Music Home

April 2008

Carly Simon - This Kind of Love

Carly Simon This Kind of Love 3 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

It’s hard to believe Carly Simon is 62 and is releasing her 24th album. In the dark recesses of what’s left of my mind, she’s still that provocative, carefree hippy chick who released a series of clever, semi-autobiographical hits in the early 70s, including “That’s The Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be,” “Anticipation,” “The Right Thing To Do,” and “You’re So Vain.” Simon’s album covers remained great eye candy for years afterward, but she lost me in the 80s when her career was revitalized by “Coming Around Again.” “This Kind of Love” is her first album of new material in eight years. (Her last album, 2007’s “Into White” mixed standards with covers by Simon and Garfunkle, former husband James Taylor, and Cat Stevens, who penned the title track.) For her latest, Simon collaborated with composer Jimmy Webb, one of most celebrated composers in pop music, whose luxurious string arrangements for Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman” and Richard Harris’ “MacArthur Park” made them orchestrated eargasms.

I don’t know what Simon paid Webb (or rather what Starbucks, distributors of the CD did), but Webb, who co-produced “Love” with Simon and Frank Filipetti, earns his money from the jump. “This Kind of Love” shows Simon’s voice has aged; it shakes a wee bit, like she’s got battling Parkinson’s, but she’s still got a generous portion of her smoky timbre. Webb’s communicative strings blend well with the influence of Brazilian music (which is a reoccurring theme throughout the album), creating a sophisticated contemporary adult sound that’s one part Simon from her “Boys in the Trees” period and part Doobie Brothers during Michael MacDonald’s adult contemporary stage. “You’re the water I never dared to jump into, you’re the place my body belongs.” It’s easy listening with easy groovin’ percussion, acoustic Esteban-like guitar, a flirty clarinet, and waves of orchestrated magic. I miss Carly the folkie, but this is the type of light fare she can do when she’s a sexy octogenarian. And who knew Carly knew was bi-lingual? She and a group of kids give a lesson in amore as they vamp out the ending.

“Hold Out Your Heart” is more finger snapping samba with harp-like acoustic guitar, sensitive strings and gently tapped congas. It’s music to swing in your hammock by. “Hold out your heart…Hold out your heart... and I will give you some of mine.” I’m not sure I like the way Carly’s voice occasionally shakes, but you have to respect her for not flooding the zone with drums and loud guitars to disguise it. It’s mostly Carly, some silky strings and a lot of well-earned sentiment.

The gentle breeze of “Island,” delivers a calming mix of soft calypso and folk. Webb really knows how to wrap a string arrangement around a song, utilizing pitty-pat percussion and Beatle-esque background vocals. “I would rather fall from grace completely than let you change my mind. I would rather bet my life against the rising of the sun.” “Island” is the album’s best song so far and very un-Carly. It will remind you of the lonely, uneasy, layered ballads of songwriter/producer Daniel Lanois (who’s to blame for unleashing many of U2s chart topping recordings).

“In My Dreams” is laden with piano, a Webb trademark. An upright bass fills out the sparse arrangement. Carly whispers when she should be holding on to her notes, but the backing instrumentation is beautiful in its simplicity, down to the gently plucked acoustic solo. “The only place I hang my hat is in my dreams. The only place I’m not alone is in my dreams. The only place I recognize is in my dreams.”

“When We’re Together” is more island-flavored adult contemporary fare. Carly’s voice still has the Carol Channing shakes, and now its triple tracked. “When We’re Together” is breezy like a sailboat cruise, but also has a familiar, comfortable ring. I’m still trying to figure out where I’ve heard the melody before.

Carly invades “American Idol” territory with “So Many People To Love,” which projects a jazz/rock fusion with a sequenced choppy rhythm track borrowed from Stevie Wonder. Instead of strings, you get humming keyboards, processed background vocals and hip hop bop. It shouldn’t work, but the material is meaningful and Carly sounds at home immersed in 21st technology.

Simon’s voice regains its 70s elasticity and strength with “They Just Want You To Be There.” There’s less quavering; Simon cuts herself short before the wobbles set in. She hits the higher registers with ease, even while having to contend with a full set of drums and crouching strings.

The power stays on in “Sangre Dolce,” one of the album’s best cuts, in which she’s surrounded by a breathy Bee Gee-like background, cresting strings and more Buenos Aires beats. Webb keeps things interesting by injecting the album’s first electric guitar solo, which makes its appearance all the more noticeable. Again, I have to wonder why Simon has such power on this song and “They Just Want You To Be There” and not on others. Whatever the reason, she sings “Sangre Dolce” with a bullfighter’s confidence.

The closer, “Too Soon To Say Goodbye,” is a gaspy waltz dedicated to Simon’s late friend, humorist Art Buchwald. This sounds a bit like Madeline Kahn lampooning Marlene Dietrich in “Blazing Saddles,” (she even says auf weidersehen) but the subject is apropos. It really is too soon for the album to end.

