mandolin punctuated by a drumless rhythm section of banjo and bass. Bassist Jeff Eaton thumps a stand-up fashioned out of a Ford gas tank — and he plays it with panache, getting a robust sound from the album’s fast-paced opener, “Movin’ To Virginia,” on through the jaunty title track to the sweet and lowdown “It’s No Good.”

Replete with kazoo solos and car crashes, Never Make It Home could easily slip into the Southern Culture On the Skids arena of hokum and hucksterism, but the sheer earnestness of Split Lip Rayfield keeps the album grounded. While four-part harmonies dominate all 14 songs, each track stands on its own emotionally. From the wistful chorus of “Record Shop” (“Find your lover undercover/You take all my vices from me/You will soon discover that the road ain’t as easy as it seems”) to the repentant “Thief” and jubilant, twangy “Dimestore Cowboy,” this bluegrass quartet displays natural vocal talent and a flair for songwriting.

Relative greenhorns today, Split Lip Rayfield have the ability — and propensity — to inspire the next generation of bluegrass fans. After all, even Ralph Stanley was once a newcomer to the scene. You read it here first: Flash-forward 50 years and I guarantee that Never Make It Home is a hillbilly classic.– Andria Lisle

Grade: A-

Split Lip Rayfield will be at Last Place on Earth on Thursday, June 7th.

The Earth Rolls On

Shaver

(New West)

This latest release from Shaver is also likely to be the group’s last since guitarist Eddy Shaver died of a heroin overdose on New Year’s Eve 2000. The pairing of the late Shaver’s aggressive Southern boogie leads with Billy Joe Shaver’s (his father, by the way) songwriting and quavery vocals was an unlikely combination that worked very well in the studio. This pairing gave guitarist Shaver’s hard-edged playing a thoughtful context to blaze away in, and the rock band format seemed to energize the elder Shaver into a kind of high-energy performance he never gave as a solo singer-songwriter. Father and son benefited artistically and commercially from this sometimes awkward pairing.

Despite losing his mother, wife, and son in the last two years, Billy Joe Shaver sounds anything but tragic here. There’s pathos and loss, but defiance and humor figure just as much on this recording. In that sense, The Earth Rolls On fits in with much of Shaver’s solo work, where an almost mindless brand of outlaw rebellion prevails. Luckily the defiance is leavened by some very funny lyrics and over-the-top vocals that settle somewhere between a shout and a bray. Hope he keeps the band format now that he’s touring behind this record, because Shaver never sounded this lively in his Texas troubadour days. — Ross Johnson

Grade: B+

Billy Joe Shaver will be at the Hi-Tone Café on Thursday, June 7th.

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

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.

A Man Under the Influence

Alejandro Escovedo

(Bloodshot Records)

Relief is something that seldom comes easy for the battered souls who populate the work of Alejandro Escovedo, the most masterful essayist of all things melancholy to come along since Townes Van Zandt. More times than not, relief never comes at all: Instead, men stagger to bed alone, drunk with desolation, booze, and fear; women fight futilely with loneliness and rejection and work hard to cope with their youth becoming something gray and cracked but not yet forgotten; confusion and disappointment run rampant through their lives, haunting the days and ravaging the nights. Escovedo’s husky tenor offers little in the way of respite, and the naggingly morose strings with which he adorns his bleak character studies only emphasize the torment that bites at his sad cast of players.

On A Man Under the Influence, his first proper longplayer since 1996’s With These Hands, Escovedo hasn’t exactly found a place in this world that’s all shiny and happy; death, displacement, and shattered love and dreams blow through the songs like tear gas. But there’s a sense of hope and faith in life, love, and self forget the odds at hand that underpins its best songs. In “Castanets,” he’s dogged by the love of a woman he admits he likes best when she’s not around, and he drives his conviction home on a roaring riff that could demolish at least half of Exile On Main Street. In “Rhapsody” the kind of song you know upon first listen would be a hit if the world were a better place he’s already lost the one who never should’ve gotten away. But rather than mourn what’s lost, he sounds convincingly content with living with the memory, not wallowing in the loss.

Maybe that’s because Escovedo has turned his eye to a loss that transcends mere romance and strikes at the heart of his heritage. The highlights of A Man Under the Influence are pulled from his new play By the Hand of the Father, an extended ode to his family’s Hispanic heritage and the inherent hardships they endured as immigrants in the States. It’s a subject that’s driven some of his finest work including “Ballad of the Sun and the Moon,” “Nickel and a Spoon,” and “With These Hands” and it dominates his latest release even though only two songs are featured from the theatrical work.

