Lit
Atomic
RCA

First impressions count. And in the fast and furious world of major label music factories that goes double. So when Lit, the Californian punk/pop outfit responsible for the lyrics, and more importantly the riff, behind the huge “My own worst Enemy”, sat down to decide how to open that difficult third album, I imagine they turned up a fair few options.

So did they pick the big anthemic stadium track to which tens of thousands mosh to every week? Or perhaps the token lighter-burning quiet track which shows that deep down, below the sanitised tat’s and piercings, these guys are deep, soulful and reflective? No actually, they start with thirty-seven seconds of audience applause. Well, it’s nice to see that they are getting their fans involved in the record somehow. I guess.

Is it fair that this review has focused entirely on the first half a minute of this synthetic and soggy album that has rather more in common with the Backstreet Boys than with the Sex Pistols. Or even Green Day? Well, yes. Because it has allowed us to get this far without recourse to any swear words. There should be a section of purgatory set aside for those who debase genuine musical traditions for the sake of sales. This lot are in for a long stint.

Prophecy
Untold Stories
-no label-

Prophecy appear to be a band with an identity crisis. It’s not that they don’t have any options: the fifteen tracks on this album feature flamenco-style acoustic guitar, “She’s the Light”, large and lasting power cords mixed with tightly knit guitar solos that take me back to 1987 “You Thrilled Me” and tracks that might be mistaken for Dire Straights “Over the Line” and even early REM “When I look at You”. The problem is that they never settle one thread, and this makes the whole bag a difficult listen.

Not that this makes the album bad - eclecticism is considered a big plus where I come from. Unfortunately the necessary enthusiasm to carry this off is entirely missing. “Jenny” is a microcosm of the album. A glance at the sleeve suggests an anguished tale of a superstar who died due to the loneliness of success. Ok, so it’s not original, but leave that aside for one moment. The power chords of the opening suggest real passion, but once the vocals kick in any chance of empathy disappears. And then after ninety seconds you notice that the same chord loop has been repeated thirty times, and the will to go on disappears.

Perhaps there is some deep meaning in this album, but for me both the music and the lyrics lack the both spark of originality and vivacity that makes music so great. One for the coffee table, but only as a coaster.

Scapegoat Wax
Okeeblow
Grand Royal Records

There can be no doubt that Marty James has landed on his feet. A teenage bedroom producer from a small California town he could so easily have stayed in the shadows like so many others. But some serious dedication and a little good fortune has seen him hit the big time with this debut album as Scapegoat Wax, the name he and his assistants have adopted, being the number one priority of the Beastie Boy’s Grand Royal label.

Scapegoat Wax is certainly has a sampled sound at the centre of it, but laid on top of the loops is a diverse mix of guitar based songs, such as the homely “Place to Share”, which would be at home on any indie album, and a harder/faster hip hop angle which fits into a more urban genre. The change-ups (and downs) between tracks can surprise, but they rarely grate. The big single released earlier this year - “Aisle 10 (Hello Alison)” - features clear vocals over a de-tuned guitar loop, an offbeat baseline and endearing squidgy bleeps.

Although the impression first given by the pieces found here can be one of liteweight pop, appearances are deceiving, and the easy-going rhythms and fresh lyrics grow with further listening. From a medium (hip-hop) which can raise me to ecstasy or leave me bashing my head against the proverbial brick cd case, this is a record my doctor would recommend.

Serial Joe
(Last Chance) at the Romance Dance
Aquarius Records

Serial Joe have some serious credentials. After releasing their debut CD independently they paid their dues with many of North America’s great festivals including Woodstock ’99 and an opening slot with everyone’s favourite rock-playing face-painters Kiss, releasing an acclaimed second album along the way. Unfortunately they have spent the rest of their time attending the awards ceremonies at which they were so acclaimed, and somewhere along the way the conformity of those around them has rubbed off.

‘Last Chance’ begins as a parody. Twelve songs of unrequited, unsuccessful, or simply helpless love, sung to the timeless rock tunes of yore. The tidy guitar sound and closely knit backing vocals match the high school prom band feel of the sleeve, and we all admire how cleverly the effect is effected. But at some point the irony drifts away and all that is left is the suggestion that perhaps this is the way Serial Joe really are. The tension between style and content relaxes, and the band sound like they really are playing the last dance of the night.