You’ll feel a lot of love for this platter, but there are a few cuts that strain one’s affection and stray into the realm of bad love. When Simon gets too overzealous it’s like having Britney Spears as your driving instructor – you’re bound to crash. Carly makes a huge mistake with “People Say A Lot,” doing a rap song. That’s right, a rap song. Not-so-Grandmaster Flash. She sounds eerily like Grace Slick when she talks, which is creepy enough, and when she finally sings, she grafts together a baroque/classical chorus that resembles a Frank Zappa lampoon. Coming on the heels of two well crafted ballads, this is an ambitious but utter failure. Any hip hopper who hears “People Say A Lot” will probably need to be hospitalized --- suffering from fits of laughter. Rapper shouldn’t try to sing ballads and singers shouldn’t try to rap, especially ones who are over 60.

“Hola Soleil” is the most obvious Brazilian infused tune on the album, an off-kilter samba with Webb’s bouncy, omnipresent strings. A phalanx of children joins Carly on the chorus. The acoustic guitar solo is short but perfectly plucked, echoing Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “Dark Star.” There’s also a Kenny G solo and some timbales for a celebratory feel, but lyrically, “Hola Soleil” is an international smash up. Interpol needs to be notified that the parameters of Spanglish have been violated.

“The Last Samba” is a slow moving dance of death. “They’re playing the last samba, shall we dance?” No, I’ll sit this one out, Carly. The bongos droop and Webb’s cheesy piano solo will leave you envisioning hungry mosquitoes and warm margaritas. You know I hate cabaret jazz. This has Blossom Dearie and her insidious ilk written all over it. Tip your hat to the Copa Cabana on your time Carly, not mine.

Carly Simon made a few albums that’ll make you wonder who’s at the wheel of her career, such as “Torch” (an overwrought album of, that’s right, torch songs). She’s at the stage in her career where she doesn’t have to rely on cheesecake to sell albums – an artist who’s a member of the Songwriter’s Hall of Fame shouldn’t have to do that. Now she’s running on pure talent. “This Kind of Love” won’t make long-time fans forget “No Secrets,” but it’ll assure listeners that Carly Simon still has plenty of ideas behind her broad smile. Unlike some the contemporaries she sang about in “You’re So Vain” (take that Mick Jagger), Carly Simon’s music continues to prove rockers can age gracefully.

Posted April 30, 2008 Permalink

It's a Shame About Ray

The Lemonheads - It's a Shame About Ray Collector's Edition Original Release 1 out of 5 stars Demos and DVD Extras 3 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

It’s a shame the Lemonheads chose to release their fifth album, 1992’s “It’s A Shame About Ray” in its pugnacious and persistently migraine-inducing electric form. The half-speed acoustic demos outdo the final throat-burning versions visited on the public with such ease you can only hope the person making the group’s career decisions also doesn’t control their money -- ‘cause they’re gonna go broke. The acoustic versions are sung with more passion, have distinctive influences, and, minus drummer David Ryan’s primordial pounding, won’t make your ears bleed. Of course an acoustic album from a group known for its fuzzed-out clamor would have tanked. The alternative crowd wasn’t ready for beautiful music from the Lemons. But now you can have it all on the Deluxe Edition of “It’s A Shame About Ray”… the sweet acoustic sounds in their infancy and the sour power punk it morphed into, plus a DVD of the band bouncing around the outback performing many of the album’s song’s for a third time. Very few albums can stand up to the scrutiny of three different versions of the same song, even if it shows the progression from demos to completed work to live renditions. In the Lemon’s case they didn’t even get that right – the deluxe edition goes from the final versions back in time to the demos, then to the live torture tunes. No matter. Less is more. It’s a shame… but too much Ray causes scurvy.

The Lemonheads’ head sucker, guitarist/disinterested vocalist Evan Dando, formed the group in 1986. To date, the group has had more members than a bushel of fruit, including Juliana Hatfield (Blake Babies), who must have been juiced to take on the role of bassist for the album. The original release of “It’s About Ray” was the first Lemon to squeeze its way onto the charts, rolling to #68. The sudden interest in the group came from a song that wasn’t even on the album. When “The Graduate” was re-released on video, some slacker came up with the heinous idea of re-recording “Mrs. Robinson,” one of Simon and Garfunkel’s more vapid, but time honored tunes. It didn’t seem possible that the remake could be any worse than the original, but the Lemonhead’s raucous and downright disrespectful version caught the ears of the college crowd. It received a boast from its inclusion on the “Wayne’s World 2” soundtrack, and when the album was reissued, “Mrs. Robinson” was tacked on, further hyping sales. The band was happy for the recognition, even if some members admitted they weren’t in love with the song either. Put that in your pantry with your cupcakes.

Electric Lemon
It’s A Shame About Ray…The remastered original release

An acoustic guitar is used to drive “Confetti,” which quickly shreds into disarray. Done at a pace where you can understand what Dando’s saying (unlike the unlistenable amphetamine opener, “Rockin’ Stroll”), Dando’s detached doomsday vocal style brings to mind the Smith’s Morrissey. “He kinda woulda sorta shoulda loved her.” I kinda sorta almost like this song, Evan. An inventive low-end guitar solo makes this power pop worth listening to once, but overall, it’s as thin as confetti.

The title track spins more power pop, hijacking an acoustic guitar as its rhythmic base. Ryan’s drums are finally on the same page with the group’s forceful dynamics. Dando gives a very wan performance, but at least there’s an attempt at adding some harmonics; and while Ryan’s in step with the style, he still needs to back it down a bit. He doesn’t have the creativity to warrant being such a nuisance. He’s a metronome, not a percussionist.

