It could be worse. Van Halen’s first studio album in nearly 15 years—and its first with Roth in almost three decades—could’ve sunk to the level of Sammy Hagar’s “supergroup” Chickenfoot. While the quartet, augmented by Eddie Van Halen’s son Wolfgang on bass, should’ve adhered to the concision exemplified by Women and Children First and Fair Warning, each featuring just nine tracks, there’s enough passable fare scattered amidst the 13 songs to prevent mockery and, there are no syrupy ballads. Still, in spite of a few inspirational bursts, the band seems out of ideas and generally, acts as a foil for Eddie’s pyrotechnic guitar stunts. The puffed-out-chest exuberance, top-of-the-world confidence, and raw force of its past are gone.

Yet drummer Alex Van Halen’s Venice Beach muscleman flex and gut-thumping toughness, Roth’s flashy exclamations and self-conscious camp, and Eddie’s high-wire fret acrobatics and whammy-bar-bending solos surface in places. When the devices are collectively put in the service of song, as on the catchy glam-pop “Tattoo,” carefree strut “Beats Workin’,” or prancing “She’s the Woman,” Van Halen distances its reputation as a hard-rock band that simply reformed for another nostalgia-based cash grab. And it retains the sense to know from what early material it should liberally borrow. After a thudding introduction, “As Is” reveals itself as a doppelganger for “Hot For Teacher,” scurrying pace and finger-tapped licks included. The acoustic-into-electric blues signatures and Roth’s conversational yippety-yap jive on “Stay Frosty”? Yep, “Ice Cream Man” has returned, cold themes preserved. Roth even tries to reprise his trademark squeal on “Big River,” bolstered by old-fashioned give-and-take grist between the Van Halen brothers, even if his results are more Asylum-era Gene Simmons than vintage DLR.

In procuring “new” tunes, Van Halen allegedly pulled from demos and instrumental sketches recorded years ago. For better and worse, there seems to be some truth to the theory. The piecemeal construction of the paint-by-numbers “Blood and Fire” and one-dimensional “China Town” lack cohesiveness and suggest everything is built around pre-existing guitar lines rather than developed melody. A Different Kind of Truth often wants for more of the latter as well as the ample spaciousness and unforced attack present on Van Halen’s most aggressive classics. Insufficient, too, is the knife-sharpness and spring-coiled crunch of Eddie’s tones, which, at their best, double as switchblades that balance Roth’s hand-wagging flair. And while the collective’s lyrics have seldom been much more than afterthoughts, cringe-worthy lines abound. Eddie’s Racer X-styled flurries, corkscrew turns, and zip-zah-zang arpeggios marginally save a number of plodding songs from imitation status.

But even a mostly reinvigorated virtuoso can’t rescue the messy “Honeybabysweetiedoll,” Hagar-esque “Outta Space,” or pile-driving “Bullethead” from the scrap heap. Hearing Eddie, sans accompaniment, dazzle on a few experimental instrumentals would be preferable to such fodder. At this juncture, the likelihood of the reclusive musician pushing himself to those limits seems remote. Above the dulled, synth-based fluff of later-era Van Hagar albeit absent the boisterous sleaze and hook-drenched swagger of the group’s heyday, A Different Kind of Truth constitutes a minor victory, however compromised.

In those early days, Cohen was a relatively young man who merely sounded ancient, his voice conjuring Old Testament imagery even when he looked like an uncomfortable kid in his dad’s suit. Nowadays he’s grown fully into that glorious instrument—not to mention the finely tailored threads that have become his signature look. Indeed, if god has a singing voice, one would imagine it sounds something like Cohen’s deep, graveled baritone. It’s a concept that doesn’t seem outside the realms of possibility considering the Book of Revelations vibe that often runs through the Canadian native’s best material.

Interestingly enough, Old Ideas, Cohen’s finest work since 1988′s I’m Your Man, opens with “Going Home,” a graceful number that successfully punches a hole in this godly image. The singer chides himself as a “lazy bastard living in a suit” before surmising, “He will speak these words of wisdom/Like a sage, a man of vision/Though he knows he’s really nothing.” While still a carnal being—“I ain’t had much lovin’ yet,” he sings coyly on “Anyhow”—it’s clear his fascination with the pleasures of the flesh have somewhat dulled with escalating age. “I’m tired of choosing desire,” he sings pointedly atop minimal acoustic strumming on “Crazy to Love You.”

Instead Cohen, who was born into Judaism and later lived in seclusion in a Zen monastery before being ordained a Buddhist monk, spends much of the album exploring more universal issues of spirituality. On “Amen” he sings of angels and vengeful gods, delivering his weighty words like Moses handing down the Ten Commandments. A softer side surfaces on “Come Healing,” a string-kissed psalm awash in angelic female voices and subtle church organ.

The musical arrangements are carefully considered, framing Cohen’s words rather than driving the action—a welcome departure from the drippy synthesizers that unfortunately defined his work for more than two decades. Perhaps inspired by two years of intensive touring, the singer stretches out, flirting with menacing blues (“Anyhow”), dusty Ennio Morricone film scores (“Lullaby”), and shuffling country rock (“Banjo”).

Throughout, Cohen sounds keenly aware of his own mortality (“I know my days are few,” he cautions on “Anyhow”), making Bob Dylan’s 1997 album Time Out of Mind a clear reference point. Still, the singer-songwriter doesn’t sound like he’s settling up his earthly affairs in anticipation of that final journey, whatever form it might take. If anything, his curiosity, wit, and humor have only been sharpened by the passing of time. Consider Old Ideas more of a return to form than a parting shot of any kind. It’s good to have you back, old friend.

Three duet efforts with Isobel Campbell, a stint with the Queens of the Stone Age, appearances on sets by Marianne Faithfull and Soulsavers, and a go-around as one half of the Gutter Twins gave the ex-Screaming Trees crooner plenty of time to dwell on original material. And akin to 2004’s Bubblegum, Blues Funeral blows open the primarily acoustic roots-based approach taken on his first five solo records. What hasn’t changed is Lanegan’s impactive voice—impregnated with back-of-throat huskiness, nicotine-stained depth, lived-in wisdom, and liquor-soaked ache. It’s an intense instrument—a soul-penetrating stare wielded with careful precision as it wades into dark landscapes scarred with mental disease, corrosive relationships, sad disgrace, enslaving addictions, and unhealthy fixations.

While of limited range, Lanegan switches between his shovel-scraping baritone and mellower falsetto capacities. The former digs at unrequited desires while the latter works to convey undying dedication. Measured, dusky, and unhurried, the daylight-allergic frontman’s voice alternately palpitates with claustrophobic presence and tortured mysticism. This is a man for who gray cedes to black, the hangman constantly lurks, and bullets and guns qualify as appealing. Navigating emotions hair-triggered by blossoming chaos, ruined loves, and deleterious circumstances, Lanegan surfs atop brimming tension and sweeping crescendos as well as any contemporary singer. He inhales words into his lungs before exhaling with unforced anguish. A twisted spirituality informs his phrasing and timbre, helping turn deliverance pleas into requiems of Biblical proportions. Lanegan makes feeling bad sound incredibly good, inviting listeners into clandestine worlds in which temporary visits are preferable to taking up residence.

Obsessive longing recurs, and never more so than on “The Gravedigger’s Song.” Metronomic jungle rumbling and blindsiding guitar riffs coincide with smothering vocals and a verse delivered in seductive, low-register French—the move underscoring Lanegan’s smitten condition and poetic wanderlust. On the electronically textured “Harborview Hospital,” he’s removed from a beautiful union and joyous celebration spotted in the near distance and, unable to free himself from a paralyzed state, asks a sister of mercy, “Are they supposed to be as sick as you and me?” For Lanegan, desolation isn’t a curable emotion or cause for shame; like it is for Kirsten Dunst’s character in Lars von Trier’s Melancholia, it’s an ailment that must be tolerated. Salvation, if all possible for this burdened Saturday’s child, comes from blind faith, blunt confessions, and imaginative atmospherics.

Whether via the tangled folk psychedelia of the balladic “Deep Black Vanishing Train” or noisy R&B throttle of the aptly titled “Quiver Syndrome,” complete with doo-wop backing vocals, Lanegan couches shivers, moans, and grumbles amidst mercurial musical combinations. He largely skirts conventional rock structures, daring instead to stir within manipulated trip-hop backdrops (“Phantasmagoria Blues”) and avant-garde chamber-pop melodies (“Leviathan”). On the synth-pop “Ode to Sad Disco,” Lanegan even channels late-80s Depeche Mode and Leonard Cohen. Pairing a drum-machine track with a reverb-spiked country guitar line, he creates a dance number tailored for the coat-check room in Satan’s discotheque

A cult favorite since debuting in 2003 with Failer, Edwards stands to benefit from her association with Vernon, who currently can’t do wrong and, more importantly, whose textural motifs adorn the singer-songwriter’s material with evocative layering, greater depth, and music-box fragility. She exchanges the humorous brashness and loose playfulness of her past for concentrated pathos, reflection, and sensitivity.

In doing so, Edwards becomes exposed in ways that, at times, makes listening uncomfortable. Fresh scars, persistent regrets, unanswered questions, two-way accusations, lingering doubts, and consuming guilt pepper her narratives. Her voice often possesses a soul-shattering sincerity and delicate softness that turns the fare into private, reflexive conversations that sound as if they transpire in front of a mirror. A majority of the songs are shot through with transformative anguish and reality-grounded balance. Yet Edwards’ greatest accomplishment on Voyageur pertains to the record’s overall mood and perspective. While poignantly addressing circumstances and feelings connected to her break-up, she never settles for vindictive revenge, emasculating blame, or debilitating pessimism.

By confronting her own flaws and roles in the dissolution, Edwards shows she’s already moved beyond anger and acquiesces to the consequences. Despite moments of weakness, disappointment, and disillusionment, Edwards suggests humans haven’t any other logical choice than to move on—no matter how hurtful as such processes can be. Reluctant understanding and shared acceptance arrive during the heart-lacerating “House Full of Empty Rooms,” an elegy on which the vocalist admits she’s less than perfect while singing, “You don’t kiss me/Not the way that I wish you would/Maybe I don’t look at you/In the way that makes you think you should.” Edwards doesn’t play martyr; rather, she finds fortitude in honest contemplation, recognizing that the process leads to the type of hope embodied in the upbeat “Sidecar” and dissipating darkness of “Going to Hell.”

