Category: Record Reviews

Roots

Blue Mountain (Blue Mountain Music)

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The Oxford, Mississippi, band Blue Mountain have endured some tumultuous times during the past few years. Expanding from a three-piece to a quartet, the band released their third album, Tales of a Traveler, in 1999. While it ambitiously expanded their sound, it failed to garner any critical or commercial attention.

Shortly thereafter, the band left its long-time label, Roadrunner, which specialized in heavy-metal acts and didn’t seem to know how to effectively market a country-rock band. Subsequently, singer Cary Hudson and bassist Laurie Stirratt’s marriage ended in divorce. Because their romance had spawned several songs, many fans thought the band would likewise split.

But, as their self-released fourth album testifies, Blue Mountain — again a trio with Hudson, Stirratt, and drummer Frank Coutch — are made of tougher stuff than that. A thoroughly researched, sensitively played collection of traditional Southern and Appalachian songs, Roots captures the jangly rowdiness and rambunctious spirit of the band’s most memorable work as it relates stories of boozers, losers, outlaws, and railroad hobos.

“Banks of the Pontchartrain” tells of a railroad stray who finds love in the black hair and warm home of a Creole girl. It is a gentle ode to a lost opportunity, and Hudson’s voice shines with a warm grace, subtly drawing out the tale’s bittersweet emotion. The raucous send-up of the well-known “Rye Whiskey” sways like a drunk, and “Spring of ’65” sounds ancient and otherworldly, Hudson’s plaintive vocals and precise guitar evoking 1865 as if it were 1965.

And “Rain and Snow,” the album’s most haunting track, resonates with an appropriate storminess. Hudson invests the tale of a man who murders his wife with a sense of deep regret and profound loss. Lending the song an atmosphere that is no less than gothic, he howls and moans like a truly tortured soul, while his elemental guitar work lurks threateningly.

The album’s closer, “Little Stream of Whiskey,” finds Coutch assuming vocal duties as he tells of a dying hobo’s last wishes. His rusty-hinge voice fits the song perfectly, lending its unique vision of a whiskey-soaked afterlife a rough, drunken swagger.

Ultimately, Roots serves as a reassertion of the band’s identity, a reconnection with its influences and with the dark corners of Southern music. Despite the band’s several recent splits — with its fourth member, with Roadrunner, and between Hudson and Stirratt — Blue Mountain haven’t sounded so together in a long time. — Stephen Deusner

Grade: B+

Blue Mountain will be at the Hi-Tone Café on Friday, March 2nd.

Stephen Malkmus

Stephen Malkmus (Matador)

When Pavement first emerged from the indie scene in the early Nineties with a sound both rawer and richer than any of their cohorts, mystery was part of the allure. Band photos were scarce and the group’s core members — high school buddies Steve Malkmus and Scott Kannberg — were known solely by the monikers SM and Spiral Stairs. The mystery matched the music: cryptic, dissonant, yet stunningly melodic noizetoons that made the post-punk milieu of Suburban Anywhere seem strange and romantic for the first and last time. Back then, no one saw a conventional rock story in the band’s future — “maturation,” break-up, solo moves.

But here we are. With Pavement no more, generational icon Malkmus has released his first solo record and it’s a doozy. Stephen Malkmus doesn’t compare with the three essential Pavement albums — Slanted and Enchanted; Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain; and Brighten the Corners — but it’s a more focused, more engaging affair than fine second-tier-band works like Wowee Zowee and Terror Twilight. Backed by a Portland indie duo Malkmus has dubbed the Jicks, this solo move is close enough to the mid-tempo, sugary crunch of late-era Pavement to confirm that Malkmus was the musical as well as verbal soul of his old band, though the spark-filled guitar interplay between Malkmus and Kannberg is missed.

Malkmus’ hyperliterate songwriting here is more direct and narrative-focused than before, displaying a more distanced, literary wit than he did in Pavement: songs about Ancient Greece, autobiographies of Yul Brynner and Captain Hook. But the best moments are still the most personal. “Jennifer and the Ess-Dog,” a sardonic yet compassionate take on young love amid the upper middle-class — “Jennifer takes a man/in a Sixties cover band/He’s the Ess-Dog/Sean, if you wish/She’s 18/He’s 31/She’s a rich girl/He’s the son/of a Coca-Cola middleman” — returns Malkmus to his native turf with truly stunning results. It’s the most straightforward song he’s ever written, and one of the best. Almost as great is the soaring “Church on White,” the most intimate and emotional song on the album, which has Malkmus taking stock of his own shape-shifting legacy with the chorus, “All you really wanted was everything/Plus everything/And in truth I only poured you/Half a lie.”

