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1. Untitled, by RebelReview
Yeah, I've been waiting months for this band to release a record. I can't describe the feeling I get from listening to this single. It's so incredible that I honestly believe that it could change the direction of literary rock music. Because up until this point, what with Delillo's Noir Noise and their contestant feedback-loop mixed Moby-style with supermarket price-checks, Coupland's grunge hit-makers I am Human and I Need to be Loved, and Ellis's male-centric gory shocker Everyday I Write the Book, or even, yes, I'll say it, Joy's ten-track too long Chocolate Covered Space Egg: a Rant, the general trend in this area has been more than a bit of a snooze so far. But with this, here, we have finally, once and for all, set the record straight: Yes, academics and full-tenure professors do, indeed, rock. Not only is this music infectious in the true sprit of punk, but the reverb and thumping bass, matched in reverent passion by the vocals, reveal depths of invention and creativity barely suggested by the band's previous work.
Not even Nirvana's Scentless Suskind is better! |
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2. CURSED by Howlin' Wolf Cub
Review of The Ventilators' LP "Inhale"
He must have came to them in some whisky-drenched dream: Jalacy "Screamin' Jay" Hawkins, fifty-three years old at the time, still clutching his rubber snakes, still enshrouded by smoke, bursting, for the umpteenth time, from a fiery coffin in his black satin cape. "Fellas," he would have pleaded, "I've done wrong by this tune for too, too long now, with all this vodoo and spookin' and necromancy bullshit. I meant to sing the blues, blues no diff'rent than impotent, muthafuckin' fury, but wound up with-what?-a goddamn novelty song these here kids spin every couple of Halloweens, not to mention a whole mess of covers. Now rise up, and return this track to its roots."
The next day, on a cold winter's morning in 1983, the four passed out Ventilators awoke to do their living specter's bidding, transforming the campy, macabre sound of Hawkins'"I Put a Spell on You" into a raw, rumbling, unpolished wail even truer to the song's message of jealousy and lust. The opening, rhythm-setting horns of the original, sounding more like the squabbling threats of a lover jilted than the curses of a lover inflamed, are here reincarnated in the form of Tom Brighton's menacing lead guitar, ascending midway through the cut to a hook-jammed, reverberating solo even Hendrix would've blessed. Larry Tuttle's prominent bass lends this remake any of the erotic, minatory power it may have needed in lieu of Hawkins' exaggerated squeals, while the percussion, beginning simply and competently enough, crescendos to a coital frenzy of cymbal crashes and snare rolls as the tune gears up for its final verse. They are, however, the vocals of crooner-cum-fictionist T. C. Boyle - vocals so harsh you'd think his wrists were chained and larynx bleeding - that put to shame those previous attempts by Nina Simone, The Animals, CCR and countless others to steal Hawkins' magic.
In February of 2000, with all four Ventilators gone their separate ways, Jalacy J. Hawkins took his everlasting place in blues hell: a loveable demon secure, one imagines, in the knowledge that at least ONE group had gotten it right. NB: The rest of The Ventilators' LP "Inhale" is, alas, an over-long nightmare of derivative jazz fusion and a trio of ragas "performed" by Brighton's capuchin monkey, barely worth its $7.95 retail price.
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3. Untitled, by Peter Travirs
Let me start out by saying I've been a big Boyle fan for years. Boiling Point, loved it. I'm Bad Boyle, I own two. But this newest release, Filthy With Strings, is a truly misguided foray in to new age that I simply cannot excuse. The dowdy, through-the-wall-vent recording of I Put A Spell On You aside, the rest of Filthy With Strings, all twenty-three tracks (including the interminable 3 hidden tracks at the end, Life, Death and Absolutely Everything In-Between) remind me of Yanni on downers. Who wants to listen to the greatest author and speed metal drummer of our time, T-Bone Boyle, weep away shamelessly while beating a moog? Most likely inspired by Kunkle's mysterious and confounding MIXED TAPE TWELVE?, Sandye in the Sky with Diamonds is my least favorite track on this admittedly unmistakable album. A total bust, best left to the bargain bin.
B- |
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4. Untitled, by Sabado Domingo
Marilyn Manson's got nothin on him. Monroe either, quite frankly. (Am I the only who wishes Boyle would quit with the cross dressing on stage? And really, the whole shtick where he croons to Bush has just got to go.) Stage antics aside, this is an album that will go down in history as Boyle's finest vinyl. While his previous efforts have grazed the top charts, he wisely steers clear of his success in bubble-gum pop-much to Britney's relief, I'm sure--and here we have classic Clash-inspired rock which is sure to enrage those at The Seirra Club, who have been pleading with Boyle for years to tone it down and represent eco-nuts with a little more dignity, please. At least they're sure to appreciate the single rap-track on the album, S.G.W.A., in which Boyle wisely gives a shout-out not only to peanut butter, dope-smokin, and illegal weed wackin, but--gentleman that he is--Earth First! too. It's a real crowd pleaser. |
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