Space-conscious and hovering instrumental touches—faint electronic washes, subtle xylophones, bluegrass-hinting banjos, filter-echoed guitars—underline Edwards’ guarded optimism, bringing to tunes fleshed-out arrangements and band-involved contributions largely absent from her previous efforts. From the back-and-forth exchanges on the baroque-flavored “Chameleon Comedian” to the militant percussion, sawing violin, and somber piano on the comfort-seeking “A Soft Place to Land,” tonally reverberant blends shade Edwards’ storytelling and singing. The combination is seldom more effective than on the sighing lament “Pink Champagne,” throughout which building notes cut like broken shards of glass and swelling country accents function as pain-dulling whiskey shots.

Indeed, after hearing Edwards scourge herself for mistakes that didn’t seem so, the following two tracks—the last on the album—seem anti-climatic, even as the closing “For the Record” serves as a statement of purpose on an album on which determination isn’t optional but prescribed.

Since The Big Come Up first surfaced back in 2002, the group’s music has practically become ubiquitous in popular culture, with songs appearing in an endless stream of films and television commercials—a development singer-guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney joked about on an episode of “The Colbert Report,” engaging in a “sell-out-off” with Vampire Weekend frontman Ezra Koenig that ended in a humorous, Warriors-style brawl. More recently, critical success followed. This past year, the duo even netted a trio of Grammys for its 2010 album Brothers.

The record’s success must have been a nice bit of validation for the pair, who spent a chunk of its creation struggling with internal tensions stemming from Auerbach’s decision to release a solo album in 2009 as well as a range of personal issues—including the fallout from Carney’s divorce, which took one final ugly turn when his ex-wife published a lengthy article about the dissolution of their relationship on the popular Web site, Salon, earlier this year. Then there was the duo’s enviable (if risky) decision to go it alone, producing the album themselves rather than re-teaming with Brian “Danger Mouse” Burton, who helmed 2008′s Attack & Release.

If the in-demand producer had any hard feelings about the slight, they’ve clearly long since evaporated. He rejoins the fold for El Camino, a sturdy, riff-heavy effort that simultaneously sharpens and expands on the Keys’ musical palette. Opening song and lead single “Lonely Boy” sets the tone, piling on a thundering drums, a lean and propulsive guitar line, and Auerbach’s damaged-soul vocals. “You pulled my heart out,” he sings, “And I don’t mind bleeding.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, it actually sounds like he minds very much.

It’s a recurrent theme for Auerbach. While happily married with a daughter of his own, the singer, who currently makes his home in Nashville, can’t quite shake his she-done-me-wrong woes, singing: “You took advantage of the one who showed you love”; “Everybody knows that a broken heart is blind”; “All this love of mine/And all my precious time/You waste it cause you don’t know what you want.” Perhaps it’s a vestige of his well-documented blues obsession, which culminated in a teenage pilgrimage to Junior’s Place, the Chulahoma, Mississippi juke joint run by late bluesman Junior Kimbrough—a spur-of-the moment trek that has since become an integral part of the band’s early mythology.

Of course, each successive album finds the pair drifting further from such primal, bash-it-out blues roots. El Camino hits on musical touchstones as varied as T. Rex (the glammy, organ-fueled stomp of “Gold on the Ceiling”), Michael Jackson (the icy, disco strut of “Sister” bears at least a passing resemblance to “Billie Jean”), and the Clash (the reggae-rock bounce of “Hell of a Season”). This idea that the Black Keys are, at least in some sense, burying the past carries over into the artwork for the “Lonely Boy” single—a photograph taken in Akron of a bulldozer stationed on a barren patch of concrete where the factory that housed recording sessions for 2004′s Rubber Factory once stood.

In recent years, the Keys have started taking extra musicians out on the road, fleshing out their live sound with the addition of keyboard and bass. Fittingly, El Camino—as muscular as the roar emitted by its namesake auto’s engine—sounds more like a full-on band effort than the product of two dudes bashing away in a garage. Vintage strains of keyboard weave through much of the album, and a female vocalist adds a soulful punch to several songs, including “Gold on the Ceiling,” an insanely catchy number destined to end up in at least a handful of Hollywood films and network programs.

On Attack & Release, Danger Mouse and the Keys toyed with tempo, recording two versions of “Remember When,” including a folksy, bluegrass-tinged take and a comparatively balls-out rocker. It’s a trick they resuscitate better effect here on “Little Black Submarines,” which opens amidst casual Sunday-morning acoustic picking before jumping into fifth gear, Auerbach laying down a cranky guitar riff that sounds like a heavily distorted take on Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” blasted through blown-out speakers.

Clocking in right around 40 minutes, El Camino never risks overstaying its welcome, a point Auerbach seems to hit on with the album-closing “Mind Eraser,” repeating, “Oh, don’t let it be over.” Sure, he’s likely singing about yet another relationship gone to pot—in his mind, the dude must be the emotionally battered Charlie Brown of rock stars—but it’s a safe assumption many listeners will feel similar pangs as the final seconds of this exceptional record tick down. A suggestion? Simply hit play again and crank the volume till the walls rattle.

Now, years later, the vocalist’s poor heart is still pumping away despite his contrary wishes. Witness the album-opening “By Your Hand,” a buoyant indie-pop number on which he invites a lover to take his miserable life, joining his bandmates in a group singalong that could have been choreographed by Glee producer Ryan Murphy. “By your hand is the only end I foresee,” they wail. Elsewhere, Gareth examines the emotional damage left by a rocky relationship on “Life Is a Long Time,” singing, “There’s cartography in every scar” atop jangly guitar and the interwoven vocals of Ellen and the now-departed Harriet Campesinos! Then, on the epic title track that builds to a near-orgasmic crescendo of strings, horns, and chugging guitars, he tries desperately to spackle over the ever-expanding cracks in his busted heart.

While past albums remained relatively merry affairs—the celebratory musical backdrop playing counterpoint to the band’s oft-dour frontman—here, Gareth occasionally drags his mates into the morass. “To Tundra,” a song every bit as chilly and barren as its title suggests, moves as deliberately as an ice floe. The woozy “Hate For the Island” is similarly ethereal, a funeral ode delivered amidst a wash of ghostly guitar. The frontman’s anger (“I’ve a whole lot of hate for the island”) can’t quite overcome the obvious grief brought on by his having lost a lover that now rests beneath six feet of sand. While these moments initially feel like a welcome change of pace, the slower tempos don’t really suit a band that caps its moniker with a well-deserved exclamation point.

Fortunately, the crew bounces back for “Baby I Got The Death Rattle,” a tune that gradually evolves from introspective to celebratory before closing with a full-on group chorus that sounds lifted from an off-Broadway musical. Of course, the song’s title is inspired by a medical term describing the phlegm-y sound produced by someone nearing death, and the lyrics reference headstones and digging one’s own grave. While this might seem morbid coming from some bands, it’s a fitting turn for a group that’s made a career mining joy from life’s endless stream of disappointments.

The album title only hints at the level of coldness and emptiness explored throughout this seven-track, 65-minute set. “Lake Tahoe,” for instance, becomes increasingly gripping as one unravels the story, and it will be downright frightening to animal lovers. At 11 minutes, the song could use some trimming—Bush’s airy piano and choir voices largely frame the tale—yet there’s a dead body, and an aging dog that misses its deceased owner. “Here’s my lap,” Bush sings, channeling the dreams of a hound, “that’s where you lay your head.”

Such an attention to detail is what makes 50 Words for Snow a remarkable albeit potentially difficult listen. Few songwriters, of course, posses the lyrical gift that can put a decomposing body in a lake and, minutes later, wring tears from thoughts of a lonely pet. On 50 Words for Snow, Bush splits the difference between such stark realism and the odder, more otherworldly thoughts that mark much of her 80s-era work.

The metaphor in “Snowflake” seems simple enough, but knowing that a bulk of the vocals are handled by Bush’s young son, Albert McIntosh, adds a layer of bizarreness. The teenager is billed as lead vocalist, and Bush is resigned to the chorus. Without reading the credits, one would think Bush is playing a character. “My broken heart, my fabulous dances,” presumably sings the teenager, turning the no-two-snowflakes-are-alike cliché into a dissertation on fading childhood. Some of Bush’s old lyrical oddness returns on “Wild Man,” which many longtime fans have excitedly noted, represents her revisiting of the abnormal. The song appears to be about a hunted Yeti. But such a diversion into the mystical isn’t nearly as bracing as when Bush touches on very real human emotions. Still, her playfully skittering vocal whisper—and deranged, Cee-Lo-like choirs—ultimately redeems the song.

More interesting, however, are the final two tracks. The title cut does indeed offers 50 words and phrases inspired by snow, with an assist from author/humorist Stephen Fry. But they may as well be 50 words for tragedy and gloominess: “avalanche,” “robber’s veil,” and “bad for trains” among them, all delivered while soulful backing vocalists taunt him on.

The Elton John duet “Snowed in At Wheeler Street,” however, is heartbreak at its most haunting. London smog, the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, and burning Rome are among the images that reverberate around a buzzing, horror-soundtrack keyboard. “Have we been in love forever?” Bush asks, a narrator unsure of herself, her partner, and her feelings toward nostalgia. In such moments, the languid arrangements seem to come to a halt. After all, the answer to such a question is a deeper look into the abyss than anything involving an Abominable Snowman

Granted, this is the first and likely last time Zimmer and Sigur Rós will be mentioned in tandem. Sigur Rós, after all, writes songs that take their time, pieces that continually ebb rather than ever reach a destination. Yet it was Zimmer who took his booming score for Inception and blasted it over the speakers of the Warner Bros. lot. With mics set up around the studio, it was the echoing, dense-with-atmosphere compositions that Zimmer used in the film.