How many other artists have stepped immediately out of a great band and released a solo album this good? John Lennon definitely, Paul Westerberg maybe. It’s a short list. — Chris Herrington

Grade: A-

Liquored Up and Lacquered Down

Southern Culture on the Skids (TVT)

I remember the intense feeling of joy that rushed through me a couple of years back when I saw that big marquee over East Parkway. It read “Southern Culture on the Skids at the Mid-South Fair.” It was perfect. It was beauty. It was at once an announcement of a party pending and a statement of undeniable fact. It also contained the exact blend of verity and irony that puts SCOTS songs a dozen diesel lengths ahead of all the other guitar-shredding trailer-park poseurs who cropped up in the mid-’90s. Now, after two years without a record deal, SCOTS is finally back with Liquored Up and Lacquered Down, a mighty fine 13-song release that, in spite of its technical superiority, lacks the rocket-fueled punch of the group’s previous efforts.

“I Learned to Dance in Mississippi” is far and away the best song on the album. With its fat Stax groove and approving nod to the funky bluff city we all live in, this song about a wild night at Junior Kimbrough’s juke joint should certainly appeal to the Memphis hipsterati. Likewise, when Mary Huff, whose husky voice sounds better than ever, croons the soulful garage-girl anthem “Hittin’ on Nothin’,” it sounds like a Hellcats reunion.

Memphis isn’t the only Southern music town whose sound gets sampled on this disc. The groovy retro licks on “Pass the Hatchet” and Rick Miller’s spoken “Let me chop it/Let me chop it/TIMBER!” will remind folks that SCOTS owes a great debt to Athens’ own B-52s. And while we’re talking Georgia, it should be noted that both “The Haw River Stomp” and “King of the Mountain” sound too much like the Georgia Satellites to be taken very seriously. Even worse, the Mexicali-pop of the album’s title track creeps into territory hitherto solely owned and operated by the parrot-king himself, Jimmy Buffet. Sadly, the thin ode to booze, big hair, and beauty queens isn’t exactly a vast improvement on “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

Southern Culture on the Skids have always worn their roots on their sleeve, but Liquored Up and Lacquered Down almost seems like some kind of tribute album. It’s solid front to back but desperately in need of some hellfire to make it cook. — Chris Davis

Grade: B

Southern Culture on the Skids will be at the New Daisy Theatre on Friday, March 2nd, with the Forty-Fives.

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

Babyface: A Collection

of His Greatest Hits

Babyface

(Epic)

A lot of blame can be indirectly attributed to Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds and his track record as a producer for artists such as Boyz II Men, Sheena Easton, Bobby Brown, TLC, Whitney Houston, Madonna, Brandy, and even that old geezer Eric Clapton. His silky yet clattery production formula has become something of a template for the screechy teen-pop that has infested the charts and the airwaves these last few years. And that doesn’t even take into account his own tepid work as a solo recording artist, which is chronicled on this estimable greatest hits package.

So if his production and solo work are slick and formulaic then how to explain the undeniable attractiveness and, um, soulfulness of his singing? ‘Face, as he is known in music biz circles, has a very expressive voice: quavery, melismatic, full of feeling, kind of like Little Anthony’s (of the Imperials) without the pop drama and sissyman blues quotient. Babyface always turns in a solid vocal performance in the midst of forced funk beats and overly lush production. Edmonds has a well-known affection for ’70s singer/songwriter material (a la James Taylor and Bill Withers) and this shows even on these bloated tracks. However, when he does go for a more stripped-down production style, the instrumental track becomes more grating because there are fewer melodic instruments to cover up the clattering percussion and clichéd drum machine programming.

