The Red, White and Black
(Alternative Tentacles)
***
The problem with the BellRays' The Red, White and Black is that it can't get out of the shadow of a certain brilliant-but-underrated rock 'n' soul band known as, uh, the BellRays. This good-but-not-oh-my-God! full-length can't quite top the benchmark set by their 1998 debut, Let It Blast, recorded DIY-style in their L.A. practice space. Singer Lisa Kekaula's kickoff on The Red's "Voodoo Train" ("Feel like Satan and I'm gonna tell you why!") still has plenty of electricity, but used to be she'd start a song with, "KILL A MAN/TAKE A RIDE IN MY CAR!" and red lights would blow like a firecracker string across the top of the soundboard. Still, being their own worst enemy is just a minor penalty for the BellRays, who otherwise have their own sound--no-bullshit, post-Stooges proto-punk with a Stax-style soul sister shooting flames out the front--as expertly dialed as a band like the Ramones had theirs. On The Red, that bulletproof wall of guitar even cracks open a bit, letting in some sunshine pop ("Find Someone to Believe In," "Making Up for Lost Time") and letting out raw, almost-improv instrumentation ("Poison Arrow"). Unlike on Blast, you can more or less predict the way the songs are gonna go. But then again, if you're in the BellRays, there are worse people to rip off than, well, the BellRays. CHRIS ZIEGLER
The BellRays perform Thurs March 31 at the Crocodile, 9 pm, $10.
ASH
Meltdown
(Record Collection)
**1/2
When post-grunge geek rock peered through its horn-rimmed glasses at the mid-'90s charts, it was crunchy chord, chorus-heavy power pop it blasted from the garage. That concept was capsulated by geek-rock icons Weezer with "In the Garage," a song that chronicled the solace found in X-Men comics, Dungeons & Dragons, and, most importantly, KISS records.
When Belfast, Ireland's Ash emerged in 1995 with Trailer, the then trio began a career exhibiting all the hallmarks of pop-punk geek rock--fetishism of Jackie Chan and Star Wars, and equal parts unrequited crushes on girls and yearning for sci-fi/fantasy dominion--that were further elucidated on 1996's high-velocity 1977 (the year Star Wars was released, fer Christ's sake) and Ash's last release, 2002's Free All Angels. However, listening to the Ash of today--a quartet with a second guitarist--it's the arena more than the garage from which the band is blasting out.
While exhibiting equal parts bubblegum, Britpop, and Buzzcocks, Ash has always seemed fascinated by American pop and pop culture. And with Meltdown the group seems fascinated with American production, which means more brawny, metallic mainlining--surely thanks in part to producer Nick Raskulinecz (Foo Fighters, Danzig, System of a Down). Ash aren't so doe-eyed anymore, but that doesn't mean the band is above swelling to typically breezy choruses ("Orpheus," "Renegade Cavalcade," "Evil Eye") or swooning to more of the same ("Starcrossed," "Out of the Blue") when not concentrating purely on throttling riffage ("Meltdown," "Clones," "Vampire Love"). Meltdown is to Ash what Maladroit is to Weezer: an every-other-album, frayed-nerves counterpoint to simpler times. TONY WARE
Ash perform Sat April 2 at El Corazón, 8 pm, $12, all ages.
DAFT PUNK
Human After All
(Virgin)
***
The Internet's abuzz with disillusioned Daft Punk fans' complaints about Human After All's supposed flaws: "emotionless," "devoid of ideas," "lacks development," yadda yadda. Fools. Human After All finds Daft Punk rejecting the easy option of pumping out another Discovery (the French duo's wildly overrated disco-fied sophomore album, which has maybe four strong tracks) and returning to the much dirtier production techniques heard on their strong 1996 debut, Homework. On Human After All, Daft Punk play (perhaps overplay) the irony card throughout its entire 45 minutes. But the album's central paradox--best summarized in the title track, "Robot Rock," and "Emotion"--ultimately rox. Of course, HAA is very repetitious--so is 99 percent of all dance and pop music, if you haven't noticed. What makes Daft Punk irresistible, though, is their knack for ear-stabbing textures, hypnotic synth patterns, indelible vocal hooks, and sly humor. "Emotion" closes HAA with a sentimental, slightly warped keyboard motif bearing the robotic refrain of "E-moohh-shun"; the mechanized voice is so unemotional that the track becomes unbearably poignant. It's the same trick Kraftwerk have repeatedly pulled to devastating effect, and on HAA, Daft Punk are approaching that sort of genius. DAVE SEGAL
VARIOUS ARTISTS
Verve Remixed 3
(Verve)
****
Taking Verve Records' illustrious jazz catalog and turning it over to a bunch of über-cool DJs and indie-rock knob-twirlers might seem like a questionable concept, but the Verve Remixed series is one of the grander instances of dance music and jazz hitting it off effortlessly. This exemplary third collection in the series includes Verve artists the Brazilian Girls remixing Blossom Dearie's speedy but smooth take on Cole Porter's classic "Just One of Those Things" by adding a dance-punk beat and tossing in a mess of ideas. Max Sedgley adds some hard liquor and a twist of lime to Sarah Vaughan's already danceable version of Henry Mancini's "Peter Gunn" theme. Vaughan's vocals are so strong on the track that there's no particular reason to juice them; Sedgley follows her lead with nimble grooves.