“Rudderless” follows -- pointless is more like it. I’m still waiting for one Dando’s songs to show me something. (As I later discovered listening to the demos, it wasn’t so much the songs as the format.) Here’s another whiny, disinterested non-dandy Dando vocal, more thudding drumming, and an underpinning acoustic. And let’s embarrass Juliana Hatfield by having her chime in for a few bars. Too bad her contribution is contrived and makes her sound as mechanical as one of Robert Palmer’s video dolls. And rhyming pass with ass is just lazy and doesn’t get it done.

“My Drug Buddy” offers a needed embellishment -- whoa, a keyboard! Having been hammered at like anti-aircraft shells bouncing off of a kamikaze for the past four songs, hearing even a brief intro by a Hammond is a God send. The Head’s pull back the power pop routine a bit, so its no revelation this made the airwaves – substance and style = popularity. This has the lethargy one would associate with a “drug buddy,” most likely that lolling friend who always took too many Quaaludes and nodded off on the couch. (C’mon, everybody knew somebody like that.) “Drug Buddy” is the closest the Heads have come to performing something that inspires a reaction other than projectile vomiting. But they really need a drummer that can do something other than hit his kit as if he’s Sylvester the Cat trying to eradicate Tweetie Bird with a club. “I’m too much with myself, I wanna be someone else.” Can’t say I blame you, Evan. I wanted to be the guy in charge of renewing or breaking your record contract when the previous four songs were playing. (One break coming up.)

“The Turnpike Down” leads the listener back down the deafening, ruinous road of guitars being played like bundles of lit dynamite. And here’s another in a long list of detriments – dandy Dando has developed the annoying habit of repeating himself: “Mark my path down…Mark my path down.” You bet, dandy. I’ll take you down the turnpike and into coyote infested woods with a copy of this CD and a rack of lamb around your neck and leave you there.

“I just want a bit part in your life!” an obviously unhinged Polly Noonan screams as a prelude to “Bit Parts.” Right away you know your listening pleasure will be nil. Polly is a Lemonhead “muse” (re: groupie), and typifies the off-center Prozac powered personage that might find this three-minute steeplechase appealing. This comes off as three-quarter paced Ramones, which in my book ain’t good.

The next time I ask for variety, I hope these guys don’t give it to me. The addition of the steel guitar to “Hannah and Gabi” is like asking someone to scratch your back with a dull axe. On the positive side (yes, there is one), the playing is tasty and fluid, but lyrically, “Hannah and Gabi” is dull pseudo-country.

“Kitchen” cooks up more hand-clapping commercial Ramones at a one-third impulse speed. “Bop-bop-badu. Bop-bop-badu” indeed. The Lemons unravel when they goose the pace, and the gear-grinding solo at the end doesn’t help.

“Frank Mills” is a short story set to an acoustic backing. At least Ryan and his Og the Cavemen drumming isn’t involved, which gives Frankie a shot. This tries to be as cute as a Jonathan Richman stream of conscious babbler, but makes dandy sound like a stalker more in love with his hero than his girlfriend.

Quite possibly the worst cover tune of all time, the Head’s version of “Mrs. Robinson” ranks highly in the “What the hell were they thinking?” category, along with Donna Summer’s debasement of “McArthur Park” (you know you’re in trouble if Richard Harris can out sing you) and Guns and Hoses Ethel Merman interpretation of “Live and Let Die,” which should have done the later. Done at a speed freak pace, this Mrs. Robinson has all the attraction of a trailer park denizen dressed in Birkenstocks and a flannel knapsack who forgot to put her teeth in.

More Head…The Bonus Material

“It’s A Shame About Ray” is such a slight, disposable collection of noise you wonder why it was given a green light in the first place. The record execs must have heard Dando’s acoustic versions first because there are some dandy’s amidst the head Lemon’s unadorned samples.

The demo for “Shaky Ground” offers Dando solo on his acoustic. There’s no rushing and you can actually understand what he’s singing. This is enjoyable! Ditch the other heads, lemon Dando. “Paradise and catastrophe they go side by side. Does this mean we’re on shaky ground? I’m happy when you’re around. So let’s not put our feelings at bay, I love you in a different way.” Not profound, but prior to hearing the demos I didn’t think Dando was even capable of transmitting a coherent thought.

As an acoustic number, “It’s A Shame About Ray” has substance, and most importantly a melody. It wouldn’t have sold unplugged, but the demo is a much more enjoyable listen and it won’t tight your colon or set your teeth on edge. It’s a shame the final version was so radically different. The demo offers a “Ray” of hope.

Okay the acoustic approach doesn’t cure all ills. Witness the demo for “Rockin’ Stroll.” There’s some nice picking towards the end of the verses, but this still has the herky-jerky pace of the final version. Dando hits a grievous note at the end. “Smile at meeeeee.” Some “treasures” are better off remaining locked in the vault.

The demo for “My Drug Buddy” has a Darvon-killing pace, but there’s an attempt at harmony (even if it is overdubbed). But you really have to pucker up to sit through the strained vocals at the end.

Other notable early sketches include the demo for “Ceiling Fan In My Spoon,” which is in the early train wreck stage because Dando hasn’t figured out what to do with his voice. He’s sheepish, and then a moment later rides the scale as if it was a vocal rollercoaster. It ain’t pretty, but it’s still two tablespoons better than the end product.