He sells millions and has arrived as a biz insider who can be depended on to shore up the sagging careers of aging veterans or smooth over teen pop’s rough edges. Kenneth Edmonds’ dream of having a successful, long-term career in the music industry has certainly come true for him, but his sound is mainly headache-inducing. Shame about the wasted voice though. — Ross Johnson

Grade: C

Bow Down to the Exit Sign

David Holmes

(1500 Records)

Movies with “found” soundtracks are often great (Tati’s Playtime, Altman’s California Split), but soundtracks seeking films are often dicey (Eno’s Music For Films, anything by Radiohead). The underlying aesthetic of both ventures is the same, though: the attempt to conjure one medium through the imaginative use of another. Only it’s more successful in movies than it is in music, because a movie rarely plunges the viewer into darkness to concentrate on sounds. In contrast, records are often incidental soundtracks that complement the lives of their listeners but rarely stop them cold. I mean, who has time for staring into the blackness and contemplating imaginary images backed by bass, drums, and keyboards?

Dublin, Ireland, musician David Holmes does, but based on the drippy imaginary “trailer” description in the liner notes, here’s hoping he sticks to making music. Besides, the concept grounding Bow Down to the Exit Sign (as well as 1997’s Let’s Get Killed) is plenty rich and evocative: The Foreigner Bears Witness To Bizarre Tales of the City. His second attempt to draw a chalk outline of urban America through unlikely samples and found hepcat conversations is coarser, less campy, and meaner than its starry-eyed predecessor, which might signify Holmes’ growing discontent with the quality of life in our big cities. Then again, it might signify an attempt to reach down into its concrete heart for a little bit of old-fashioned film noir menace, which Jon Spencer aptly approximates on “Bad Thing.” But who cares if the film part of the equation is ever completed when Holmes gives you actual songs as funky as The French Connection, with lyrics and riffs and propulsion and even a chorus on the first track (“Trying to keep it real/but compared to what?”) that I’ve wanted to hear my whole life? — Addison Engelking

Grade: A-

Mass Romantic

The New Pornographers

(Mint Records)

An ad hoc act composed of musicians from various indie outfits, the Canadian-heavy New Pornographers play a decidedly lo-fi brand of pop music that might be compared to the cream of the Elephant 6 crop. But as the smart, driving, vaguely retro Mass Romantic proves, the Pornographers’ tunes are more accessible and direct and less willfully esoteric than those by many of their Southern counterparts.

Sharing vocal duties are critical darling Neko Case, former Zumpano singer Carl Newman, and erstwhile Destroyer member Blaine Thurier. Newman has an athletic voice that bops along with energetic melodies like the new-wave “The Body Says No,” and Thurier sounds like the Canadian counterpart to Britain’s career eccentric Robyn Hitchcock. But the real standout on Mass Romantic is Case, who belts just a few songs, most notably the title track and “Letter from an Occupant.” Still full of sass and spirit, she displays surprising versatility as a vocalist, shedding the torch-and-twang of last year’s stunning Furnace Room Lullaby and re-creating herself as a pop chanteuse of unexpected power.

The Pornographers half-bury such dynamic vocals and well-developed melodies in guitar buzz and production distortion. But it all works: The effect is a slow revelation of the songs’ many charms over several listens. — Stephen Deusner

Grade: A-

Lost Souls

Doves

(Astralwerks)

The Doves are an almost entirely organic three-piece band that rose from the ashes of not-so-organic Sub Sub — stalwarts on the British techno scene for a good 10 years. Displaying a backward logic in modern rock, Doves shed any and all hint of electronica, falling squarely between dance-pop like the Happy Mondays and sonic blueprinting a la My Bloody Valentine, making for a House of Love living in a Radiohead world, if you will. So, yes, there is that inevitable ghost lingering about, but any topical, semi-underground British pop is going to have a hard time avoiding such a cultural icon.

Now that the name-checking is out of my system, I will say that the songs are built around some inescapable hooks, and when all is said and done, that is what’s paramount, not whom you’ve borrowed a sound from. The guitars are affected but kept in check, no matter how much it seems they want to display some serious histrionics. Instead, underhanded somberness, or maybe even menace, prevails ahead of just showing off a pedal selection. Vocals are spot-on and avoid heavy-handedness — a welcome stance in a world filled with Brit-pop Freddie Mercurys. Kudos are also in order for the subtle Raging Bull-ish cover art. Hey, it could have been the standard abandoned airport imagery, which is becoming a little hard on the peepers. Whenever Radiohead decides to give it up, they can rest easy knowing that bands like Doves are making confident pop in their wake. n — Andrew Earles

Grade: B

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