Record Reviews: Usher, Lurker of Chalice

Lurker of Chalice | Lurker of Chalice | Southern Lord

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As the side project of one-man band Leviathan, Lurker of Chalice exists as a place for odder sounds that his main gig’s black-metal specs permit. Wonderman Wrest, a.k.a Jeff Whitehead, released 777 copies of Lurker of Chalice in 2000 to immediate acclaim, prompting this reissue on respected LA-based sludge label Southern Lord. Giant carpets of doom-distortion link together each song form, themselves prog mini-epics, into a storyless program of despair. “Piercing Where They Might” starts with crows and clean-channel contemplation before lurching headlong into perpetual panic drums, a seething lead guitar, trademark yowl and Wrest’s characteristically unintelligible vocals. “Spectre as Valkerie is” uses crystal magic to obscure the ogre chugging behind. There are moments, like on “Paramnesia,” that show the drawbacks to the one-man studio thing, such as clumsy miking on drums mixed awkwardly above quiet, gloaming passages, but quiet-loud growlers like “Granite,” a formless haze of utterance and shiver sounds held together with big-reverb drum hits, create an ambitious and gorgeous menace from such sound scraps. (Daphne Carr)

Usher, featuring Young Jeezy |“Love in the Club” single | LaFace Records

Indicative of the wildly outside-the-box thinking pervasive in modern R&B, the latest comeback single from Usher’s upcoming Regret (previous album title: Confessions — shit ain’t sweet for Urrrrrsh) is a declaratory club banger, featuring an Atlanta production/MC duo. As this is 2008, Usher won’t be lifting Lil’ Jon off of any milk cartons or forcing Ludacris to start once again making songs that are, you know, fun. Instead, reflecting the south’s increased shift from Crunk Juice Pop Tarts to monolithic Hannibal stomps, producer Polow Da Don is behind the boards, and Young Jeezy pops in to offer his intermittent, Diddy-esque guttural counterpoint. Polow’s work is actually pretty amazing on this, a sinister lurch combined with a vaguely “No Woman, No Cry” chord progression in which the synth patches twinkle like sparklers (in, perhaps, a nod to Kanye West’s “Flashing Lights”). Problem is, said sinister lurch is a huge mismatch for a track designed to seduce people other than the Polow/Jeezy enthusiasts populating the Internet. “Love in The Club” never feels loving at all, particularly in light of Usher’s professional (no Autotune here), but overly serious, delivery. In the biggest disappointment of all, we don’t even get the pleasure of imagining what kind of levity R. Kelly could’ve brought to a similar party; he’s already made “Freaky In The Club,” which is a better title, and a better song. (Ian Cohen)

 Eugene S. Robinson | Fight: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Ass-Kicking but Were Afraid You’d Get Your Ass Kicked for Asking | Hydra Head

Some very fine spoken-word action on the art of butt-whoopin’ by the scary but articulate frontman of rad avant-metal behemoths Oxbow. Also a frequent contributor to boxing- and martial-arts mags, Robinson at first and second glances would appear to be one very big, black biker baddie, replete with bulging biceps and terrifying tats. Inside, however, he’s sensitive as shit, and boasts an equally frightening command of the English language, plus one obscurely enormous incentive to spew it in your face. Anyway, this two-disc set is based on his book of the same title, and why should you care about such a foreboding fella’s poetic poop and artful historical bullpuckey on the whys, wherefores of whamwhamwham? ’Cause it’s interesting as hell, and hugely entertaining. Prison shivving, how not to become a Kenpo karate master, how to hold your head up while beating a hasty retreat (most important) and, best of all, some gruesomely graphic payback fantasies make this document far more enlightening than Joyce Carol Oates — and twice as manly. (John Payne)

 

The Dodos |Visiter | French Kiss

The magic and the intelligence behind the Dodos’ newest release lies in the clear faith Meric Long and Logan Kroeber have in their audience. Several tracks off Visiter follow a pattern: They begin with a deceptively simple guitar strum and graceful lyric, then build in momentum and percussive elaboration to end up overwhelmingly, powerfully, mind-fuck gorgeous, administered in the realm of S.F. Sorrow’s storytelling operatics and effected with the trademark grace of Liege and Lief. I wasn’t sure that the Dodos’ studio recordings could come close to matching the power of their live performance, the way 2006’s Beware of the Maniacs has a few great tunes but tended to lose steam from time to time. But Visiter tracks “Joe’s Waltz” and “Jodi” are relentless epics, as is “Paint the Rust,” a work that solidifies Long’s compositional genius. The one loose link comes with “Park Song.” Stuck between more intricate tunes, seemingly for filler, it’s definitely unnecessary. But the one track aside, Visiter has already been cleared, stamped and filed in the “Why I’m so damn proud of my generation’s musical accomplishments” archive — a truly special work that demands analysis and attention. (Rena Kosnett)