Perhaps things are different live. Perhaps there is more there just under the surface. We just can’t tell. There are suggestions here and there that there is more to Serial Joe than polished, rock-lite songs. But suspicions are never confirmed. “The words are right there, Just can’t say them to you” they sing to their girl on ‘Committed’, and we nod along, knowing how she must feel.

Spiritualized
Let it come down
Arista

Four years ago my musical landscape was dented permanently by this album’s predecessor, a genuine piece of ‘90’s rock’n’roll, a vast projection of greatness. Let itcome down follows the band’s earlier works to their non-logical conclusion. For nothing about Spiritualized makes sense. It is not possible to say that Spiritualized is one man - in fact over a hundred individuals contribute to the 11 tracks here. But in a very real way, the band is one man, Jason Spaceman, who continued to move through influences from forty or more years ago and yet develop a new and original sound.

The material he covers doesn’t change much over time, but the words are so much less important than the soundscape which surrounds it. This album is the refinement of previous ideas. The large expanses of white noise have gone. They are replaced with beautiful vocal harmonies which complement Jason’s delicate but persistent lilt and are the thread that runs through the album. Around these are woven horns and strings, pianos and guitars. It is no coincidence that their greatest ever gig was held in the classical music mecca that is the Royal Albert Hall, London.

To try and place the sounds we find here in context, the quieter tracks are close relatives of Blur’s “tender” and the louder ones somewhere near a big band experience. With guitars. And the overall effect? I offer simple advice: listen to this album if you are disillusioned, if you despair of uninspiring dirges, if you need to be brought alive again. Restorative properties are guaranteed. Or your money back.

Tom McRae
Tom McRae
Arista

Anger, focused in a beam, not at those who do, but at those who do not. This is the world of Tom McRae. Not for him a broadside at society, but many sniper shots at the key points of defence. McRae could so easily have fired indiscriminately, but the man who was nominated for the Mercury Music prize for this, his debut, album chooses to speak softly, wielding his voice like a samurai sword – delicate but deadly.

Although piano, guitar and strings support McRae throughout, this album is all about the vocals, and more importantly the musings, of the artist. There is no doubt that he has much to rail against. Songs such as “you cut her hair” and “the boy with the bubblegun” on the topic of revenge and “bloodless” attacking the apathetic convey true hatred. But control is never lost, and the balance of the album is held by tracks like “draw down the stars”, an ode to the citynightsky, and “language of fools” which speaks of the simple pleasure of intimacy.

The overall effect of this album is profound and often overwhelming. It is a glimpse of a delicate yet resilient mind, a beautiful yet angry vision of how things are and how they should be. Do allow this record to cocoon you from the barren world outside, but please remember to surface for air occasionally - this is a guide to living, not escaping.

Lamb
What Sound
Mercury Records

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. As with so many things in nature Lamb, a British duo who have been producing high calibre emotions for some seven years now, have followed a winding path to this, their third, album. Beginning with the inspired mix of breakbeats, double bass and folk vocals Lamb’s eponymous debut was a musical landmark for many who sought a haven between urban tempos and gentle ballads. Largely in reaction to the nature of the acclaim garnered, Lamb retreated to a harsher sound for their second outing, often an experiment in bass line emphasis.

Following an anguished tour and a ten day break-up the band returns in more relaxed mood to present ‘What Sound’. The balance between technology and human appears to have returned, and the tension that was present in earlier work has dissolved. The innovations in beats continue to surface, in particular on the now-mandatory instrumental track, ‘Scratch Bass’. If it is the electronics that delight, it is the voice of Lou Rhodes which captivates, and the lyrical simplicity and depth that seal the deal. Anyone who has seen Moulin Rouge has experienced this already.

Songs of love, maternal, fraternal and eternal, abound on this record. The standout recognisable singles of yesteryear may not be present, but this is a deeper, more connected effort and rewards repeated listening. “Sweet so sweet, falling soft, between the sheets” Rhodes sings on ‘Heaven’, and nestled in among the warm layers of sound we smile in agreement.

Sense Field
Tonight and Forever
Nettwerk

Tonight and Forever reminds me of those hi-fibre breakfast cereals that get advertised on tv all the time. At least they do where I come from. You know, some happy and well-toned and sensible individual tells you how much better these brown sticks make your life (if taken as part of a balanced diet). But you know that when you buy the stuff it will taste of cardboard. Even if you add bananas and strawberries, like the on the packet.