DVD Two Weeks In Australia

Consumers get 45 minutes of videos, live performances and Dando playing the role of wounded rock star, flicking his long mane like an Indie Fabio as he preens for the camera. He’s a phony, but he’s a damned charming and photogenic phony. You want someone at home in front of a camera? How about Johnny Depp, who makes an appearance in the video for “It’s A Shame About Ray” doing his wounded rebel act? Using just his body language, Johnny pulls his punk persona off.

In other acts of mental cruelty, Dando tries to explain the band’s pilgrimage to Australia. A pregnant woman and a band named Smudge somehow played significant roles. In the video for “Being Around,” the prevailing wind coming off of the water keeps blowing Dando’s shoulder length hair in his face. Dando subtlety tries to fight his unmanageable mane off, leaning left, leaning right, and twisting his head, all to no avail. His Jennifer Anniston sheep dog locks also dominate “Alison’s Starting To Happen,” which is shot in concert. Since he’s scratching at his guitar, he can’t play with his hair, which completely obscures his face. If Dando’s arms weren’t moving, you wouldn’t know which way he was facing.

But Dando and his Lemons have more problems than his imitation of Rapunzel. The video for the intolerable “Mrs. Robinson” was shot on the water with a lot of concussion-promising low bridges. Watch your lemon, Evan. Dando avoids getting an abutment upside his head but can’t duck the fact that “Mrs. Robinson” is divorced from any semblance of melody.

“Hannah and Gabi” is beginning to sound better (third version’s a charm?), but the video suffers from the type of focus problems found in student films and has a bad case of “The Blair Witch” twitch. At least you get to see a lot of historical images of people connected to the band – well, the ones in focus, anyway.

Dando makes the most of his Indie Adonis image by singing “It’s About Time” solo. His preoccupation with sexy poses notwithstanding, Dando briefly remembers he’s a musician and gives a credible performance.

One thing for sure – Dando is photogenic enough to make the jump from singing to acting (his band mates can not make the same claim), although I doubt he’d be as good as Johnny Depp. As a musician, well, he’s still not as good as Johnny Depp.

Some recordings warrant excessive attention to detail and remastering so crisp you’d swear it was live. “There’s Something About Ray” doesn’t. But by adding demos and videos to an inferior work, the Heads have at least managed to make lemonade out of a lemon.

Posted April 23, 2008 Permalink

Van Morrison - Keep It Simple

Van Morrison Keep It Simple 3.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Van Morrison’s craggy image on the cover of “Keep It Simple” makes him look like he should be the fifth face on Mount Rushmore. The eleven songs on the album are far less coarse. Now 62, Morrison has eased into his Medicare years as a fatherly R & B/rock guru. His new album doesn’t have instant classic burned into its grooves like 1971’s “Tupelo Honey,” or the bump a minute funk of 1977’s “Period Of Transition,” but each subdued track locks in place with the next as if it were a patch in a quilt, and together the songs form a beautiful musical tapestry. Van the man keeps it simple, and the result is his best effort since 1978’s “Wavelength.”

Morrison has a habit of recruiting name musicians, many of whom are mid-range legends in their own right. (For example, he tabbed New Orleans voodoo man Dr John to helm “A Period of Transition,” and during his 90’s comeback worked with keyboardist Georgie Fame, who had solo hits in the 60s with “Yeh, Yeh” and “The Ballad Of Bonnie and Clyde.” In a surprise move, he recruited the Jeff Beck Group’s powerhouse vocalist Bobby Tench as his lead guitarist for “Wavelength.”) For “Keep It Simple” Morrison has drafted guitarist Mick Green, the former strummer for Johnny Kidd and The Pirates, who were best known for “Shakin’ All Over,” (which Mick missed out playing on). Mick is also the less famous brother of 60s blues legend/acid casualty Peter Green, founder of Fleetwood Mac. It was Mick who engineered Peter’s credible 80s comeback, writing four albums worth of material for his medicated brother. Unfortunately, few noticed it was Mick, not Peter writing the songs. It was also rumored that Mick played the captivating chords on well received albums such as “White Sky” and “The Dreamer.” That might be giving Mick a bit too much credit. You only have to hear a few notes to be able to name that Green. Peter’s a head-turning lead guitarist, a virtual sweet spot machine, while Mick’s a master of subtle fills. Playing alongside veteran Morrison band member and fellow guitarist Johnny Platania, Green keeps it simple.

Van deals from a well developed strength with “How Can A Poor Boy.” It’s a loafing, shuffling blues with tight bleats of harp from Ned Edwards, soulful back up from the trio of Crawford Bell, Stevie Lange and Margo Buchanan, and a dog-paddle drum beat laid down by Neal Wilkinson. (Given how sour Buchanan and Lange sounded on the live tribute to Jim Capaldi, their harmonies with Crawford either represent a great turnaround or commendable technical trickery.) “How Can A Poor Boy” is very much like Paul Butterfield’s work with Better Days, who coincidently recorded a song entitled “Poor Boy.” John Allair’s fluttery work on the Hammond organ rates an exuberant “Yeah!” from Morrison, and you’ll like it too. Is “How Can A Poor Boy” autobiographical? Perhaps. “I’ve been appointed, even magnified. Spied a chapel all of gold, the priest was laying down with the swine….How can a poor boy get a little message to you? How can a poor boy when he don’t believe anything is true? How can a poor boy get this message through to you? How can a poor boy when he don’t believe a single thing is true?” Add this to your list of Van Morrison essential tracks.