Likewise, Sigur Rós onstage is a slightly different beast than in the studio, as live, the sounds of a bowed guitar feel like communications with a satellite, and accordions and strings are mystical connections to the past. To be sure, the distinctions between recorded Sigur Rós and live Sigur Rós aren’t terribly drastic. But what is pristine and elegant on album has much more buoyancy on Inni, as if this is music made to traverse the night sky. In fact, for those unfamiliar with Sigur Rós, Inni is a rather good place to start. And that’s notable, as most live albums tend to be for-fans-only souvenirs.

Inni is different. Jónsi Birgisson’s falsetto, which sings lyrics in the band’s largely made-up language, is more clearly allowed to drift amidst the classically inspired rock n’ roll orchestrations. Where songs begin and end is sometimes only made known by occasional interruptions of crowd noise. The dream-like constructions are equally abrasiveness and pillow-soft. “Ný batterí,” for instance, begins with crystallizing electronics that seem to be destroying a solar system before soon settling into a mourning lullaby. Meanwhile, “Við spilum endalaust” opens with old-world church sounds and ascends into a glorious guitar-and-cymbal symphony.

This is music that hints at possibilities, and it’s made by a group more interested in explorations than any end goal. The previously unreleased “Lúppulagið” hints at what Sigur Rós still has to offer. Instruments squirm and squeak, moving like some heretofore-unknown alien creatures. Elastic synths and an affectionate piano dot the mix, but it’s the ambiguous life beneath that grabs one’s attention. If not quite a transport to another world, it is the kind of music, perhaps, that should score films. —Todd Martens

Hers is a tone that is equally strong and delicate—a versatile instrument that can grind out a soul cover and minutes later force journalists to use clichéd words like “ethereal,” simply because there’s few other ways to describe a voice than can seem to dance over a harp’s fragile tones. Once television-viewing audiences got wind of this dynamo singer, they responded in kind. After an appearance at the MTV Video Music Awards in the fall of 2010, Welch’s 2009 debut, Lungs, suddenly took off and earned Florence & the Machine a Best New Artist nod at the Grammy Awards.

So it’s a strange, head-scratching thing that Ceremonials opens with a song in “Only If a Night” that goes all of 60 seconds before completely neutralizing Welch’s greatest strength. It starts slow and brooding enough, with a smattering of piano notes, deep bass tones, and dreamy harpsichords. Then comes the church choirs. This in itself wouldn’t be immediately offensive, as Welch is singing of doing handstands in a cemetery, after all. But with the choirs come an anchor’s thud of over-production. Strings? Yep. Giant, hip-hop-like beats? Check? A midtempo piano for Welch to go all Alicia Keys? That’s here, too. This doesn’t appear to be the result of some evil major-label overload now demanding a “hit,” as Ceremonials, like Lungs, is produced by Paul Epworth. Unlike Lungs, however, this record feels more like an exercise in production than an expression of artistry.

OK, fine, that’s one track. Next up is the first single, “Shake It Out.” Sadly, this isn’t a song as so much as a piece of music built for gargantuan set-pieces. One can practically see the close-up on Welch as the veins in her neck quiver. And no doubt she’ll look striking in what will surely be an angelic, glitter-filled costume. Yet, as on “Only If a Night,” Welch is soon joined by what sounds like all of London’s entire cadre of backing vocalists. One may as well pile on the window dressing and create a diversion, however, as all the Queen’s singers and even the most trained philharmonic couldn’t add a sense of drama to nonsense lyrics like “damned if I do and damned if I don’t.” Sigh.

It carries on for 12 tracks, much like this. Sure, there are nice atmospheric touches here and there. The tribal drumming of “Heartlines” promises good things to come, as do the scrapes and clacks of “All This and Heaven To.” Likewise, “Breaking Down,”on which Welch sticks close to some steadily building orchestral strikes. But these are cursory nods to experimentation. Melodies are sacrificed for choruses loud enough to be shouted from the Vatican, and Welch can’t go more than 40 seconds without someone thinking she needs layer upon layer of vocals. Even Welch’s trademark harp is denigrated by the studio gloss. It sounds so heavily processed, it feels ripped from a Radio Disney album.

The great crime here is that Welch has a personality that demands attention. Lungs is an expansive record full of possibilities, with hints of Gothic blues and rock n’ soul fierceness. It has its share of celestial touches as well, but there’s plenty of theatrics to be pulled from songs that grapple with faith. PJ Harvey and Nick Cave, for instance, have catalogs that prove it. It isn’t until the album’s final moments that Welch seems to seize the potential at which her debut hints. “Don’t need a husband, don’t need no wife,” she sings through gritted teeth on the album-closing “Leave My Body.” The verses are striking in their simplicity, and she sounds angry enough that the gospel choir keeps its distance. It’s the rare moment on Ceremonials where the song is placed ahead of the spectacle.

It’s clear from listening to this project, which finds former thrash masters Metallica serving up an array of turgid, by-the-numbers riffs while Reed recites lyrics that read like the rejected Penthouse Forum letters of a creepy sociopath, that no one involved gave pause to consider what exactly it was they were trying to accomplish. How else to explain a song like “The View”—admittedly not among the five or six most egregious efforts here—on which Metallica
singer James Hetfield repeatedly howls “I am the table.”

Elsewhere, the famously pugnacious Reed takes center stage, delivering an assortment of cringe-worthy, spoken-word bon mots in his graveled timbre, rasping: “I swallow your sharpest curdle like a colored man’s dick”; “Spermless like a girl”; “If I waggle my ass like a dark prostitute would you think less of me and my coagulating heart?”

Uhh, right. Can we get back to Hetfield’s philosophical carpentry talk now?

What it lacks in quality, Lulu makes up for in sheer, unforgiving length. Clocking in at nearly 90 minutes, the album runs longer than most feature-length films, and you feel the weight of every second during molasses-slow tracks like the eight-minute-plus “Little Dog.”

Indeed, it’s difficult to think of a more unlistenable musical pairing. Maybe Kurt Cobain and author William S. Burroughs on The “Priest” They Called Him? But even that drug-induced guitar squall/beat-poet collaboration spawned a great quote from the Nirvana frontman. Asked about his playing on the recording, Cobain simply said, “I just masturbated for 20 minutes.” If someone posed the same question to Reed, he’d likely respond with a 40-minute dissertation on human sexuality and German expressionism (the project, after all, is inspired in large part by German expressionist author Frank Wedekind). As far as “super groups” go, Loutallica (or is it Metallica Machine Music?) makes Chickenfoot sound like goddamn Temple of the Dog.

In a small bit of redemption, the album does manage to close on a slightly positive note with the orchestral “Junior Dad,” although I feel saying so is a bit like praising the cup of coffee at the close of a bad meal because the waitress managed to get it to you hot.

When it comes right down to it, it’s not at all surprising that the combination doesn’t work. When the concept was announced—Lou Reed and Metallica collaborate on a batch of songs inspired by a German expressionist—only a small subset of Reed obsessives clutching dog-eared copies of Metal Machine Music and one national magazine held out any hope that this thing would work. What we got is what virtually everyone else expected: A Reed/Metallica Human Centipede as horrifying as that movie’s unholy creation. Now please, god, somebody kill it

Think of the group’s sixth effort as a musical Where’s Waldo: Just keep spotting the various influences. Mid-era Kinks, early Black Crowes (minus the really rocking component as, remember, we’re talking comfort here), a dollop of Allman Brothers, and even a few slightly distorted arena-rock guitar riffs litter the aural landscape in an asymmetric way.

True to Portland’s peaceful and easy vibe, the title track begins with ramblin’ in mind. “I left my home and all my money to wrestle with the wind,” sings Eric Earley, steadily becoming more ambitious as the song’s adventuresome protagonist leaves the road behind and, presumably, blasts off for the stars in the following “Astronaut.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear That 70’s Show was back on the air and “Your Crying Eyes” its new theme.

After drifting off into dreamlands filled with whiskey, wasted hours, and shaky relationships, the album’s penultimate “Street Fighting Sun” comes across as a wake-up call that takes everyone back to reality via Foghat-referencing riffs. Afterburners blown, Blitzen Trapper closes with folksy familiarity in the form of the ironically titled “Stranger in a Strange Land,” a feeble attempt at being Dylanesque.

Well done, Wilco, well done.

Not since the extended melodic deconstruction of “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” which heralds the beginning of 2001’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, has Wilco launched an album with an opening track this far out of the realm of listener expectations. Wilco, now in its 17^th year, long ago trained fans to anticipate the unexpected. Yet something happened on 2009’s Wilco (The Album). While there was no shortage of finely crafted songs, rock n’ roll comfort seemed to outnumber the surprises.

Rare was it that such sharp musicianship, such a competent knack for a melody, would feel so normal. Ever since the Chicago band unleashed 1996’s sophomore Being There, which jettisoned the backyard country of feel of the debut AM, for spacious roots-rock atmospheres, it felt as if a gauntlet was being thrown at the feet of its fans. No two albums, the Tweedy-led outfit seemed to be saying, would ever sound the same. And thus it was so.

Lineups changed, sometimes drastically, but the mission didn’t. There was gallantly harmonious orchestral pop (1999’s Summerteeth), exquisitely detailed art-rock minimalism (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot), aggressively claustrophobic guitars (2004’s A Ghost is Born), and soul-enhanced folk-rock (Sky Blue Sky). On Wilco (The Album), the band neatly, and confidently, touches on all of the above, with the sole exception being the panic-stricken “Bull Black Nova.”

The Whole Love, however, is full of the exceptions. Some, of course, are stronger than others. Sadly, the entire album doesn’t have the cut-and-paste intensity of “Art of Almost.” Yet there’s a studio-driven sheen that makes this, from start to finish, the freshest Wilco work since A Ghost is Born. Much credit must be given to multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone, who Tweedy enlisted for a greater production role.

Sansone adorns many tracks with a symphonic lushness, and helps liven up even Wilco’s more traditional moments. Seesawing violins and drummer Glenn Kotche’s constantly in-motion clickity-clack rhythm add a softness to the starkness of “Black Moon,” while “Sunloath” tiptoes to a finale drenched in 60s psychedelics. “I don’t want to lose this fight,” Tweedy sings with his comforting rasp, and the chorus-less song rescues its lyricist in the final moments with swooning harmonies and crystallizing guitars, finishing with a kaleidoscope of instrumental colors.