Sense Field have been dragged backwards through the corporate hedge, repeatedly held back, not allowed to release anything for five years. They have paid their dues by gigging across the continent throughout the last decade. The antithesis of manufactured pop/rock, they are the product of a Californian punk rock youth and mellowed to this gentler sound later in life. Sense Field are the genuine article. So why do I still feel like this album provides no calories, fat, protein or even a caffinated kick?

Well the sound is crisp, the voice sincere, the rock truly rocks. But by the time you reach the end of this long player there isn’t a ice-pop’s chance in summer that you’ll remember which track was which, or what any of the subjects were. While the tracks alternate between harmonised power rock and acoustic agonise-alongs, absolutely nothing stands out. I respect the band, I just cant quite stomach their music for breakfast. Not even with nuts and honey. Sorry.

DJ Tiësto
In my memory
Black Hole Records

There are albums which have a clear theme running through them. The ones where you instinctively understand how one track leads to another, and what message the artist is attempting to impart to the listener. This, of course, is not one of these albums. It is two of them. Intertwined like a double helix, a symbiotic relationship. Nearly.

DJ Tiësto is known for his European-style trance and progressive house creations and remixes, and true to form he produces six tracks with thumping baselines which would slide nicely into a hi-energy set at any self-respecting rave. Nothing outstanding or hugely inspirational, but nonetheless a pleasant soundtrack to your pre-club drinking session. On the record however they serve only one purpose – they are the frame for the picture painted around them.

The three central creations build on smooth rhythms to each showcase a different mood expressed through a crystal clear female voice. This trio of human aspects among the faceless technology both makes the album and gives us glimpses of how the two media can be brought together successfully. Whether happy - “in my memory”, sad - “battleship grey”, or simply content - “close to you” it is the meeting of (wo)man and machine which will draw you back in to a repeat listen.

So, although there is plenty out there which is more innovative and less repetitive, there is still a distilled core of beauty and fragrance which gives this record potential. Would I therefore recommend it? I forget.

Transmatic
Transmatic
Immortal Records

Transmatic are the latest in a long line of fresh-faced, energetic pop-rock bands to try and make it big. In the spirit of the age they were discovered after posting their first demo on the mp3 site Loudenergy.com. After swiftly signing a contract with the first agent that made it to their home town, somewhere outside Indianapolis, the first single and now the eponymous debut album followed swiftly. So we can tick all the boxes and await the meteoric rise to stardom? Well, not quite. Although the intelligent lyrics mixed with bouncy guitars and slick production should make this 35 minute 'long-player' a hit, there is something missing. It's the gimmick.

You know the kind of thing. There is the impressively tattooed lead singer idea. Or the uncle of the bassist who was a rock god way back when. At a push the feature can even be related to the music. Perhaps the killer riff that everyone is whistling around campus, or that ever-so-clever double-entrendre of a chorus line.

But alas, Transmatic have none of these tricks up their collective sleeve. Neither the tune that got them discovered, "Blind Spot", nor the ironic single, "Come", have any distinguishing features, and indeed the whole album washes over you like that layer of warm air just outside the Redpath library doors. It feels good for a while, but then reality hits, and you hurry on before you catch a cold. The whole effect is ephemeral, nothing here is permanent, let alone immortal.

Concrete Blonde
Group Therapy
Manifesto

There is rarely any question that retro is in. The difficult part is knowing what this summer’s rerun will be. The past couple of years have seen the return of many of the eighties’ brightest, best and least defunct. Thus, after an eight year hiatus, the band best known for the minor hits ‘God is a bullet’ and ‘Joey’ are back to bring you the clean, crisp sounds of yore, should you be so inclined to listen.

There is no doubt as to the musical ability of the trio of band members. Johnette, on vocals, muses rather than sings her way with power, clarity and at times delicacy, while Harry imitates a drum machine and Jim wa-wa’s away in the background. All so very reminiscent of a time long ago. Or was it last year? Although there are nods to the past, with ‘When I was a fool’ looking back to past follies in life, the majority of the pieces here are melancholy reflections on the way of love. And the many ways in which it can go wrong.