The majority of the contributors--comprising indie-rock groups the Postal Service and the Album Leaf, and DJs as diverse as Danger Mouse and RJD2--add intoxicating rhythms to these cocktail bar standards, making for a supreme party platter that will keep things humming through the wee hours. ADAM BREGMAN
WORLD PSYCHEDELIC CLASSICS 3: LOVE'S A REAL THING
The Funky Fuzzy Sounds of West Africa
(Luaka Bop)
***
In these days of shrinking ad budgets and microscopic attention spans, book and album titles have to do double-duty as synopses for lazy consumers. The key word to parse from the sprawling name of David Byrne's latest comp of out-there world music is "funky," not "psychedelic." These 12, early-'70s selections from nations like Mali, Gambia, and Cameroon owe more to War's "Low Rider" than the Byrds' "Eight Miles High." The tight vocals (sung in English), sitar-like guitar solo, and groovy organ of Super Eagles' "Love's the Real Thing" recalls Santana's eponymous 1969 debut album; "Guajira Ven" by No. 1 de Guinea shuffles along with a syncopated Cuban feel. The protest number "Better Change Your Mind" by William Onyeabor could pass for the handiwork of George Clinton's long-lost cousin from Lagos, thanks to squealing keyboards, bumping bass, and an almost comic juxtaposition of high and low vocal parts. The standout comes courtesy of Manu Dibango, the artist U.S. listeners are most likely to recognize (his 1973 single "Soul Makossa" was a Top 40 hit), who lays down mesmerizing marimba figures, garnished with judicious wah-wah guitar FX on the blaxploitation-flavored end title to the film Ceddo. Listeners who dug the recent Ghana Soundz and Nigeria 70 collections will find much to relish here. KURT B. REIGHLEY
THE MARS VOLTA
Frances the Mute
(Strummer)
****
When they set out on their maiden voyage, the Mars Volta's path was clear--out there, by as circuitous a route as possible, and if you didn't like that (and plenty didn't) you didn't have to hitch a ride. There were many who were willing, though, who put their faith in a band that crunched together the kinetic tumult of hardcore, the lucid pulse of glitch, the panicked propulsion of drum 'n' bass, the deep melancholy of electric Miles, people whose receptors were stoked by Dali-esque visions, of relentless improvisation, of the salsa death rattle coiled at their hilt.
Frances the Mute is where the Mars Volta explicitly express their Latin heart, from the lazy bustle and ambience of the legendary Larry Harlow and His Orquesta weaving between torrents of sheet-metal dissonance, to choruses that belt out bold and brassy like Mexican pop blaring through a car stereo. The more considered criticisms so far of Frances the Mute suggest the album unravels in comparison to its predecessor, 2003's De-Loused in the Comatorium--but Frances the Mute's addictive appeal lies in its undisciplined sprawl, in the dramatic peaks and troughs contained within its vast landscape. Unpredictable but never impenetrable, its five songs and 12 movements shift through the band's most annihilating, most conventionally-anthemic, and most intense music. And the only clues they leave for the future are "more" and "further." STEVIE CHICK
THE WILLOWZ
Are Coming
(Sympathy for the Record Industry)
**1/2
This enthusiastically produced re-release of the Willowz' Dionysus Records debut (with four official bonus tracks plus a hidden teaser for the May full-length) comes on a little slick for such a proudly primitive suburban brat-rock band. Wiping digital gloss over the Willowz' split-speaker guitar tone and, per the liner notes, "out of tune and broken drums" is the same unnecessarily distracting lipstick-on-a-pig plan Bowie used to pretty-up Raw Power. But hack through those stiff overdubs and there's life yet, thanks to the same sort of adolescent egoism that made the Nuggets generation think, "Fuck, why NOT sing our own lyrics over 'Louie Louie'?" With 54 years of rock 'n' roll records (since "Rocket 88," right?) in front of him, singer/songwriter Richie James Follin made sure to pinch all his favorites: three chords from Them ("End Song"), the plinky-plonk piano of Iggy Pop ("I Wanna Be Your Dog"), a little blood-red-river blues from the Scientists ("Questionnaire"), and, though it may not be politic to mention, the high-register feline whine of Sympathy alum Jack White (uh, lots of songs). The results are as fun as they are because they're so familiar, and the Willowz carry on with enough cat-burglar charm that you'd feel bad grumping about that one chord change from "Gloria." CHRIS ZIEGLER