Those who have seen Wilco live in recent years know that the current six-piece incarnation—the only Wilco lineup to have lasted for three full albums—has the ability to put on an expansive, blistering rock n’ roll show packed with highs and lows. The Whole Love seems to recognize such a feat, as often here, Tweedy is not the focal point. He’s brash and energized on “I Might,” sure, but that song belongs to bassist John Stirratt and keyboardist Mikael Jorgensen.  Never has Wilco sounded this groovy, as Stirratt’s fuzzy bass leads the song with an R&B shimmy. Jorgensen, meanwhile, channels 60s rockers the Zombies and plays give-and-take with Tweedy.

Ace guitarist Nels Cline gets plenty of moments to roam, and turns the solitary sentiment of “Born Alone” into a statement of defiance. He also contrasts giant bar-band riffs with sleek, artsy fills on the delightfully reckless “Standing O.” “I mope and I cry and attack,” Tweedy sings on the latter, a moment that captures the emotional schizophrenia of much of the lyrics. “Capitol City,” for instance, seems like a giant mind-game. Musically, the old-fashioned jaunty pop stroll is Wilco at its silliest, while lyrically, it’s an embrace that tries to keep its distance. As Tweedy sings later on the album, “As intimate as a kiss over the phone.”

The “Art of Almost” creates nearly impossible expectations for Wilco’s eighth album, yet The Whole Love comes close to delivering on them. “Dawned on Me” may be a tad slight, and “Rising Red Lung” is all darkness amidst an album that’s spry and bright. Yet the record is a daring statement, even coming to a close with 12 minutes of acoustic exploration. “One Sunday Morning (Song for Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend)” unfolds with slight melodic tweaks and shading throughout, underscoring once again that Wilco, nearly 20 years into its career, still has plenty left to investigate.

Spread across several phases and categories, the campaign is designed to please casual fans, newcomers, and diehards. The 16-disc Discovery box collects the band’s studio records (also available individually) in newly remastered form, while Experience versions of The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and The Wall add a bonus disc of previously unreleased related content to the classic album. Yet the greater temptations come courtesy of multi-disc Immersion box sets of the aforementioned titles, Pink Floyd’s three most celebrated efforts. Loaded with extras, collectables, and options, they seemingly respond to one of the only criticisms of EMI’s Beatles reissues—specifically, a paucity of bonus material.

Of course, sharp redesigns and lavish booklets mean little if the James Guthrie-remastered sound and assorted rarities fail to live up to expectation. Beginning with the first stage of releases, TONE takes you through the sonic merits of each studio-album remaster via tireless comparisons to myriad original LP pressings as well as previous digital editions. In addition, we interview Pink Floyd drummer Nick Mason and get lost inside The Dark Side of the Moon Immersion box set, emerging with fresh perspectives on content, sound, packaging, and value. (Similar explorations of the Wish You Were Here and The Wall Immersion sets will occur closer to their respective November and February 2012 release dates.)

Set the controls for the heart of the sun and prepare for interstellar overdrive. —BG

Discovering the New Pink Floyd Box Set

By Jeff Dorgay

Five years ago, Pink Floyd released Oh, By the Way, a catalog-encompassing European-made box set limited to 10,000 copies. Issued internationally in mass quantities, the new Discovery box set contains the same lineup of studio albums. Yet it’s also worth mentioning that the Oh, By the Way retails for close to $300, making Discovery a better value at $199.

After spending several days listening to as many variations on the Pink Floyd catalog as imaginable, to me it’s evident that the big jump in performance stems from Oh, By the Way as compared to the original CDs, which sound flat. Think of the contrast between the early Beatles CDs (also produced by EMI) and the recent remasters; the prior Floyd set represents a similar leap in quality. While the generic, late 80s Floyd releases are not overly harsh, they claim a smaller soundstage than either of the remastered versions.

James Guthrie gets the mastering credit on Discovery and a “remastering production” credit on Oh, By the Way, on which Doug Sax is listed as mastering engineer. But here’s where the mystery thickens. Extensive A-B listening between the 2007 box and the new one reveals the slightest distinction between the two—and one that this writer strained to hear on a $60,000 dCS stack. At times, it feels as if the new box has a few more molecules of dynamic range, but overall, the sound is basically identical. There is absolutely no difference between the two sets as experienced on a $2,500 CD player, meaning, that for the mainstream listener, the box sets might as well be the same product.

That said, while the 2007 and 2011 remasters are essentially twins, enormous differences exist between the new discs and original CDs, even when played on a budget transport. Whereas the original CDs keep the sound distinctly between the speakers, the new discs provide a more expansive left-to-right presentation, along with more depth. The high frequencies are free of grain and distortion, and the slight bit of tape hiss, especially on the oldest discs, suggests that the analog masters were procured. All the remasters boast a level of warmth and openness not always associated with digital.

On the band’s debut, Piper at the Gates of Dawn, the psychedelic classic “Interstellar Overdrive” offers more defined bass lines. And while the re-channeled stereo effect on CD might not appeal to purists that love the original mono release, it adds a welcome hallucinogenic element.  Moving up to 1971, Meddle reveals a much more elaborate and dense mix. The remastered CD again gets the nod over the original, revealing a wealth of cool electronic effects as well as a heavy bass line.

Such factors helped make Pink Floyd a favorite in hi-fi-store demos for years to come. Unless you have a pristine UK version, the new Meddle sounds considerably more dynamic than the US LP, especially on Side Two, on which “Echoes” (at 23:29) takes up the entire side. The howling dog at the beginning of “Seamus” is more convincing on the CD, too. (For coverage of the biggest-selling Floyd albums—Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and The Wall—please see our reports on the Immersion box sets.)

On Momentary Lapse of Reason and The Division Bell, the two albums created after bassist/vocalist Roger Waters’ departure, the gap between the original CD and the remastered discs converges—probably because the pair was recorded digitally, whereas the rest of the catalog was recorded on analog equipment. Again, the remasters get the nod, but just slightly, as they show subtle traces of extra depth and clarity.

How does Discovery (and the set’s individually available CDs) fare against vinyl? In an exhaustive comparison of the Discovery discs and various LP releases, the former are equal to and, on the whole, more enjoyable than garden-variety US vinyl pressings—particularly worn copies. And, be honest: you probably spun these records to death in the 70s. While the US LPs get a slight nod in regards to analog warmth, they are fairly murky, lack in midrange clarity, and, in some cases, fall short in dynamics. The first thing you notice with the CD remasters is their extra punch and sparkle.

Those fortunate enough to have early-stamper UK, German, or Japanese vinyl pressings own the motherlode. The aforementioned match the detail of the digital discs and claim peerless tonal purity. However, the new CDs are good enough to please even collectors by functioning as daily drivers that will minimize wear on the more valuable vinyl. Listeners with excellent digital front ends should come away extremely impressed. I did.

Like its predecessor, Discovery offers mini-LP packaging. However, the printing lacks the intricate nature of the 2007 box, which features heavier cardboard sleeves and disc artwork that mirrors that of the original LPs. The discs in Discovery claim stylized artwork unique to the set. Similarly, an exquisitely rendered 40-page book contains unpublished artwork from Storm Thorgerson, yet the printing quality doesn’t carry over to the CD covers. Stylistically, the Japanese Mini LP versions remain the benchmark for the Floyd CD catalog. In terms of reproduction quality, they are the equivalent of the recent Beatles discs.

Yes, completists will want everything. But if you already own Oh, By the Way, you will gain no new ground with Discovery. However, if you still just clutch the original CDs or worn vinyl copies, these new remasters provide a highly satisfying upgrade.

The Dark Side of the Moon Immersion Box Set

By Bob Gendron

Three prism-stamped black marbles that likely will never see much daylight outside of their pouch. An 100% viscose printed scarf that wouldn’t be out of place around an opera patron’s neck. A facsimile concert ticket tucked into a professional envelope. Four collector’s cards meant to mimic the cigarette cards of yesteryear. Nine thematic coasters on which no self-respecting human will dare set a drink. An art print suitable for framing. These tokens represent much of the memorabilia stuffed inside the six-disc The Dark Side of the Moon Immersion box, a tricked-out set that aims to be the end-all-be-all version of the iconic 1973 album.

Immersion volumes for Wish You Were Here and The Wall will follow, and the rest of the British group’s catalog has been remastered in the newly minted and illustratively appointed Discovery set. It’s all part of a capacious reissue project that could very well be the last of its kind in an era turning away from physical digital media. (Note: Obsessive types will probably detest one aspect of the Immersion packaging. While placed on lock-down mechanisms, discs can come loose in transit and slide around the inside of the box.)

Featuring new graphic designs by the band’s resident artist, Storm Thorgerson, and the iconic record in every conceivable digital fashion, as well as two 26×26-cm booklets, the heaviest of all The Dark Side of the Moon reissues is in many aspects true to its name. Visually and aurally, it immerses fans into its contents and presents no less than ten ways to experience the studio LP. Audiophiles strictly bent on sound—forwards, sideways, and reverse—get their holy grail. Yet, ironically, in a year in which opulent and expensive box sets that honor single albums are the norm, the ostensibly stuffed package unintentionally begs the question: Is it enough?

On the surface, raising such an issue seems greedy and grumpy. Short of containing replica vinyl seven-inch singles or any vinyl itself, the Immersion entry covers the bases on how The Dark Side of the Moon can be experienced. In addition to a traditional CD, diehards get a DVD that boasts 2003’s 5.1 surround mix in both 448kbps and 640kbps; 1973’s 4.0 Quad mix in 448kbps and 640kbps; and 1973’s LPCM stereo mix (newly remastered). Toss in a Blu-ray disc that presents the 5.1 surround, 4.0 Quad, and original stereo mix in 96kHz/24-bit audio—and another CD that makes available the original 1972 mix supervised by Alan Parsons for the first time—and repeat listeners stand to gain a better understanding of instrument placement than the artists that created the album.