A bit obtuse lyrically (“No wave length, no mileage, no current currency. No answers, just silence and that’s what it’s supposed to be), “School of Hard Knocks” draws from a little bit of Green, Mick Green that is. By the third verse, ambling Van picks up a
pew-rocking chorus of singers comprised of Bell, Karen Hamill and Jerome Rimson, who help lift the song from wishy-washy country to spiritual bliss.

I know Morrison’s latched onto a standard or two in his time (check out his soused rendition of “Tura Lura Lural (That’s An Irish Lullaby)” with equally pixilated Richard Manuel on the Band’s “Last Waltz). So my first concern with “That’s Entrainment” was the fear he was donning a Bob Fosse hat for some Judy Garland big production number. Happily, it’s an original – a primal love letter written by Van to his paramour: “You make me holler when you come around, you make me holler when you shake ‘em on down.” I can’t picture Judy or Ethel Merman cranking out that phrase. Morrison’s intelligent enough to realize his vocal limitations. He could have turned this into a lustful John Lee Hooker snarler or a chord crunching Van Halen stomper, but the song rolls at a peaceful, yet soulful pace. Don’t ask me what the heck entrainment is, though. (Guess it’s like having your heart dragged along like a train, or something similar.)

“Don’t Go To Nightclubs Anymore” offers up Van on the chitlin’ circuit, serving up slinky, smokey blues with the type of sway that could be part of Big Joe Turner’s slower repertoire. You get more thick Jimmy Reed Hammond rolls from Allair and finger-curling riffs from Edwards and Platania. The background singers have the richness and presence of the Raylettes, helping prop up one of the album’s more predictable but still enjoyable excursions.

Folk meets Celtic music with “Lover Come Back.” “Lover” has the simplicity and charm of the romantic “Hungry For Your Love” from “Wavelength.” Edwards and Platania make sweet sounds with their guitars that will remind you of the gentle hum expensive crystal makes when you rub your finger around the top of the glass. Cindy Cashdollar (yeah that’s really her name) and her steel guitar add a bit of country waltz to the proceedings. Mark this down… “Lover Come Back” is one of the few songs where the intrusion of the pedal steel’s cousin doesn’t rot the floorboards of the melody. Caress it!

Van says “Keep It Simple”…and he does, playing ukulele on the title track, in which he’s joined by Geraint Watkins on accordion, Mick Green on guitar, Paul Moore on bass, and Neal Wilkinson on drums. “Keep It Simple” maintains the “Old Susannah” feel established by “Lover Come Back.” A hearty vocal from Morrison, and rough but controlled chording from Green keep things from being too simple. “Keep It Simple” may not be a gem, but it has the makings of a song that could grow on ya.

The “End Of The Land” doesn’t cut new ground, but is another one of Morrison’s songs that wash over you like a church hymn – somehow you feel cleansed and more insightful after listening to it. “Song Of Home” summons up sights and sounds witnessed by the Irish immigrants who settled in the U.S. Coming on the heels of “End Of The Land,” “Songs Of Home” is a bit too similar in structure, but is east to digest, with Allair’s Hammond warm and welcoming and Van casting visions of harbor lights, foghorns, and birds on the wing flying free. Sarah Jory’s steel guitar and banjo give this more of a Celtic country cornpone veneer than it needs. (I told you, that bloody instrument gives me a steely feeling.)

Van delves into his Ray Charles bag with “No Thing,” adding some vocal swagger and a chorus of country Raylettes. Cindy Cashdollar (who’s much more creative and tolerable with her potentially hazardous steel guitar than Sarah Jory), returns to give a unique Tex Mex meets brother Ray mix, and Allair cheers up his Hammond, making it sound like a pipe organ. “So I watch them come and go, I don’t have time for the status quo.”

Only Van Morrison could offer up a song that has nothing in common with R & B and name it “Soul.” “Soul” is another potentially weak tune that’s enlivened by Morrison’s reedy sax solo and the exalted choral back ups of Bell, Hamill and Rimson. Nearly every line begins with “Soul is…” so lyrically it’s monotonous, but repetition has always been one of Morrison’s strong points (You want repetition? Try “The Eternal Kansas City” from “A Period Of Transition.” “Excuse me, do you know the way to Kansas City?” is about the only lyric in the entire song. Thanks to Van’s mastery of K.C. Jazz he pulls it off.) Morrison often turns phrases that look mundane on paper into transcendental chants or musical poetry, and with “Soul” he does it again.

One in a while, Morrison hums/mumbles his was through a song like Marlon Brando playing Don Corleone with half a box of cotton balls in his cheeks, which is how he comes across during the verses for “Behind The Ritual.” Like “Soul,” “Behind The Ritual,” builds its attraction subtlety through Morrison’s resonant sax solo, the slap happy beat, and the shared joy of the back singers. Each time Morrison circles back to the chorus a new instrument or a voice joins in. Morrison does make one huge mistake, choosing to scat to “Blah…blah...blah…blahblahblahblah…” Yes, he actually says blah…blah...blah. As a consequence, the songs rep takes a serious hit – C’mon Van, you could come up with something better than that! Up to this side-splitting moment, “Behind The Ritual” is one of the albums standout tracks. It’s still a great listen, but harder to take seriously after Van throws in his imitation of George Bush giving a state of the union address.

