DOCTOR L, TONY ALLEN, JEAN PHI DARY Psyco on da Bus (Platform)
Yeaaah, groans Afro-beat legend Tony Allen, his bluesy Nigerian drawl responding to the tones of a jazzy keyboard as if a masseuse has just pounded the kinks out of his back. We dont want to fight no wars. Those are the first words heard on Psyco on da Bus, which, despite the sentiment, was recorded before 9/11, most of it with producer Doctor Ls Mac G3 on Allens tour bus last spring. Doc finished the tracks in several studios at home in Paris, calling on musicians like saxophonist Eric Ricco Gaulthier, vox man Don Farkas and acoustics heavyweight Smadj to toss some love into the flow.
Afro-beatniks into downbeat, dub, funk and jazz: Time to get giddy. Featuring Allens Afrobeat 2000 trio (Cesar Anot, Jean Phi Dary and Jeff Kellner), Psyco is a tribute to jam-session self-indulgence as an art form. No need to shriek; there are plenty Rebirth of Cool moments throughout the disc to keep you on familiar ground. Opening with Afropusherman, which showcases a tight Fender Rhodes supported by Allens slick drumming and the coldest parlando since Soul II Souls Jazzies Groove, the album also superbly engages early funk rhetoric with Never Satisfied. Likewise, Push Your Mind craftily employs Allens previous pacifism amid stripped-down psychedelia. While K.I.S. Compatible kneels at the altar of Bitches Brew, Pictures Talk and Hands Full of Sand easily place you barefoot, bloated n sunburned, givin it up at an outdoor world-music fest.
Fact is, Psyco on da Bus is one of the sparkliest gems to be released this year. The sets loose production delivers unshackled spirituality freed from the evil twins Pretension and Oppression, along with an old souls sage advice for these uncertain times. Just listen to Allens calming mantra on K.I.S. Compatible, and do what the man says: Keep it simple. Photo by Dennis Morris
BUSH Golden State (Atlantic)
If Bushs commercial fortunes dont turn around, front man Gavin Rossdales in danger of becoming better known as Mr. Gwen Stefani and, hey, worse fates could befall a guy! But ol Gavs not done with this rock-star thing, and he and his Brit buddies return with a new record deal and disc to make their case. Sadly, nothing about the unspectacular Golden State will save them from the Where Are They Now? file; far from circling the musical wagons, Bushll soon be circling the Musicians Wanted ads if they dont pull their songs up.
Its a mystery. Bushs 1994 debut, Sixteen Stone, leapt off the blocks like a Red Bull junkie, their glossy take on grunge spawning no fewer than five radio hits and rightly landing the band almost instant arena status. But the tune font dried up, and two subsequent releases stagnated. The shockingly modest showing of 99s The Science of Things should have been enough to scare up the best in Bush, but not so; Golden State offers only more of the same. This is an album of faded photographs, its vision vague and distant; trademark tides of guitar, once cresting and crashing over rugged hooks, now just lap the ear like gentle reminders. Rossdales practiced last-breath pleading struggles to make the tepid material matter, overdressed against aimless dynamics.
Golden State is like running into the aging prom queen at your class reunion and wishing youd never seen her that way. Spend your money instead on another copy of Sixteen Stone you shouldve worn that sucker out by now. Oh, and Gav be sure to have dinner on the table when Gwen gets in . . . (Paul Rogers)
OYSTERHEAD The Grand Pecking Order (Elektra)
Doobious brothers be Trey Anastasio and Les Claypool. Anastasio, guitarist with Phish (the hippie jam band thats shepherded the Grateful Deads audience into relatively modern times), and Claypool, Primus bassist extraordinaire, are both cult figureheads and excellent musicians. That was all they had in common till they jammed together and decided to cut a record.