If it isn’t expected in these situations, overkill is at least welcome. Yet while multichannel aficionados should have a feast dissecting and comparing different sonic choices, a more important quandary rests with the fact that more than half of the material here has already been released. The reservation as to whether this particular Immersion probes deeply enough isn’t related to the recycling of the surround mix or Quad program but, rather, concerns what’s absent. Namely, rarities in the form of demos, outtakes, and live cuts. The few intriguing tidbits that appear leave one wanting more.

Flashing a lascivious smile that would make the Mona Lisa proud, and bathed in dizzying red light, Roger Waters looks as if he’s just swallowed a tab of LSD and entered a parallel universe. The blissed-out scene marks the beginning of “Careful With That Axe, Eugene,” captured live in Brighton 1972 in all its hazy full-color glory. With a smoking cigarette tethered to the end of his bass, Waters whispers wordless calls into the microphone and Pink Floyd ascends into psychedelic nirvana. Related visuals inform a spooked “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun,” from the same concert. Mason wallops the drums, mystical Indian melodies coarse across the slow-building arrangement, and, at fever peak, a gong’s outer edges burst into flames. Inhale, and you might still be able to get a whiff of the scent of hallucinogenic drugs perfuming the air.

Such vignettes are exactly why super-deluxe box sets exist. However, they’re the only live audio-video examples afforded. They’re teasers, brief hints of a bigger payoff that never arrives. Instead, three Concert Screen films constitute a bulk of the visual elements. These concise films were used as background projections while Pink Floyd played in Britain, France, and the United States, respectively. As historical relics, they’re passably interesting. Computer-generated graphics of heartbeat monitors, images of landing strips, cartoon-sketched natural landscapes, animated clocks, pictures of working-class office dwellers, montages of exploding refrigerators, interiors of clinically white hospitals, and surrealist collages complement the album’s lyrical topics and moods. But do even the most dyed-in-the-wool Pink Floyd zealots need to see and hear the cumulative hour-long footage in DVD stereo and 5.1 as well as Blu-ray LPCM stereo and multichannel? A 2003 documentary on The Dark Side of the Moon, shot to coincide with the SACD release, does nothing to ease the disappointment over the dearth of revelatory material.

Granted, the high-resolution stereo and surround mixes sound exceptional (see the “Immersed in the Dark Side” sidebar). And the live performance of The Dark Side of the Moon at Wembley from 1974 (the same disc that accompanies the Experience version) demands frequent listening. Onstage, the music takes on a more impacting geometry, with knifing guitars and aggressive percussion driving the rhythms forward. An extended rendition of “Money,” especially, transcends its studio counterpart, courtesy of funk washes and David Gilmour’s sharply penetrating treble-based guitar fills. Here, the group sticks to an exactness demanded by omnipresent pre-recorded voices and effects yet manages to transcend potentially sterile limitations.

Further insight is gleaned from a pair of demos on the set’s final CD. Richard Wright’s solo piano interpretation of an early “Us and Them” enchants with simplicity, beauty, and austerity. Waters’ acoustic framework for “Money” foreshadows the blockbuster that would soon be adorned with ringing cash registers. Alas, the original mix for the album contains few surprises, and the live instrumental tracks from 1972 that served as foundations for several The Dark Side of the Moon songs cry out for context. The latter should’ve been provided by the kind of encompassing essay that usually graces normal-scale box sets. However, apart from a Thorgerson-dominated art booklet and an adjoining tour-related photo-essay booklet, perspective is left to the listener. None of the band members contribute reflective prose, an unthinkable shortcoming given the record’s stature and myth. Is that really all there is? In this case, yes.

Sonics: Becoming Immersed in the Dark Side

By Jeff Dorgay

No version of The Dark Side of the Moon has ever invited more sonic comparison opportunities than those contained in the Immersion box.

Rustling up a -2 German pressing, -5 late 70s UK pressing, Japanese ProUse pressing, and MoFi’s UHQR for stereo evaluation, it became clear that as good as the current CD mastering is, it still falls short of the best available vinyl, even if it’s easily on par with (and occasionally better than) an average US pressing you can find in used bins for about $10. The German and MoFi editions boast the best overall balance and offer monstrous dynamics, an abundance of subtle details, and the largest soundstage. Alas, the UK and Japanese pressings lag, and claim a slightly depressed midrange.

Better news is delivered via the DVD disc with multiple sound options. It possesses a level of resolution that none of the CDs match and an overall clarity that rivals that of the finest LP versions. For those without access to the absolute best vinyl editions, the DVD easily suffices as the go-to copy of the record. The Quad mix is another treat. While I’ve never been a multichannel fan, the Quad configuration gives off a trippier feel than the 5.1 mix and keeps with the period better than the more modern multichannel version.

The arms race between the SACD and DVD gives an edge to the latter. Now eight years old, the fabled hybrid SACD owns more resolution in the higher frequencies, which some might accuse as being slightly thin, whereas the DVD enjoys a more analog-like feel—definitely more robust and weighty on the bottom end, with more overall texture. The alarm clocks in “Time” are more distinctly defined and the acoustic instruments, particularly the saxophone on “Us and Them,” feel more three-dimensional on DVD.

As our staff collector likes to say, “There isn’t a bad copy of The Dark Side of the Moon, but they are all different.” And so, Pink Floyd fans have yet another version to add to their collection, with all of its idiosyncrasies.

In interviews, the frontman never shies from his complex past (Owens was born into the Children of God cult, escaping to Amarillo, Texas, when he was 16). But the subject surfaces here in surprisingly direct ways. The weary “My Ma,” for one, sounds like it could have been written after the singer stumbled alone into the hot Texas sun for the first time. “I’m so lost out here,” he laments atop bluesy organ and spectral rays of guitar, “I’m looking for meaning in my life, and you, my ma.”

Elsewhere, he equates his search for love with a desire to reclaim the sense of comfort he once felt in his mother’s arms (the galloping surf-rock of “Honey Bunny”), struggles with drug addiction (the Renaissance Faire pluck of “Just a Song,” a tune whose “keep me up/keep me down” refrain explicitly references self-medicating to maintain emotional balance), and blasts through a deceptively upbeat love song (“Magic”) that’s as heartwarming as the Hall & Oates number that enlivens the otherwise forgettable 500 Days of Summer.

Of course, this being Owens, heartache remains something of a constant. On the shuffling garage-rock bruiser “Alex,” the singer pledges his unrequited love to another in a series of verses that turn the song into a musical version of that scene in Louie where comedian Louis C.K. unburdens his soul to a longtime crush, knowing full well she’ll never feel the same about him. “Love, Like a River,” a retro slice of Stax-worthy soul, finds Owens trying to hold tight to a girl who’s no easier to grasp onto than smoke (“No man can ever keep that girl from moving on,” he croons wearily). Even “Saying I Love You,” which opens like a straightforward 1960s romancer, quickly pivots toward depression.

Things grow even darker on “Die,” a riff-heavy monster that pairs a drugged-out, thundering guitar squall with Owens’ most hopelessly despondent lyrics to date (“We’re all going straight to hell tonight,” he howls). But even a quick glimpse at the album title serves as a reminder that redemption is near at hand, and eventually arrives in the form of the winding, eight-minute “Forgiveness.” The latter is a sprawling, Pink Floyd-like epic the singer penned after coming down from a particularly memorable acid trip. While jarringly simple in concept—the song suggests that forgiveness is key to living a fulfilled life—Owens’ words touch on a range of universal themes: sin, redemption, enlightenment, religion, self-discovery, and even death.

“Nobody’s gonna find any answers if you’re looking in the dark,” he sings as cautious acoustic guitars encircle him like smoke rings. This is what illumination sounds like.

To enter a world conjured by Clark, who record sunder the St. Vincent moniker, is often to find an aural landscape where the familiar becomes foreign. As evidenced by the numerous Disney flourishes that dot her work, she has the talent to compose an orchestral score as soft as a stuffed Winnie the Pooh. Yet she also possesses the destructive tendencies of the fiercest of hard-rock guitarists. Her 2008 album Actor is a collection of minisymphonies, with dark fairy-tale imagery jarring with more computer-constructed classical tendencies. Strange Mercy, however, sees Clark in something of a tug-of-war. The orchestrations are noless ornate, but there’s less of an effort to disguise their synthetic nature. Yet rather than feel more programmed, the album seems slightly stripped down—an anxiously tentative attempt to peel back the surface.

“I don’t know what good it serves, pouring my personal dirt,” Clark sings on “Cheerleader,” a hands-in-the-air declaration before she does it anyway, knocking away any electronic hiss with riffs that hit the surface like one meteor after another. The feel isn’t completely confessional, as shady police officers occupy the murky digital beats of the title track. Still, “Neutered Fruit” feels brutally honest for Clark. “Did you ever really care for me?” she asks, the song unfolding like a time-lapsed trip through a lifetime of sounds as childlike choirs and Prince-like jazzy excursions eventually fold in on themselves.

When she wants, the diminutive artist can sing with a disarming grace. But more often than not, Clark doesn’t see the need to waste her time onsuch trivialities as sweetness. How else to explain the vocal overlays that turn the warm into something caustic on the album-opening “Chloe in the Afternoon,” or the ghastly howls that disrupt the nursery-rhyme coyness of the verses on “Hysterical Strength”?

At times, Clark’s atmospheric experimentations can get the better of her, as Strange Mercy lags slightly in the middle. It’s not a quibble so much as an acknowledgement that the exuberant intensity of “Cruel” and jangly psychedelics of “NorthernLights” are early emotional highs. But this is still weirdness that’s engaging throughout. Toward album’send, Clark laments that she’s not invited to the party she can hear through the wall, momentarily forgetting that it’s the outsiders who are often more alluring.

And boy could he. Blessed with the gravelly pipes of a mountain man, Whitmore crooned songs about digging his own grave in a voice that might have had Ralph Stanley watching the mail for legal documents requesting a paternity test. But while Blackbird closed the song-cycle on a hopeful note, equating birth and death with the natural circle of life on the farm, it also left a new question hanging in the air: What next?