Simply put, Van is still the man. He keeps it simple with songs of home and a dose of soul. Now that’s entrainment.

Posted April 13, 2008 Permalink

In Flight Radio

In Flight Radio The Sound Inside 1.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

In Flight Radio’s 2006 self-title debut built a name for the Indie rockers. (What kind of name is better left unsaid.) Their second effort, “The Sound Inside,” is a baby step in the right direction, but this chile is a bit colicky. Inspired ideas are undone by uninspired playing and attempts to mix incongruous styles with wrongheaded influences. I got a fervent whiff of the Cranberries in a few too many songs that was stronger than the stench of wet dog and urine coming out of The Bowery at four a.m. Throw in hints of The Pixies, galling imitations of U2, and 1,000 of the 10,000 Maniacs, and you’ve got a mix as potentially deadly as sarin gas.

The group is led by lanky blonde Peira, a Brooklyn-born guitarist who composed nearly all of the material, so love it or ditch it, the weight is on her. Non-smiling Saric (also no last name) is the group’s lead guitar player. Isn’t Saric the leader of the Vulcan’s on “Star Trek?” Well, he occasionally plays like the guitar like its alien to him. Bassist Devin Krug and drummer Mike Dawson need to get with the program and come up with equally serious solitary names that show how 21st Century they are. In the meantime, may I suggest “Da Krug” and “Deputy Daw”? No? I’ll work it, if you guys promise to work on your playing. Krug and Daw don’t play outside the box – they are the box. They’re so standard issue I doubt you’d notice if Da Krug and Deputy Daw were replaced by tape loops. At least Da Krug can fall back on his day job. He took the artsy sunspot photo of Peira that adorns the CD’s cover. Saric also has a second job, having produced “The Sound Inside.” It’s time to turn the faders over to someone else and live long and prosper, Saric.

“Red Flags” (co-written with Da Krug) has a sonic moody intro that hints at an imminent explosion of wattage. Two things are immediately apparent. On this particular cut Peira sounds like she was raised on heavy doses of the Cowboys Junkie’s lead singer Margo Timmins, and Saric locks into a Vulcan mind meld with The Edge, lead string bender for U2. His backing has same ghostly high pitched squeal, and whadda ya know, he has one name too, okay, two if we call him The Saric. Overall “Red Flags” doesn’t send out any immediate distress signals and is one of the album’s more accessible cuts.

Please avoid the whiney chorus of “Please.” Peira lowers her voice to a functional level during the verses, but when she wails “Plllllllease…want it….Pllllleasse want it…” you’ll beg to move on to the next selection, especially as Peira’s whine begins to sound like she’s re-experiencing birth. Saric has also lost his atmospheric Edge, performing assault and battery on his guitar with a wall of irritating 80s chords.

Da Krug and Deputy Daw work in concert to drive the arrangement of “Somewhere In Between,” with Saric feeling the pull of The Edge, but going out of his way to avoid imitating him. He doesn’t. He’s simply out of tune. Check out Saric’s abysmal Humpback Whale lead at the end. Da Krug’s bass is functional, but he’s been using the same figures now for three songs. There’s a disturbing amount of Susanna Hoffs’ cutiepieness that’s snuck into Peira’s voice as well, which is hard to justify given the driving beat.

Peira picks up an acoustic and the music takes a welcome deep breath with “Yelling Up To The Sky”: “Listen to me I have nothing to say, but the words in my eyes give it away.” A recessed Saric does some nice work on guitar providing a sense of urgency with his keening asides. Raw and revealing, “Yelling Up To The Sky” is as close as Peira comes to delivering a message. Take this back to the shop, Peira. A lot less pained grieving and “Yelling To The Sky” could be a lofty success.

Deputy Daw puts a little punch in his kit, Saric makes his guitar flutter and for thirty seconds “Home” is very appealing. Then Peira gets to yodeling in her baby doll register and you wanna runaway from “Home.” What the heck happened to the tough Greenwich Village punk that raised “Red Flags?” She’s surrendered to Lilith-like power ballads that in this case make her sound like an adolescent cross between Natalie Merchant (10,000 Maniacs) and Dolores O’Riordan (the head Cranberry). Too bad I can only take both of the fluttery-voiced front ladies in extremely small doses. “Home” is well played, and In Flight finally gets a jam off the ground, but Peira should have left the kewpie doll approach in the test bin.

Peira rises above her rhythm section’s inadequacies in “Easy Win” by simply not using them. If she trusted her own voice more and was less conscious of trying to ape her idols, “Easy Win” might take flight. It’s reflective and well played, with sympathetic guitar, and an involved, delicate vocal. Consider going acoustic Peira. You’ve got something here.

“Someday” marks a slap in the face return to cluttered choruses, squawks and Saric in search of an identity. You had one, even if it was one I hated, Saric. Deputy Daw puts some paradiddling into the mix, but can’t disguise that Peira’s 80s vocal gymnastics cloak a weak tune. When Saric gives in to his U2 worship two-thirds of the way through, “Someday” shows a glimmer -- a loud glimmer-- when the musicians trip, fall and stumble together during the jam out at the end.