Anastasios nimble, seemingly improvisational guitar and Claypools smarmy funk meld into something far removed from either mans regular gig. If defying expectations is the sign of the true artist, then these guys deserve certificates; it may take a few listens before fans of either Phish or Primus admit that Oysterhead hits the mark. Hitting the bong first probably wouldnt hurt and neither does the inclusion of legendary percussionist Stewart Copeland, who intuitively ties together Oysterhead minisagas like Oz Is Ever Floating, Pseudo Suicide and Armys on Ecstasy, while Anastasios voice (earnest and sounding like it belongs to someone with manicured stubble and a Guatemalan pullover) creates some jarringly effective harmonies when paired with Claypools cartoony, nasal squawk. The pairs lyrical collaborations are surprisingly seamless; they spin tales around a host of colorful characters, including a shell-shocked Vietnam vet, the recently expired Dr. John C. Lilly and a down-and-out fellow who used to be Owner of the World.
To Anastasios credit, his Phish dip into a far more varied sonic palette than most of their neo-hippie compatriots: Elements of folk, funk and psychedelia bounce off a decidedly rock & roll foundation. Claypools bass playing, too, though firmly anchored in jazz-funk, is stylistically all over the map, and its as instantly recognizable as his songwriting style. With The Grand Pecking Order, these two masters create a musical bridge that should appeal not only to Phish-heads and funksters, but to all the weirdoes in between. (Skylaire Alfvegren)
THA EASTSIDAZ Duces N Trayz . . . The Old Fashion Way (Doghouse/TVT)
The story thus far: Rappers Goldie Loc and Tray Deee once represented rival gangs, the Duces and the Trayz, but they agreed to put their differences aside to assemble a hip-hop supergroup with the help of mentor Snoop Dogg. Can you dig it? asks a spliffed/sedated Snoop as he holds court Warriors stylee, declaring the new and improved gang . . . the Krips Klux Klan!
Theres good news and bad news about the sophomore release by Snoops Tha Eastsidaz, Duces N Trayz. Theres nothing on Snoops latest spinoff that cant be found on his previous releases, and (this is the good news, since it gives the hip-hop fan another adventure to go on) there isnt much that cant be found on five or six P-Funk records and one Curtis Mayfield. From the harmonized voice of Sir Dog, à la George Clintons Sir Nose a character that gets replayed on so many hip-hop releases its hard to count to the voice of Kokane, an MC the press release boldly describes as George Clinton incarnate, this new product stinks of old news. The voice is remarkably similar, but lets not forget Snoops other alter ego, Snoopy Collins, affecting the persona of Bootsy.
But enough P-Funk, right? Youre a Snoop fan, and you wanna know if this records for you. Well, lets confirm that theres some crisp execution here, and aside from being produced in Snoops own studio, some of these tracks were labored over at the famed Electric Ladyland. Rawkus Records Hi-Tek puts on a production clinic, giving tracks like Eastside Ridaz just the right bounce. And with other guests such as Nate Dogg, Mobb Deep and Kurupt, if youre too lazy to crate-dig for the O.G. shit, yeah, youll probably like it. (Daniel Siwek)
THE BLACKBYRDS CHARLES EARLAND At the Movies: Cornbread, Earl and Me; The Dynamite Brothers (Prestige)
Bringing together two rare jazz-oriented 70s blaxploitation-picture soundtracks, At the Movies is a welcome release indeed. And while theyre no Coffy, Across 110th Street or Superfly, they are of course another fine blow against The Man! The first in our double feature, 1975s Cornbread, Earl and Me, is not your average blaxplo, but a still-compelling tale of hoops and police corruption. Donald Byrd, having already hit the big time with his silky, funky urban jazz, wrote and arranged this soundtrack for his group of students, the Blackbyrds, whose next three albums went solid gold on the contemporary charts. Basically, these are jazz-funk instrumentals Blackbyrds-style: omnipresent electric piano, some git-down-funk, lotsa wah-wah, Byrds always clean blowing, and a title song so cool its done twice. Check out the lyrics: Hes goin to school/Not lookin to fight/Not a neighborhood fool/with a gun or a knife/Hes Cornbread!