Whitmore responded in 2009 with Animals in the Dark, an album that found him stretching himself both musically (“There’s Hope For You” flirted with Southern soul, while a rowdy chorus turned “Mutiny” into a drunken free-for-all) and thematically (like a folk singer in 1960s New York City, he packed his narratives with a range of scheming politicians, charlatans, and crooked cops).

With that in mind, Field Songs, his fifth proper release, initially sounds like a bit of a retreat. Again limiting himself to either guitar or banjo (rudimentary percussion—Stomping feet? Hands clapping?—accompanies the singer on just two tracks), Whitmore weaves together eight simple tales that seem almost weightless when measured against his early material. Now, this observation isn’t exactly a slight; the singer can’t always be expected to wield his banjo the way a gravedigger swings a pickaxe. But place “Bury Your Burdens in the Ground” (sample lyric: “If you got burdens, don’t carry them”) against the hole he grimly carves into the earth on his debut’s “Diggin’ My Grave,” and the difference becomes immediately evident.

But if anyone deserves a degree of contentment, it’s Whitmore, and once the initial shock wears off (is that…is that…hope?), a rather pretty folk album begins to emerge. Littered with field recordings of singing birds and chirping crickets, it often sounds as though Whitmore set up his recorder on the back porch, strapped on his banjo, and started singing. Songs touch on immigration (“Get There From Here”), the enduring nature of the human spirit (“We’ll Carry On”) and, on “Let’s Do Something Impossible,” even love. Of course, old soul that he is, Whitmore reaches back to a 1937 prison break (“We’ll escape from Alcatraz/Just like Theodore Cole”) to illustrate his point about overcoming insurmountable odds.

Elsewhere, Whitmore touches on familiar themes (see: death), albeit from an entirely different perspective. On “Everything Got Gone,” he picks up his acoustic, surveys the landscape, and sees finality in everything from the worn-down farmhouse just “a mile down the gravel road” to the tree precariously clinging to the riverbank. Perhaps surprisingly, he sounds okay with this as he sings “I’m just here for a little while” like a man unafraid of whatever it is that comes next.

Whitmore once sang “I don’t want you to know the pain I’ve known,” but by the time he rolls into the meditative, album-closing “Not Feeling Any Pain,” it’s undeniably clear that he’s finally made hard-won, long-overdue peace with the world

These iconic artists—and thousands of their peers—refuse to remain content rehashing the past. So why should fans and listeners? Most don’t. True music lovers crave cutting-edge sounds, anticipate hearing new records, look forward to concerts by up-and-coming musicians, and often don’t have enough time to soak it all up. But many members of the audiophile press continue to suffer from the stubborn, narrow-minded belief that all the great rock and pop music was made between 1950-1975. That creativity went dormant, that meaningful advances dried up, that nothing including the coming of the savior Himself will ever top rock’s golden age—a period that happens to coincide with the maturation of the Baby Boomer generation, the very same group from which the audiophile press’ gray beards stem. Given that such flawed thinking, buzz-killing sentiment, and unsubstantiated logic coincides with the most productive music epoch in history, is it any wonder why the mainstream turned a deaf ear to the hobby years ago?

The most recent example of curmudgeonly “there’s little/nothing new that’s good to hear” nonsense comes courtesy of an essay posted by a leading audio magazine and penned by a veteran equipment reviewer. The latter maintains that the advent of digital technology stifled music’s evolution and discusses why there’s supposedly no longer any real invention, great composers, or cohesive movements. This audaciously laughable piece also equates blockbuster album sales with relevancy; sums up the entire history of the 1990s and 2000s in one disparaging sentence that deems both decades “mostly unremarkable”; and laments that most people—including concertgoers—only listen to music as background fare. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the sniveling editorial the product of the wonderful satirical news outfit known as The Onion.

Opinions aside, the saddest part about the screed—and others like it—is that it acts as a cowardly veil to conceal bigger unspoken issues. Namely, the fact that many audiophiles stopped paying close attention to new music decades ago and instead chose to cocoon themselves in a safety net of a relatively select few well-known records; that by repeatedly insisting that the past (and time of their youth) reigns supreme and painting everything that followed with the same broad strokes, audiophile spokespersons convince themselves they’re not old and out of touch; that by conveniently ignoring context and embracing circular justification, these “experts” skirt the actuality that they’re overwhelmed by the sheer volume of vibrant music that exploded over the past 30+ years; and that by refusing to acknowledge what’s happening in the music world and wearing rose-colored glasses that romanticize nostalgia, they can pontificate about how much the present fails to live up to expectation.

But the realities are different. Never has such a diverse range of music been so widely and cheaply accessible. Never has music played such a huge role in people’s lives, an obvious truth evident by the ubiquitous presence of portable players, myriad digital delivery services, and need for nearly every cellular phone model to incorporate music playback features. Go to any mid-size town or big city, and concerts abound. Sold-out destination festivals such as Bonarroo and Coachella attract tens of thousands of patrons each summer. More albums are released in one month now than there were during entire calendar years during the 60s and 70s. Indeed, curiosity in and demand for new sounds remain on the upswing even if the structural mechanisms and evaluation tools changed. As far back as the turn of the century, major record labels quit using sales as a barometer of success and measurement of whether audiences cared about a particular album. Besides, does music’s fragmented nature mean it isn’t relevant or innovative? No. It actually signifies the opposite.

Of course, millions of listeners from every generation already know the aforementioned to be true. So why would anyone heed what a majority of the audiophile press spouts when its rhetoric is littered with gloomy pronouncements, stale reasoning, and behind-the-times arguments—the outpouring the equivalent of an 8-track player in a 2012 model-year car, the embarrassing judgments akin to the banal desert island and demonstration-disc lists that, aside from few token albums, disregard everything made after the year 1975 and resist contemporary updates. Has music really gotten that bad? Of course not. Rather, what happened is that most audiophile critics got content and lazy, motivated by a selfish desire to stage an exclusive, age-restrictive Boy’s Club that grows more pathetic with each passing year.

For evidence of this high society, look to the dearth of 20-, 30-, and even 40-something journalists in the industry. Take a gander at the age and common repetition of the recordings cited in gear reviews. Note the self-congratulatory language that boasts about their possession of rare LP pressings, as if ownership somehow equates to critical prowess. Rather than blame music and general populace for the supposed let down, whiny audiophile scribes should point the finger where it belongs—at themselves, at their own shortcomings, and ultimately, at their transparent lack of expertise on matters they pretend to know. To paraphrase the Doors, the music isn’t over. Rather, to paraphrase the Grateful Dead, the music never stopped—the audiophile press’ interest in it did.

In addition to my role at TONE, I have the genuine privilege of covering dozens of concerts and several festivals every year for the Chicago Tribune, for which I have been a regular contributor since 2002. I’m exposed to hundreds of new albums each year, and constantly wish I had an eighth day of the week to investigate more. Informed rock criticism is a fun and rewarding pursuit, yet it’s also demanding and time-consuming. It’s one reason why I’d never pass myself off as a classical music authority or turntable pro. Too frequently, however, equipment reviewers are guilty of reversing this very situation and weigh in on topics to which they bring minimal qualification and insight.

If you’re comfortable limiting your horizons to familiar albums and established favorites, that’s fine. Just don’t stereotype new music with unsubstantiated assessments when you don’t pay it a passing thought or bother to listen. But if you read this magazine, we’re guessing your tastes and interests go beyond what’s relentlessly championed as the proverbial End All Be All. By example and—just as importantly—by omission, our competitors have let us (and you) know where they stand when it comes to new music, open-mindedness, and concerts. By extension, TONE lets you know where we stand via our belief that oceans of music await further discovery, that there are no cigars awarded for insider jargon and/or demeaning attitudes, and that the music you’ll be listening to for years to come is meant to be celebrated, shared, and examined.

For years nothing more than a rumor that became legendary for the myriad delays caused by the absence of a suitable technology, the set reaffirms Young’s brilliance, ambition, and imagination. Not there was ever any doubt. That the Canadian native possessed the foresight to commence this project in earnest nearly four decades ago, and then execute it with such intelligent design and loving enthusiasm, staggers the senses. And that’s exactly what Archives Vol. I does from beginning to end.

The first of four planned chronological sets intended to document nearly every aspect of Young’s peerless career, Archives Vol. I spans 1963-1972 and includes 128 songs (48 of which are previously unreleased), more than four dozen bonus tracks, the debut non-theatrical release of the 1973 film Journey Through the Past, and, most strikingly, mind-blowing 24-bit/192kHz stereo PCM sound remastered from the original master tapes. A giant box with a “secret stash” compartment, 236-page hardbound book, foldout poster, and custom keeper for the sleeved discs complete the impressive physical package. The ingenious manner in which the material is presented onscreen (and, by extension, on your stereo) is even better.

Almost everything is organized in a virtual file cabinet in which every song has its own folder. Click on the song title and a folder opens up, revealing every detail pertaining to the tune (musician credits, recording date, record label and catalog number (if applicable), and cover art) as well as a set of subfolders. While the latter vary according to the song, they hold a wealth of memorabilia, documents, and photos. Certain tracks also come with audio and/or video logs-bonus media that comprise live footage, radio interviews, concert banter, promotional spots, and television appearances.

If all that wasn’t enough, each disc includes a timeline, a thoroughly engrossing pursuit that encourages user navigation and includes thumbtacks that, when clicked, open extra archival aural and video material. The timeline is also where all future BD Live downloads will appear. Only available on Blu-ray, Young intends on making additional content available for free as it is discovered and restored, meaning that Archives Vol. I could grow infinitely in scope. This potential is alone worth the investment in the advanced technology, and it seems Young is sincere in making good on the promise. Written Young biographies that speak to what happened in his life during the time period on each particular disc and assortment of other menu options, including an audio/video setup helper that ensures that televisions are properly displaying the 1920×1080 content, round out the menu choices.

In terms of exploring new avenues for presenting content, it seems nothing has been forgotten. Not even footage of Young perusing his own archives alongside photographer Joel Bernstein and producer L.A. Johnson. As he sifts through a seemingly endless stacks and spreads of photos, papers, and paraphernalia, Young’s blunt comments and astute reflections serve as some of the most revealing matter in the box. Cleverly, the moments are all “hidden” as Easter Eggs amidst the menus. Other Easter Egg content is scattered amidst the song files, be it an unreleased take of “I Believe In You” with Young jingling sleigh bells or a jaunty alternative version of “When You Dance, I Can Really Love” that comes across as more raw (and country) than the original.