They’re great ones, though. “Wave” details the tragedy of migration, the crushing hardship and displacement that most often awaits anyone who manages to cross the border without the ultimate face-off with an unfriendly floodlight. “Rosalie,” meanwhile, is a love letter both written and sung from one side of the border to the other a testimonial of love and endurance in the face of change, turbulence, and anguish, a flag of faith that is weathered but still standing. As the song builds dramatically to its finish, the pedal steel collapsing on a bed of acoustic guitar and plush bass, the incessant incantation “I love you, Rosalie” almost brings redemption to all the sorrowed lives Escovedo has written about in the past. Like everything on A Man Under the Influence, it is a moment of triumph, a thing of unspeakable beauty. John Floyd

Grade: A

Alejandro Escovedo will be at the Hi-Tone Café on Tuesday, May 1st.

Forever Changes

Love

(Elektra Traditions/Rhino)

What to make of a mixed-race rock band based in Los Angeles in the mid-’60s that called itself Love? Recorded in that vaunted summer of ’67, and remastered and re-released this year, Forever Changes‘ combination of unpredictable melodic themes, orchestrated acoustic rock textures, Memphian Arthur Lee’s quirky and gorgeous vocals, and his often unsettling lyrics had no precedent at the time. Lee was a black man who often sang in a voice that sounded almost comically white. He played with audience expectations of what a black man playing rock-and-roll should sound and look like, opting for a singing voice that shifted easily from effete art rock to Bo Diddley rave-ups. Sonically, the record is unique in its very sparing use of electric guitar. This was a departure for a guitar-laden time when it seemed that every rock guitarist alternated between distorted Claptonesque leads or leaden wah-wah pedal meandering. An unadorned acoustic guitar in 1967 was something of a radical proposition. Love did not have a virtuoso instrumentalist, so they concentrated on songwriting and performance in the studio. They also had an aversion to touring, which kept them from achieving the same prominence as Elektra label-mates the Doors.

So Love never became rock stars and, for all practical purposes, were finished by 1970’s False Start. Arthur Lee went on to a patchy solo career plagued by personal demons and currently is serving time in a California prison on a weapons charge. Rhino has done the usual solid job here by including outtakes, demos, alternate mixes, and hard-to-find singles in this re-release package, but the liner notes by former rock critic Ben Edmonds are a little too softcore and revisionist for a band that blew a massive talent in a big way. Edmonds tends toward hippie nostalgia in a way that Arthur Lee and Love never did. Forever Changes just might be the only cultural artifact from the Summer of Love worth keeping. Ross Johnson

Grade: A

Wandering Strange

Kate Campbell

(Eminent Records)

This long-awaited gospel album from Kate Campbell is a real joy. I haven’t heard anything this funky and quintessentially Southern in a gospel album for a long time (a few things Ray Charles did spring to mind). With a good chunk of original tunes, a few artful covers, and some soulful reworkings of Victorian and earlier hymns, Campbell delivers more of the Southern Gothic character for which she’s renowned. Recorded at the venerable Fame Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, Wandering Strange boasts electric guitar and organ trills that add a wonderfully authentic sound to these classic tunes. The daughter of a Mississippi preacher, Campbell absorbed gospel music practically through osmosis, singing in her daddy’s church from an early age. At the same time she was listening to ’70s soul out of Muscle Shoals and Memphis, as well as Southern rock and pop. Wandering Strange is a vivid amalgam of all these influences Southern to the core but universal in its yearning. Campbell’s original tunes, to her credit, stand proudly side by side with antique hymns she transforms into something of her own.

Wandering Strange kicks off with a cover of Gordon Lightfoot’s “The House You Live In.” “Come Thou Fount,” with lyrics penned in 1758, is resurrected with mandolin and spirited electric guitar flourishes. Campbell’s pellucid vocals are perfectly suited to her otherworldly reworking of the early-19th century tune “The Prodigal.” My favorite cut, “The Last Song,” sounds like something straight out of the Hi Records stable, with that signature organ sound and lush, emotive background singers. (Cindy Walker and Ava Aldridge, who sang behind Aretha Franklin on several classics, provide back-up.) And, appropriately enough, Campbell finishes the record with a hidden track, a song Elvis recorded, “Miracle of the Rosary.” It was an oddly mystical song for a poor Baptist boy from Mississippi to cover but entirely fitting in the context of this wonderful, soulful album. n Lisa Lumb

Grade: A-

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