While the cover is sufficiently two decades ago, and the music authentically passé, there is a central failing here for those of us who are not fans of old. Here is a band who believes that “it gets better, every day you stay alive”, but who have not progressed or developed through time themselves. So if deep shades of 1987 is this year’s in-color, then this could yet be splattered on walls all over town. But that’s a big if.

Dawn Robinson
Dawn
Q Records

The tightrope of credibility is rarely a simple one to walk, let alone strut along with confidence. This goes double in the arena of pop music, and sadly often triple for a young woman. Thankfully this has not stopped Dawn Robinson, one quarter of the pre-packaged En Vogue, purveyors of the classic “Free Your Mind”, from dispensing with her parasol and striding forth. She was the first member of the band to move on, briefly joining über-R&B-oufit Lucy Pearl before branching off to create this, her debut solo effort.

Although this is in some senses her first balancing act, there is little to suggest she is new to the game. Ten years of experience in the industry means that Dawn has all the right connections and five hip producers share the production credits, reflecting the breadth of sounds and styles present. Sounds jump from R&B to funk to pop, from laid back croons like “I Don’t Know Why” to up-front diatribes such as “Fed Up”. The centrepiece of the album is the jivin’ “Envious”, which suggests Dawn has at least some grasp on the psychology of fame and its attendant ‘pleasures’.

That is not to say that this is a miraculous (re)discovery. The sounds are garnered from throughout her career, from the mainstream and the edge, but there is nothing revolutionary to be found here. And Dawn’s desire to cover all of her experience means there is no unifying thread holding the music together - ballad follows floor-filler with little regard for the tone taken. Nonetheless this is captivating music which has the power to remind you that things can work out for the best. After a dark night there is often a bright dawn.

Obi
the magic land of radio
Cooking Vinyl

The magic land of radio transports us from our humdrum lives to a place where silver clouds of pop music slip by as we lie in fields of fabric softened tunes. Time is of no matter; sounds arrive and depart with grace and dignity. On the surface there is only superficiality, but the tone lays down sediment layer by layer, and suddenly the summer sky has turned rather less fluffy. The storm clouds are gathering.

This eight track debut offering from four British boys is all that is best about pop. While Obi has a very English sound, with soft guitars and pianos, there are also hints of americana in the steel guitar and banjo, the harmonica and e-bow. It does not pander to the lowest common denominator, offering instead accessible yet nuanced music about living and loving.

As a prime example, on the single ‘somewhere nicer’ vocalist Damian lilts “in my darkest nights, I just remember lying by your side, where I’ll be forever”, not an expression of a current happiness, rather a confident expectation of the future. This is repeated throughout - ‘home on the range’ conveys the possibility of satisfaction “out of this show”, ‘leave these shores’ promises that “a brighter life will follow”.

There is however something hollow about these words – Kieran doesn’t sound like he believes what he is singing. The melody barely hides sadness and uncertainty, as if he is trying to kid himself that everything will get better eventually. Obi provides an iceberg of an album – beautiful, glassy and blue-tinged. And what lies under the surface always threatens to drag the listener down to the depths. It’s peaceful down there, but oh so cold.

Alexis O’Hara
In Abulia
Grenadine Records

In Abulia, a state of chronic indecisiveness, is an offering of purest stream-of-consciousness from an artist birthed in the local spoken word scene. Uncertain of its nature, performance art or music, the album tries to be all things, and achieves partial success. Although instruments and words overlap throughout, the connection is more casual than causal. Their convergence with downloaded and prerecorded samples makes for a mixture, rather than a compound, of sensory input.

This is both the strength and weakness of the work, it places the lyrics in their context rather than letting them stand alone. Sometimes this works wonderfully, as in ‘(he never) mister’ where a full minute of high-pitched plucking and eerie electronics precedes a simple rhyme, turned sinister by its environment. Or on ‘escape hatch’, which presents a wistful harmonica to prepare us for a tale of lost love and kidnap in the dreamworld. At times however the surroundings overwhelm the words and emotion is all that is left. On ‘plastic bullets’ a robotic reading of Alexis’ poem is backed by a metallic screech which at times makes listening agony, before police helicopters and car alarms drown all else.

The clever twisting of clichés on ‘down with the man’ to a beat box backbeat is entertaining, but it fails to inspire, or let us see the real person underneath. If Alexis is seeking to present a decisive view of life then she fails to do so – we are left instead with snippets and snapshots. Perhaps this was always the intention.