And it’s the pairing of Young’s incomparable music with corresponding historical records-original lyric manuscripts, never-before-seen photos, radio ad sheets, rare 45rpm single artwork, setlists, tape boxes, hand-drawn sketches, newspaper articles, concert and album reviews, advertisements, show programs-that makes Archives Vol. I. a journey that’s like nothing else. The opportunity to explore, browse, and watch Young’s amazing evolution-on this volume, we see him from his time with the clean-cut high-school band the Squires to his tenure in Buffalo Springfield before his subsequent stretch as an idiosyncratic solo artist, Crazy Horse associate, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young member-offers unparalleled insight and unlimited depth.

There are too many highlights to mention, too many surprises to list. Just as it should be: One of Archives’ biggest achievements is the way it invites the user to peruse, loiter, and sample at their own leisure. Yes, this major creative excavation is meant to be savored, but it’s difficult not to want to devour everything. Young and Johnson even provided a listening-only option where tracks play straight through as they would on a CD while a period home-playback mechanism (i.e., reel-to-reel tape deck or old phonograph) “plays” the tune and doubles as a screen saver. Witty.

Yet Archives Vol. I is as much a visual as a sonic undertaking. Despite the early periods covered, illuminating video footage abounds. One of the set’s priceless entries shows Young strolling into a Hollywood record store, finding a CSNY bootleg LP, confronting the clerk, and literally taking the album out of the shop. Viewers are also treated to watching CSNY perform “Down By the River” on ABC’s The Music Scene in 1969; Young strolling unannounced into a Greenwich Village coffeehouse to play a few songs; CSNY singing “Only Love Can Break Your Heart” onstage in June 1970, with Stephen Stills plucking a double bass; Young working with the London Symphony Orchestra on “A Man Needs a Maid”; Harvest recording sessions inside the vocalist’s Broken Arrow Ranch barn, complete with musicians perched on hay bales; Young observing the printing of his album covers at a record-pressing plant; and more.

Using the various “support” elements (radio interviews, timeline, etc.) as reference points, Young’s music assumes greater relevance and gains in stature. Ideas behind songs and arrangements, as well as reasons and regrets, unfold with narrative clarity and frank humor. Archives Vol. I removes much of the opaque divide between Young and his audience, allowing for unmatched transparency and enhanced perspective. The inspiration behind “Old Man,” decisions behind the flawed remixing of Young’s solo debut, motives for the singer’s move to Topanga Canyon (and later, Broken Arrow Ranch), initial ideas for what became Harvest, and feelings on subjects ranging from everything to Buffalo Springfield’s breakup to songwriting to his own image are all divulged.

“It’s interesting how I contradict myself over time,” Young observes at one point, the statement indicative of the set’s enormous span and informative nature. From the start, it’s clear that Archives was as revealing to Young as it is for the fan. And it’s the singer’s hands-on involvement, whip-smart commentary, and willingness to share so many riches and memories that remove ego from the equation. What could’ve been a monumental celebration of self is instead a fascinating portrait of a pioneering artist that’s forever evaded labels, rules, and convention. Even at 10 discs, Archives Vol. I leaves you wanting more-a testament to both Young’s superior body of work (in addition to the entirety of Live at the Fillmore East and Live at Massey Hall releases, nearly every song from Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere, After the Goldrush, and Harvest are here) and the project’s spare-no-time-or-money-expenses quality.

And nowhere is that attribute more manifest than in the sonics. The warmth, richness, fullness, airiness, separation, body, extension, detail, intimacy, tonality, depth, dimensionality, clarity, and sheer life-like presence that these recordings convey defy expectation and transcend limitation. At every step, whether on 1965′s “The Sultan” or a wowing, previously unheard 1971 version of “Dance Dance Dance” with Graham Nash, the sound is room-filling, balanced, natural, lively, and utterly engaging. Digital has never been better.

Neither has any box set in recent memory. In Archives, Young and company have gone beyond their realm. They’ve created a platform that other artists can use to assemble their own music-based multimedia scrapbook. Think of what Pearl Jam, Radiohead, and Bob Dylan could do with this format! Until that happens, Young has established a precedent that may be impossible to top, and he’s not yet even halfway through.

-Bob Gendron

You can preorder this box set at Music Direct here:

http://www.musicdirect.com/product/85325

And so it is with David Comes to Life, Fucked Up’s latest and most ambitious rule-violating statement to date. A rock opera, the 78-minute-plus set is at once sweeping, grand, determined, confusing, heady, brawling, sprawling, confounding, and often brilliant. Experienced start-to-finish, it leaves bruises and threatens to wear out the listener with panoply of characters, plots, changes, and breathless urgency. The Toronto collective’s triple-guitar attack allows the band to whip songs into frenzies, drop clusters of counterpoint fills and leads, and slam tempos against the wall, building up heads of steam that charge ahead with reckless abandon. Riffs alternately slash and burn (“Serve Me Right”), race into the stratosphere (“Queen of Hearts”), hit with balled-fist force (“Inside A Frame”), and buck akin to an untamed bull busting out of the gate at a rodeo (“Remember My Name”).

Such controlled variation and tonal differentiation underscore the foundation of an album bent on upending expectations and shattering preconceived notions. Fucked Up has operated outside boundaries for its entire ten-year existence; take a look at the group’s name, which isn’t for showy effect. Ostensibly a hardcore band, the sextet long ago blew away the limiting stylistic trappings associated with the genre, imbibing in everything from extremely lengthy jams to flute-driven passages on EPs, seven-inch singles, and two prior LPs that provoke both musically and lyrically. David Comes to Life is certain to invite the typical blowback associated with taking risks, the empty sort that accuses a group of selling out and betraying the sensibility of true punk. The quantity and quality of the melodies, catchiness of the anthemic hooks, tuneful stomps, and highly professional multi-tracked production veritably invite it. Underground credibility and coolness aside, few bands are currently making more meaningful, cerebral, or invigorating noise.

Like most concept efforts, David Comes to Life revels in complexity. The four-act narrative’s principal characters include David, a lightbulb-factory worker; Veronica, his love; Vivian, the proverbial “lady in the lake”; and Octavio, the story’s appointed narrator who also figures into the plot. The latter, which involves myriad twists and turns—and demands a close reading of the lyrics—unfolds as a tale about loneliness, love, fleeting happiness, despair, defeat, and, ultimately, redemption and hope. Abraham handles the male protagonists and gets assistance from the Cults’ Madeline Follin and several other participants to play the female roles. While intermittent, these softer, gentler, calming voices offer a welcome contrast to Abraham’s masculine roar, lending a floating atmospheric element to a record that has just about everything.

Indeed, the 18-track double-album occasionally tries to do too much. Yet for all its flaws, most minor, Fucked Up’s colossal album consistently engages with aggregate arrangements, bigger-than-life personality, piercing one-liners, and ferocious energy. “When he raises the trumpet to his mouth,” Abraham thunders on “A Slanted Tone,” before proclaiming “he tells the choir when to sing,” the paint-peeling song’s centrifugal spin fueling its bull-in-a-china-shop aggression. Similarly, “Under My Nose” refuses to let up, glimmering as the group’s momentum somersaults forward. Not all is rip and tear.

Structured choral maneuvers trigger an avalanche of drama on “Turn the Season.” Abraham’s impassioned tones—his theatrical performances convey fluctuating emotions in the same manner an actor’s diction expresses a character’s physiological state—project pained conditions on the crunchy “Truth I Know,” abetted with glossy pop refrains and ringing treble guitar notes that conjure sympathy. High-voltage blues provides a platform for rhymed couplets and metaphorical pronouncements on the boogie-based “Ship of Fools,” while psychedelic effects send “I Was There” spiraling into the cosmos. Aptly, the song opens the Fourth Act, at which point the protagonist begins to find enlightenment.

Concluding their chronological progression and emotional journey with “Lights Go Up,” Abraham and company exit with upbeat swagger, dancing not to the end of days but to the rebirth of love and life.

But in retrospect, it’s an amusing record. With so many 70s rock platters being remastered to death, I applaud Mobile Fidelity for having the guts to step so far out of the audiophile box and produce something this much fun. And since I happened to have an early pressing on hand for comparison—Columbia House sent it as a Selection of the Month and I forgot to return it, honest—I was surprised at just how good this reissue sounds.

Of course, what really makes this record click are the three hits you know by heart: “That’s the Way (I Like It),” “Boogie Shoes,” and of course, “Get Down Tonight.”  Heavy with funk riffs and analog synth fills, KC and the Sunshine Band finally has some solid bass response—even if TONE’s art director caught me goosing up the Gotham subwoofer’s level control when cranking “Get Down Tonight.” Given the additional bass energy, nearly all of the grunge present on the original is gone, leaving behind some serious dynamic range. The original is so heavily compressed for radio play that it doesn’t have more than a couple of dB total.

The end result moves to the top of my audiophile pressing guilty pleasure list.  You know you want it too.

Several years removed from a near-fatal brain aneurysm, Young has witnessed several close friends and associates pass away over the last two years, chief among them film producer/collaborator L.A. Johnson and close musical companion Ben Keith. Young is quoted as saying that, without Keith, he is no longer able to play 70% of his repertoire with a band. Perhaps that explains his decision to go it alone on 2010’s superb Le Noise and on several recent outings. Yet the reasons probably also relate to Young’s way of coming to terms with the personal losses and surrounding world. The Canadian native channeled frustration, mourning, and conflict through sound and verse throughout the hyper-focused 110-minute set, during which Young, in typical fashion, rarely spoke to the near-capacity crowd.

Roaming around a dimly lit stage in a white sports coat, jeans, and Panama-style hat, Young remains an introverted figure. He surveyed available instruments with cautious consideration, rubbing his fingers along the body of a grand piano before taking a seat and spying his pump organ as if it were a deity before climbing up a short row of stairs and launching into a meditative “After the Gold the Rush.” Young’s pensive motions made for understated drama. Yet they also came across as slightly exaggerated. The show’s meticulous nature and serious mood were never in doubt. Young needn’t have slowly wandered about like a pensive drifter to drive the points across.