Our second feature is the pretty much forgotten, more typical 1973 The Dynamite Brothers (He has what every woman wants/He packs the biggest rod in town!). The soundtracks a buried treasure, forgotten only because hardly anyones ever heard it. Organist Charles Earland (who died late last year) was a complex, misunderstood musician who often played the organ like a percussion instrument. Significantly, he was also self-taught, and He didnt know one chord from another, according to guitarist Mark Elf. But He had the feel. Indeedy. The Dynamite Bros. was sort of a preview of Earlands next LP, Leaving This Planet, six months later. But the overall rawness and the spirit of entering unknown territory make this disc unique, as does this Dynamite burgers extra-special secret sauce inimitable synth pioneer Doc Patrick Gleeson.
Not so coincidentally, the only comparable release from the period, Herbie Hancocks Sextant, also sports Squeaky Gleeson. But here, Earland takes the cake to left field at times, as on Weedhopper, best described as acid garage band jazz! The finest cut, Kungfusion, has both title and beat to kill for. Snake is like a cross between Can and later Beasties, while the freaky Grasshopper resembles Sabbath jamming with a tripping Jack McDuff. Earland was clearly having a blast, and its infectious. Dy-no-mite! (Scott Morrow)
TREMBLING BLUE STARS Alive to Every Smile (Sub Pop)
Theres a belief in certain literary circles that all writers have one recurring theme in their work and that a writing career is, in fact, a constant pursuit of the perfect way to express that theme. Bob Wratten, the creative force behind the British act Trembling Blue Stars, embodies that theory.
In the previous three Trembling Blue Stars albums, Wratten has obsessively analyzed his failed relationship with Annemari Davies, with whom he teamed in the late-80s/early-90s cult favorites the Field Mice. Its not obvious from the poetic lonely-heart lyrics, which make Mark Eitzel seem downright peppy (examples: These are haunted days/The year is facing its old age and So well just be the greatest couple that never were), but Wratten does seem to have begun the healing process.
Perhaps the musical reunion with Davies on last years Broken by Whispers has proved a minor cathartic release for him, as evidenced by the shift in sound. The acoustic wistfulness of previous Trembling Blue Stars work has given way to a blend of alternately dreamy and jangly pop hooks on Alive to Every Smile. Otherworldly standouts include Until the Dream Gets Broken and the heavily textured keyboards of With Every Story (one of two tracks that could be called Cure-esque). Representing the jangly front is the middle-of-the-disc one-two punch of the 80s-flavored St. Pauls Cathedral at Night and the singsongy The Ghost of an Unkissed Kiss.
If Alive to Every Smile doesnt indicate Wratten is ready to move on thematically, it does show him evolving musically. It might only be a baby step, but its an important one for Trembling Blue Stars and their fans. (Steve Baltin)
THE FALL at the Knitting Factory, November 14
Last time the legendary Mancunian art-punk combo The Fall arrived on these shores, a reported epic bender by leader Mark E. Smith led to onstage intra-band fisticuffs, a hotel ruckus and a black-eyed Smith spending some slumber time in a Manhattan slammer on assault charges. Today Smith blames the horror show on the rest of the band (They had jet lag and all that crap, he explains in the Knits promo mag); that crew, meanwhile, is long gone (some quit, some fired), replaced by three cheery-faced garage-rock lads who from the looks of them tonight may not predate The Falls first record (1977s Bingo-Master Breakout).
Smith, on the other hand, looks every bit his advanced age. He walks onstage like a leather-jacketed William F. Buckley, chewing his bottom lip and flicking his reptilian tongue, his hair done up to resemble a four-way comb-over. As The Fall Mach 46 bash out the simple descending riffs, Mark, hand in pocket, wanders the stage as if hes puttering around the house: He fiddles with the guitarists amps mid-song (they fiddle them right back), he reads lyrics off a notepad with his back to the audience, he scrapes dead skin off his nose, he adjusts the mic stand so often you begin to wonder if its the first time hes encountered one. But Smith is in fine vocal form, declaiming in his inimitable rhythmic, barely melodic fashion-ah the usual cryptic stuff-ah about German soldiers and antidotes and kicking the can-ah. Solid new songs (and an adaptation of Robert Johnsons Bourgeois Town) are aired; old favorite Mr. Pharmacist appears mid-set to much applause and dance; and an evening-closing rendition of I Am Damo Suzuki brings down the very-old-school house. Best of all, no one has to call the police. A success, then. (Jay Babcock)
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