Pigeon-Hole
and the one they call lightning
Aquarius Records

Harmony is something many of us value in life, but few are able to find, and even fewer can explain their discovery to others. So I count myself fortunate to have stumbled across this album from local fourpiece Pigeon-Hole. And by local I mean girl/boy next-door, three members attended this very university in the recent past. Instead of having to describe the ineffable I can simply direct people to their nearest popular music store, and tell them to go buy a slice of the sublime.

For Pigeon-Hole have harmony. Indeed they have all the harmony, according to my pocket dictionary’s three definitions. In the most direct sense they have plenty of “combinations of simultaneous musical notes in a chord”, as voices and instruments are blended together. The two vocalists, Isabelle and Natasha, emerged from the coffeehouse scene and appear equally comfortable playing with the rhythm section, over guitars, and even acappella.

The effect is certainly folky early on, with a preponderance of acoustic guitar on standout tracks like ‘Monday Morning’ and ‘Triggerman’, but later songs such as ‘13 Stairs’ and ‘Barn Burner’ suggest broader jazz/funk influences. All the songs are jointly authored by the whole band, which may account for the seamless progression with which tracks flow – you could call it “an interweaving of different accounts into a single narrative”. The end result is sometimes happy, often melancholy, occasionally – as with their cover of Twisted Sister’s ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ – confrontational, but unfailingly a “tuneful melody”.

Beth Orton
Daybreaker
Heavenly Records

As in life, in music some people prize solidity and certainty. Not for them heartwrenching ballads, songs of regret and indecision, a voice which sounds like it spent its childhood running wild in the fields and splashing along the beach. But for those of us for whom such characteristics are to be treasured, folkstress Beth Orton is a guide in the wilderness. On this, her third studio album, Orton combines the acoustic melancholy, orchestral exuberance and electronic dislocation found in her earlier work, continuing to ply her trade somewhere just beyond the mainstream.

If there is one consistent theme throughout Orton’s music it is the primacy of her etheral, troubled, yet powerful voice. In an attempt to move beyond her past repetoire, Orton tries to plat this unique sound with the three strands of her musical heritage. Aided by cameos from Ryan Adams on guitar, and the Chemical Brothers at the mixing desk, she succeeds at times, but often the undeniably beautiful result sounds somewhat confused.

Certain tracks stand out for their clarity, for example the trademark use of cello and guitar on ‘This one’s gonna bruise’ harks back to past glories. Sadly however such moments serve to highlight that Orton has neither transitioned to pop music, nor entirely retained her haunting folk roots. In trying to be all things to all (wo)men, Orton has constrained her signature sense of distant freedom from the world. On the title track she sings of lying “on our backs in the grass, silently watching the rain clouds move by”. It seems that in putting up her umbrella, Orton’s link with the elemental has been blocked. Perhaps just for our sake next time she’ll consent to getting soaked.

Tom Cochrane and Red Rider
Trapeze
EMI

When you hail from small town Manitoba, a thousand kilometres north of Winnipeg, it is not too difficult to understand why you might think that life is a highway. Tom Cochrane is such a man, and he has been traveling the musical highway for over twenty years now. Both stylistically and personally, the ride has not been smooth, but Cochrane has stuck to his task, and today finds himself somewhere near the end of his journey, publishing his collected hits. Stretching twenty years this double album covers it all: from the early sync rock hits such as “White Hot” and “Lunatic Fringe,” through more famous, and mature, stadium rock anthems such as “Big League” and “Life is a Highway,” to moody and subdued recent offerings.

Sometimes backed by Red Rider, the band for whom he was the frontman, sometimes alone, but always intense and purposeful, this compelling artist is reminiscent of working class guitar heroes such as Bruce Springsteen. Ballads like “Big League,” a tale of talent lost too young, “Just Like Ali,” a comparison of the boxer and his father, both fading due to Parkinson’s, repeat themes of loss, hopes and dreams which maintain their power over the years. In some ways moving beyond the political message of his contemporaries, Cochrane sings of matters closer to the heart.

These messages may be timeless, but the medium in which they are presented is a relic of a bygone age. Cochrane’s sound develops through the years, but it recalls days gone by, not the present, and, as with other retrospectives, this collection falls between two stools: it is unlikely to stir the soul of the uninitiated, but contains little new material for the aficionado. If life is truly a highway, then perhaps this is a mile too far.

Timur