MOTT THE HOOPLE

Greatest Hits Live

(Cleopatra)***

If you like the Camaro-and-codpiece dazzle of Big Star's #1 Record, or Shudder to Think's amazing period reconstructions on the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack, this is the actual artifact. Mott the Hoople is one glitter band that never gained the following better groups like T. Rex or Roxy Music did, because they just weren't as good. But this CD is rewarding, and with liberal use of the skip button, addictive. The famous cover of Bowie's "All the Young Dudes" is here, of course, but unlike similar compilations we've seen before, the whole disc doesn't rest on it. After an onstage introduction by David Bowie, their producer at the time, the band tears into a set that alternates Chiltonian hard glitter with languid camping-out. The melancholy vibe of "Sea Diver" and "Hymn For the Dudes" is very seductive, and yes, "All the Young Dudes" is ideal for vocalist Ian Hunter's glam delivery.

Mott the Hoople is nearly free of the tedious and time-wasting blues rock mannerisms that often dog the exciting innovations of proto-punks like the MC5 and the Sonics -- the one exception to that freshness being their wearying rendition of "Honky Tonk Women." GRANT COGSWELL

NINETYNINE

180 degrees

(Patsy)***

When I left Seattle several months ago, I was sad when I thought of all the great Northwest bands I would never see again. K Records bands like the Crabs and Cadallaca. Kill Rock Stars bands like Sleater-Kinney. Soulful poets like Pete Krebs and Mark Lanegan, seemingly content to play out the rest of their lives to pubs full of boorish hipsters and drunken frat boys. People like Olympia's Lois and Kicking Giant. Mostly, though, I felt I'd miss the Hammond organ-led visions of Crabs/Cadallaca's Sarah Dougher, and the free-for-all frenzy that resulted among the Crabs' lo-fi fans when a tambourine was offered to play. And you know what? I was right. I miss all of that, terribly.

I've never been able to resist people who sing simply, directly, using their own voices. It seems like such an obvious trick to pull, it amazes me that so few are able to manage it with any resonance.

So anyway... Melbourne. It has a handful of bands who copy a handful of bands from New York (like Girls Against Boys and Sonic Youth), and that's great and everything, but I've already lived through that lifetime. I don't need other people's interpretations of what I already know. I miss the Olympia bands. They had their own personality. Why doesn't Quasi play out here? Why have people only heard of Elliott Smith and Beck -- neither of whom are at all representative of the people they'd like to be? What's happened to the anger and beauty and flailing legs of Sleater-Kinney? I miss the guitarist's rock movements. I miss all sorts of beauty.

The other night, however, I attended a concert that filled me with so much hope. Like so many dimensions of the International Pop Underground, these bands are hidden from sight -- mostly obscured from view by a press that only listens to what the people paid to talk to them tell them. Bands like the Frustrations, Tasmania's own version of Some Velvet Sidewalk's intensity, but with their own isolated outlook; a duo, with only the abrasion of the guitar and a few well-chosen epithets to hide behind. And the Vivian Girls, who play rock as if Pere Ubu had never been invented. And finally Ninetynine, which contains the original drummer of Sleater-Kinney.

I can't verify that. (Then again, who'd bother lying about such a thing?) What I can verify, however, is that their album 180 degrees is full of humanity, clattering drums, the odd rustle of the xylophone. There's space within its grooves, moments when you can breathe -- and if the songs (which all have titles like "Cois Il Hamdu Lilah" and "Mesopotamia") seem dark and alien to me, it's because I watched Muriel's Wedding last night and realized that I really don't have a handle on this culture at all. But the singer certainly sounds sincere and soulful enough, and the backing is eclectic and varied enough to continually fascinate. EVERETT TRUE

(Contact Patsy at P.O. Box 4434, Melbourne University, Parkville, Victoria 3052, Australia, or ninetynine767@hotmail.com)


IN STORES 5/2
by Juan-Carlos Rodriguez

Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Pay Attention (Island/Def Jam) If only it weren't true.

Ween, White Pepper (Elektra) Gene and Dean drive deep into the territory of... wherever it is they go.

Primal Scream, EXTRMNTR (Astralwerks) Brit poppers drop vowels and have a lot of guest stars.

Hoku, Hoku (Interscope) Hoku is Don Ho's daughter, no lie. Her name means "star." She sings pop songs.

Various Artists, Essential Collection Vol. 1 (London/Sire) Dance music collected by Fatboy Slim and Paul Oakenfold.

Sleater-Kinney, All Hands on the Bad One (Kill Rock Stars) You'll argue with your friends about this one.

Kevn Kinney, The Flower and the Knife (Capricorn) This guy was the singer for Drivin' and Cryin' -- you know, "Fly Me Courageous"?

Nine Days, The Madding Crowd (550 Music/Epic) Long Island alternative rock. Mmmm... great.

Clem Snide, Your Favorite Music (Sire) Could you ask for anything more?

Blood of Abraham, Eyedollartree (Master Grip/Atomic Pop) Kool Keith and Divine Styler guest-appear on this album.