Walk away, no run away from “Just Walk Away.” Saric pulls on his guitar strings with the gentle touch of Quasimodo yanking on a rope in a bell tower. Peira’s in touch with her meaningful side, having dropped her pouting adolescent/drunken Natalie Merchant personas. Her more restrained, flatter voice suits her, and still manages to generate an audible tone. But the instrumentation supporting her, including Saric’s teeth gnashing guitar (Peira’s to blame for some of that too) and Deputy Daw’s try anything drumming, is an absolute mess that negates her promising vocal and makes “Just Walk Away” an unbearable grindfest.

“Finish Line” offers more Cranberries meets the 10,000 Maniacs. Piera’s voice throws another change up, taking on a tortured siren-like approach. Believe me, you get to share her pain. There are too many stretches where OOOOOH, OOOOH, OOOOH serve as lyrics. Yes, I couldn’t wait to get to the finish line and get away from this howler. Bad dog, bad dog.

You must be spying on me through my computer, Peira, because “I Am Not Awake” sent me down the path trod by Morpheus. “I Am Not Awake” is a sophomoric children’s story, but at least Peira isn’t singing like a violated car alarm on this one. Put this to sleep, never to rise again.

A tip of the wig to 10,000 other maniac babe led guitar bands, In Flight Radio has promise, providing someone can get Peira to stop howling as if she’s being tased. Saric has a future selling guitars, not playing them. As long as he relies on gimmickry instead of skill he’ll be a guy with a cool name who sounds like a carbon copy of The Edge. He can play, you just have to wonder if it’s really him or he’s just regurgitating a style he studied and diffused through his fingers. If Peira can stifle the urge to imitate her unhealthy influences, In Flight’s third album should land on the charts. But she needs to keep in mind that even in their heyday the likes of The Pixies and The Cranberries had trouble getting airplay, so a cipher doesn’t stand a chance. Let’s just hope she doesn’t become a fan of Gentle Giant or Yoko Ono, or In Flight Radio will surely crash.

Posted April 13, 2008 Permalink

Seven Mary Three

Seven Mary Three Day & Night Driving 2.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

“Day & Night Driving” is Seven Mary Three’s sixth full length release, and I have to admit I purposely dodged the group’s previous efforts. Mary has yet to top the platinum success of their debut, “American Standard,” and has only one successful single to their credit (“Chum.” With my luck it’s a reference to rotting bait rather than a dear friend.) Several songs from “Day & Night Driving,” such as “Laughing Out Loud,” “Hammer & Stone” and “Things I Stole” could propel Ross and his Mary men up the charts. The rest of the album’s uneven balance between acoustic and up-tempo Indie noise will drive you away.

Formed in 1992, Seven Mary Three was originally an acoustic duo comprised of singer Jason Ross and guitarist Jason Pollock. They’re down to one Jason (Ross), otherwise I’d suggest they call the act Jason Mary Two. Ross composed six of “Day & Night Driving”’s 12 tracks solo and collaborated with guitarist Thomas Juliano on an additional half dozen selections. Tellingly, the group is at its best when Ross writes by his lonesome. The Mary band is rounded out by mostly non-descript bassist Casey Daniel and occasionally alert drummer Giti Khalsa, who displays a pulse rate slightly below consciousness.

The opener, “Last Kiss,” begins with a strumming acoustic, a sure sign these days that the rest of the arrangement will subsequently cause your ears to bleed like a hemophiliac sitting on a spike. “You were my first mistake…and even if that’s true, I’d take that punch again if it would bring me back.” Khalsa’s drums are as damaging as a Sonny Liston left hook, causing Ross has to strain with typical angry lead singer angst in order to rise above the instrumental Armageddon. Ross is tolerable when he emotes at a lower level, but when he challenges the heavy chording guitars and war drums he sounds like every preening John Mayer sound alike you’ve heard over the last ten years. He takes a good picture but can’t outlast 50,000 watts. This isn’t a last kiss, it’s a lasting bruise.

“Laughing Out Loud” is everything “Last Kiss” isn’t. Specifically, it’s a quality tune, with some of the album’s most clever and challenging lyrics: “These grievous gulls that hang around my skull are disappearing in numbers…The scattered fires within me have reached their permanent slumber.” A steady rumbling rhythm reminiscent of Stone Temple Pilot’s “Plush” backs up Ross’ Jacob Dylan vocalizing. There’s less forced volume; the guitars jangle rather than crunch, and the early cold stops show the boys are intuitive players. Nice recovery there, Mary.

You won’t be laughing out loud or even amused when “Was A Ghost” follows. The spirit unleashed here doesn’t conjure up a friendly apparition. “Was A Ghost” finds Mary taking a backward step, revisiting forced vocals and everlasting chording. It has the Clash’s attitude encased in a less noxious bar band style. The Clash was loud, and early on obnoxious, but they were seldom mundane. Daniels’ bass playing is more in the forefront with the authority and stroke of Big Country’s Tony Butler, but the 1,000 bees in a bag guitar playing of Ross and Jiliano indicates the duo’s need to have their strings retuned, if not removed. Too much chording is never a good thing.