FISCHERSPOONER
Odyssey
(Capitol)
*
One of the more unique acts to be lumped in with the electroclash scene, the New York ensemble Fischerspooner features a constantly changing lineup of about 30 singers and dancers as part of their over-the-top, Vegas-style stage show. Led by two former art-school pals, Warren Fischer, who directs the music, and Casey Spooner, who's the group's elaborately dressed frontman, the group claims to revel in its own pretentiousness and superficiality. On their debut record, #1, which came at the height of electroclash's extended reign over dance floors, their hypnotic synth-pop sounded like Frankie Goes to Hollywood on downers, and their hit "Emerge" was a gay disco staple. But their latest record, Odyssey, is ultra bland--with beats that lull the listener into a deep coma. This sort of dance fluff may go over well in bad-taste meccas like Ibiza or Miami, but for the rest of our pop-culture nation it's about as funky as Donald Rumsfeld. ADAM BREGMAN
FANNYPACK
See You Next Tuesday
(Tommy Boy)
***
Largely dismissed as one-hit wonders thanks to their uproarious 2003 hit "Cameltoe," Fannypack are back to prove they've got more on their minds than just female frontal wedgies. Indeed, See You Next Tuesday finds the multiculti Brooklyn quintet--fly girls Belinda, Cat, and Jessibel (ages 18 to 23) and their Svengali-DJs Matt Goias and Fancy--tackling such pressing matters as, uh, hooking up, getting blotto, and hating trucker-hat-clad hipsters ("I always wanna punch people wearing Von Dutch.") Mostly, though, they just wanna pump up the jam: Updating the rousing electro/hip-pop hybrid that made their debut, So Stylistic, such an insta-party success, Goias and Fancy keep things fresh by tweaking their dance-floor festivities with reggae, disco soul, and cheerleader stomps straight out of Bring It On. Still, it's the irrepressibly sassy ladies who ultimately make Fannypack so irresistible. And while there are no lyrics here as brilliantly crass as the first album's "Is your crotch hungry, girl?/'Cause it's eating your pants," they've still got crude 'tude to spare as they blaze through the self-explanatory "Pump That" and get subversively perverse with "On My Lap," flipping all-too-common hiphop scripts by demanding lap dances from men. So who cares if Fannypack never live down their novelty status? These party starters are having far too much fun to worry about something as frivolous as being taken seriously. JIMMY DRAPER
HELLA
Church Gone Wild/Chirpin Hard
(Suicide Squeeze)
***
With Church Gone Wild/Chirpin Hard, Hella become the latest outcast duo to package concurrent solo discs as a double album. Drummer Zach Hill's difficult-to-digest Church punishes parishioners with maddeningly redundant rhythms, oppressive feedback swarms, and violently distorted vocals, but its most inspired moments reward the faithful. "Half Hour Handshake," with its jingly melody weaving through clattering chaos, sounds like an ice-cream truck cruising a bombed-out block in the middle of an aerial assault. "Earth's First Evening Jimi Hendrix-less and Pissed" pairs parochial piano and an angelic choir with buckshot blast-beats, like an opera-scored gunfight in a mafia movie. Guitarist Spencer Seim's Chirpin Hard shares some stylistic territory with Church, including erratically patterned percussion and the type of sci-fi sound effects that usually accompany dramatic warp-speed escapes. However, Seim's tunes are relentlessly catchy, with only brief static-smothered passages. His Nintendo-powered noodling turns the pulsing title track into a superior soundtrack for any Mario or Mega Man sequel, but Chirpin Hard also welds crackling rock riffs to its upbeat hooks. This collection conveniently categorizes Hella's experimental instrumentals, making it simple for fans to decide between challenging racket and easy-going robotic rave-ups. ANDREW MILLER
LAU NAU
Kuutarha
(Locust)
***1/2
Who knew woozy wandering could sound so good? On Kuutarha, Lau Nau--Laura Naukkarinen, vocalist in Finnish underground groups Kiila and the Anaksimandros--takes us on a tripped-out journey where strings, chimes, flutes, drums, and her child-like voice fill the air like magical mist. Kuutarha's songs are played with a loose, improvisatory feel, giving them an attractively slack shape. Maybe that's why the disc works as a hippies-in-the-wild ambient album as well as a detail-flecked headphoner.