“Dreaming Against Me” demonstrates Mary sure is versatile. Not good. Just able to play badly in a variety of styles. Now you get pseudo country rock meets Irish pub rock. Instead of the drums numbing your senses, you get a much more palatable tambourine accompaniment and a bit of auto reflex kicking against the bass drum. Ross’s voice has taken on a dose of gritty seasoning, making him sound like a gin soaked brother of The Alarm’s led singer, Mike Peters. The repeated chorus “Everything is gonna be alright,” doesn’t hide the fact that the band is dreaming if they think this satisfies. Repeat after me, country rock is verboten.

The acoustic “Hammer & Stone” bounces Mary back to a level of respectability with Ross sounding dusty and weary, and it features lyrics that indicate Mary took more than a passing interest at creating something worthwhile. “I’m a page torn from your novel, I’m the magnet on your fridge. I’m the star stuck on your ceiling, so I can watch you when you sleep.” Curious lyrics, but they’re sung with conviction, and they do get easier to decipher: “I’m a page torn from your novel, the single flower in your lawn. If I’m not everything you wish for. How come you miss me when I’m gone?” There’s a ghostly, unsettled guitar that breaks up the monotony of the knuckle-cracking piano chording and helps Mary hammer out a solid number.

Khalsa’s elephantine snare cymbal-bash intros “Break The Spell.” Despite the guitar assault, “Break The Spell” has the makings of an Americana saga by the Jayhawks or Jackson Browne with some stones. “If there’s a part of you that wants to settle down, there’s a part of me that wants to move around, nothing will break the spell.” Passable, but ease up on the volume boys and your lead Mary won’t have to sound like a frightened quarterback eluding a four man rush.

“You Think Too Much” borrows “Break The Spell”’s lumbering lead in, only this time Khalsa’s drums are darkened by effects. The leviathan beat reigns in the other member’s excesses, which wouldn’t be bad if the band knew what to do with the empty spaces they’ve created. Ross employs a stilted Tom Petty vocal, as if every syllable is important, but it ain’t. This is disposable rock. The droning guitars and production gimmickry don’t hide the fact that there isn’t too much going on here.

I’ve been reasonably impressed with Mary’s lyrics up until now, but “Strangely At Home” drops a poetic bomb: “Heat is an overture of need on the inside”… In case you don’t understand Ross’s meaning, he keeps twisting it into your skull like a vise squashing an egg – and its imagery is just about as messy. “Strangely At Home” is about an oddball who’s begun to feel at home in less than comforting surroundings. The rush of scenes slamming against the flat musicianship (here’s a chair, here’s a table, etc...) makes “Strangely” sound as if the narrator’s living in a cockroach infested bar in Greenwich Village with crushed peanut shells as its carpet. Wherever he’s taken up residence, I hope he’s not paying rent for his experience.

“She Wants Results” makes it two low key songs in a row. The doubled-up drum pattern and rolling guitar passages create a more attractive outcome. Unlike “Strangely At Home,” the music is tranquil and thoughtful. This has the ease and care of one of James Taylor’s later day juiced up folk/rock compositions. You’ll love the finely plucked guitar and traveling drum pattern simply because it’s an anomaly in Mary’s arsenal.

What’s upside down, you ask? (Okay you didn’t, but I sure did when I heard the next song.) The answer is: My stomach, from hearing the dreaded pseudo steel guitar intro to “Upside Down.” (No, it’s not the Diana Ross/Nile Rodgers slick soul collaboration). No one outside of a redneck, card carrying confederate in the K.K.K., or a member of the John Birch Society should ever be subjected to a pedal steel or its piercing cousin, the steel guitar. It sucks the life out of everything it whines its way through, and “Upside Down” is no exception. The steel interlude turns the song’s sincerity three-sixty, knocking its credibility off track like a hillbilly hayride hitting a patch of manure. This is country corn, a Wilco wanna be waste.

I have to say I’m surprised at how “Day & Night Driving” shifted from bowel locking Indie rock to almost tolerable acoustic fair. “Dead Days In the Kitchen” has little to say, but it says so gently with a choked, whispered vocal. It’s a love song about a smitten boy who wants to settle down and make a home, but you won’t wanna come on in this kitchen. It starts out as a lament, but Ross sings as if he’s reading an inventory of his surroundings, turning a promising idea into lyrical chop suey. Lyrically, it’s a mutant relation to the equally toxic “Strangely At Home.”

Mary leaves a positive impression with the album ending “Things I Stole,” which offers a more focused acoustic approach. “Am I man enough to see what I’ve done wrong. Something in this house won’t leave me alone. Sing one for tomorrow, one for the way we were. One for the things we borrowed, one for the things I stole from her.” “Things I Stole” is a gentle Sunday morning guitar picking pride with a locked in Ross singing boldly and easily.

Mary’s men need to decide if they want to be an acoustic or electric band. I vote whole heartedly for the unplugged version. The group’s acoustic side has more variety, melodic lines, and a sense of professionalism. A little more lyrical maintenance and Mary’s songs would be memorable. When Mary plugs in, their identity becomes scrambled. Ross is forced to venture out of his vocal range, and they simply don’t have the chops to be anything but an effective way to scare the neighbor’s dog.

Final score, bad songs 7, neither here nor there songs 2, good songs 3. Aha, now I know where the name Seven Mary Three comes from.

Posted April 13, 2008 Permalink