Psych-folk can often be a superficial mishmash of ethnic sounds, but Kuutarha features some distinctively Finnish elements. I love the raw, buzzing jouhikko, a bowed knee-fiddle, and the zither-like five-stringed kantele, an icon of Finnish traditional culture. The last cut, "Sammiolinnut," isn't much more than a jumble of clattering metal, but it wraps up the disc with a ritual-like gesture that works. Kuutarha is definitely on the right side of the thin line that separates organic flow from blurry noodling. FRED CISTERNA
MAHJONGG
RaYDONcoNG
(Cold Crush)
***
Just what we need: another indie-rock band all gung-ho about da funk. But wait, Chicago's Mahjongg are not studious bores and dilettantes like many of their fellow youthful rhythm-diggers. Mahjongg also heart world music, especially African styles, and it shows in their highlife guitar tones, and some of their hypno-rhythm motion echoes Talking Heads' on Remain in Light. But Mahjongg bring an urgent post-punk twitchiness and a roughshod momentum to the funk matrices they lay down. They understand that much of the best funk is highly torqued--uptight. The genre's great paradox--exemplified by James Brown's dictatorial instructions to his players--is that its disciplined regimentation leads to listeners loosening their inhibitions. RaYDONcoNG, the follow-up to 2004's Machinegong EP, adheres to that principle. It offers more vividly produced examples of Mahjongg's stilted, chaotic dance music for the noise/math-rock set. The disc peaks on "The Rabbit," powered by a rapid Latinate rhythm on claves, spindly, distorted guitar, and a snakey, acid-house bass line, evoking early-'80s NYC Hispano-funk outfit Konk infused with Gang of Four's propulsive abrasiveness. Then Mahjongg confusingly usher us out on a folky gait with "Bismoc Ux," featuring toy xylophone and gently strummed acoustic guitar, effectively draining all the tension that the album had accumulated. DAVE SEGAL
DINOSAUR JR.
Dinosaur, You're Living All Over Me, Bug
(Merge)
***1/2
In my early adolescence, I seemed to possess a near clairvoyant comprehension of Dinosaur Jr.'s innate (and utter) awesomeness--even before I completely understood why. J. Mascis' masterfully executed persona was a big part of it, I suppose--that of the prototypical slacker, stoned on his own oppressive boredom, who could still effortlessly muster both dense, blistering musicianship and brilliant songwriting. But even in my affections for the major-label dabblings, it wasn't until I got a taste for Dinosaur's SST offerings that the planets all finally aligned. In the genius double stroke of You're Living All Over Me and Bug, J. Mascis became a guitar god to those of us who didn't know we gave a fuck about guitar players. He became the slack-jawed popster whose lazy voice effectively deflated any suggestion of axe-wielding machismo. Mascis became, in a word, Awesome.
Merge's long-awaited reissues of Dinosaur's original JayLouMurph lineup discography have the good sense to present the facts simply--only one extra track and a few totally precious videos shared over all three--and I'm all the more grateful for it. This is how it's meant to be. ZAC PENNINGTON
THE SOUNDTRACK OF OUR LIVES
Origin Vol. I
(Universal)
**1/2
The also-ran Scandinavian rock trend might have started souring with critics, but the latest CD by Sweden's the Soundtrack of Our Lives deflects at least the easy knockout shots by being upfront in its cloying moments. The revved-up classic rock revivalists have dispensed with the spacey instrumentals that spelled "serious," focusing instead on transcendent pop that still allows for singer Ebbot Lundberg's silly crooning-shaman routine.
Lundberg opens Origin with the tongue-in-cheek quip, "I believe I've found a better way to satisfy your kind," ("Believe I've Found"), and the band then proceeds to knock out groovy, swaying rockers with instant crowd-pleasing hooks. But there's no dumbing down per se. Tunes like "Big Time," with synth blips and oodles of vocal tracks; the French horns of "Lone Summer Dream"; and surprise chanteuse cooing on "Midnight Children" all still appease clever music-geek demands. Not to mention the syrupy, seamless layering of guitars that suck in anyone who ever loved a vintage amp. Sure, the album loses steam two-thirds of the way through due to tempos that get repetitive. But overall, for those who dig anthemic power, this streamlined Soundtrack should prove more satisfying, critical barbs be damned. ERIC DAVIDSON
Soundtrack of Our Lives perform Tues April 5 at El Corazón, $15, 9 pm, all ages.
**** Justine Bateman
*** Michael J. Fox
** Meredith Baxter
* Tina Yothers