Still, if further slowing the pace and engaging in spiritual communion with a cigar store Indian perched onstage served the enigmatic artist—upon entering the venue, at Young’s request, patrons were informed to refrain from shooting photos even with cell phones— the introspective moments never derailed momentum. While no stranger to raucous fun and celebratory irony, on this evening, Young held fast to a severe presentation that underlined the sober themes in his songs. Tonight was no place for “Welfare Mothers,” “Sedan Delivery,” “Roll Another Number,” or, thankfully, any of his well-meaning tunes about hybrid automobiles.

At the onset, the 65-year-old stamped standbys such as “My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue”) and the country-tinged ”Tell Me Why” with a more pronounced hesitation and susceptibility. He carefully balanced forlorn harmonica fills with restrained acoustic guitar passages, his lanky body a loose Jell-O mold of wobbling knees, swaying legs, and bobbling torso. For “Helpless,” Young painted rural pictures with bucolic poetry and mellow chords. As blue-hued lighting glowed behind him, the gorgeous imagery both corresponded to the “blue, blue windows behind the stars” lyric and invoked Marc Chagall’s “America Windows”—a masterpiece located less than a mile away at the Art Institute of Chicago. Young also performed the unreleased “You Never Call” unplugged, and in spite of a narrative that mentioned the Detroit Red Wings and In-N-Out Burger by name, steel-tinted textures and apparent allusions to Johnson and Keith lent comparable gravitas.

Weight—in the emotional, voluminous, and responsible senses of the term—guided Young’s progression. The most spectacular moments arrived via electric guitar, his tool of choice. Akin to the treatments employed on Le Noise, his Old Black (Les Paul) and White Falcon (Gretsch) guitars were filtered through distortion effects and related pedals, yielding huge soundscapes that seemed to infinitely extend and seldom decay. Rhythms stacked upon one another, each swipe of Young’s hand to the strings unleashing torrents of crackling thunder, rolling feedback, and booming resonance.

Heard amidst such sonic constructs, “Down By the River” wore an even deadlier mask, “Rumblin’” proved true to its name, “Ohio” recoiled with bitter disgust, and “Peaceful Valley Boulevard” flowed with a menacing fervor targeted at unforgivable ignorance. Similarly, despite its lively Spanish-flavored intro, “Love and War” conveyed foreboding feelings, the song’s piercing truisms and horrors ringing out alongside guitar notes that hummed, moaned, and exploded. Young abruptly stopped and shifted tempos, adding to the material’s edginess and upping dynamic contrast. In fine form, his hallmark soulfully quivering tenor voice warmly complemented several paeans to love (“Sign of Love,” “I Believe In You”) but refused to shy away from irritation at everything from environmental ruin to corrupt politics to distorted history to himself.

On the autobiographical “Hitchhiker,” Young turned his never-sleeping rust loose, the subterranean guitar riffs corroded with terrifying noise, the tune marching on even as the singer injected percussive breaks into the violent arrangement. By the time Young concluded with the persuasive “Walk With Me,” the dark clouds began to clear, and the frontman, as if finally purged if not entirely content, sought solace in friendship and faith.

Delayed nearly 18 months while the now-fully-recovered Adam “MCA” Yauch underwent treatment for salivary-gland cancer (“How you feeling MCA? Well I feel alright” he rhymes on the robotic “Nonstop Disco Powerpack”), the record finds the longtime mates still embracing their hip-hop “Three Stooges” personas—from the increasingly gruff MCA (Moe) to the goofball rhymes of class clown Michael “Mike D” Diamond (Curly), who playfully compares himself to a Jewish Brad Pitt on “Long Burn the Fire.”

But even though some of the Beasties’ lyrical references sound like mid-90s holdovers (“Be kind, rewind”; “Like a Big Mac attack on your gut”; “I’ll make you sick like a Kenny Rogers Roaster”), the music consistently points forward. The MCs rhyme atop punk-ish, Ramones-via-Run-DMC backdrops (“Lee Majors Come Again”), steel drum-flecked Caribbean grooves (the Santigold-guesting “Don’t Play No Game That I Can’t Win”), and rumbling digital passages that sound something like Transformers breakdancing (album standout “Too Many Rappers,” which finds guest rapper Nas dropping his best verse in years). “Nonstop Disco Powerpack,” a song whose title sounds like it was translated from Japanese (“Happy America Disco Baseball!”), flashes even further into the future, the rappers’ voices breaking and digitizing like humanoids reverting back to robot form.

As one might expect, the Beastie Boys have greatly matured since breaking through with “(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party!)” back in the mid-80s. Offstage, the trio is known for trumpeting political causes—countless urban hippies adorn their Prius bumpers with “Free Tibet” stickers due to the Beasties’ persistence. And in recent years, the group has tried to put some distance between it and some of its more hooligan-ish early tunes. No longer does anyone get lyrically sodomized with a Wiffle Ball bat in live performances of “Paul Revere.”

Fortunately, Hot Sauce Committee Part Two doesn’t fall prey to any middle-aged tisk-tisking. Instead, the three pass the mic like old-school MCs, trading playful boasts (on competing rappers: “I put ‘em through a strainer like macaroni, ’cause the shit sounds cheesy!”) and weaving together an increasingly dense web of pop-culture references (Wolf Blitzer holograms, Operation, Crocs, Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues”). Besides, how deep can things really get on an album with song titles like “Funky Donkey” and  “Crazy Ass Shit?” Thankfully, when it comes to the music, the Beasties are still more about getting bodies moving than trying to expand minds.

Artists have long ruminated on these weighty matters, but one of the myriad reasons that make Fleet Foxes unique is that at no point does the group invoke self-pity, resort to cloying earnestness, or complain about fame as it raises deep questions that often yield no resolute answers. If the Seattle sextet had any detractors after releasing a 2008 full-length debut that landed on most critics’ Top Ten lists and staging shows that proved its natural harmonizing absolutely ethereal in scope, its latest creation should elevate the band to household-name status. Such is the spectral beauty, cohesive chemistry, and golden-hued ambition contained within.

Whether referred to as roots-rock, folk-rock, or the hipster-coined beardo-rock, the last several years have witnessed an inundation of bucolic music performed by bands that yearn for passed times and bygone environments. Mumford and Sons, Dawes, The Head and the Heart, and Blitzen Trapper are among the acts whose rustic fare evokes simpler times and pastoral pleasures while offering needed relief from a technology-dominant culture that’s far removed from the tranquil, down-home rootsiness conjured by acoustic instruments and easygoing singing. Fleet Foxes stand apart from their contemporaries and followers due to a basic fact: As demonstrated on this filler-free 12-song set, they are plainly superior, deeper, and more soulful than their peers. It’s a truth borne out every year in professional sports. Championship-winning teams claim immense talent and advanced skill sets. For all its romanticism, sheer will only takes you so far.

Whereas the band’s influences shone brightly on its debut, they recede further into the background on Helplessness Blues. Shades of Simon & Garfunkel, Crosby, Stills & Nash, and the Incredible String Band give way to a mix that’s more original, involved, and modern. Fleet Foxes occupy an indefinable territory that both bridges and honors the Laurel Canyon past while taking the former period’s earthy, intricate, and natural elements into a present that delves further into go-for-broke blends of gospel, baroque, Americana, rock, psychedelic, and, on “The Shrine/An Argument,” even avant-garde jazz strains. The amount of time and care the group invested in its craft will be immediately evident to even the most casual listener; more than a year in the making, and captured at multiple studios, Helplessness Blues comes on like record on which every note is carefully considered but never overly polished or overwrought. It’s a difficult line to navigate, and yet, Fleet Foxes and co-producer Phil Ek convert their Swiss-wristwatch-precise obsessiveness into transcendent art.

“So, guess I got old,” vocally shrugs Pecknold on “Lorelai,” continuing to explore a topic that occupies him from the start and stays with him until the concluding “Grown Ocean,” a stomping upbeat tune that reveals glimpses of unvarnished optimism and finds him declaring “I’m as old as the mountains.”  Amidst the group’s arching heaven-bound harmonies, delicate fingerpicking, booming drums, and majestic melodies, Pecknold engages in blunt self-evaluation, his confessional meditations on uncertainty, withdrawal, and responsibility contributing to an ebb-and-flow of swelling choral tides and three dimensional textures.  Songs pour into diverse structural molds, ranging from “The Plains/Bitter Dancer” suite which commences with layered vocals that sound as if they were plucked from the heights of an European cathedral ceiling and unexpectedly transitions, via flute passages into an uptempo romp, to the concise, closeup, and solitary hymnal “Blue Spotted Tail.”

Purity maintains as important a role as needle-pointed guitar motifs and immediate, wide-open production. Slight pauses, reverb baths, and ornate flourishes don’t decorate as much as flavor and reinforce existing patterns. Such detailing enhances the woody percussion and gypsy sway on “Bedouin Dress,” underscores the dips and dives in Pecknold’s vocals during “Someone You’d Admire,” and allows “Sim Sala Bim” to emerge with equal parts orchestral flair and private abandon. And it’s the latter—as experienced through Pecknold and Co.’s aspirations, hallucinations, desires, and innermost thoughts—that spikes Helplessness Blues with the mystical intensity and engaging hypnotism of a fever dream.

“All these voices I’ll someday have turned off then/And I will see you when I’ve woken/I’ll be so happy just to have spoken/I’ll have so much to tell you about it then,” Pecknold tenders towards the conclusion of “Grown Ocean,” singing like a drifter in no rush to awaken from his sleep.

Like most early blues performers, Johnson never tasted fame during his career. His most successful single, “Kind Hearted Woman Blues” b/w “Terraplane Blues,” sold upwards of 5000 copies in the late 1930s. Yet economic, social, and logistical realities prevented him from becoming a legitimate star. He performed at juke joints and often traveled, setting up on street corners and joining with contemporaries at makeshift gigs. He did manage to attract the attention of legendary record executive and talent scout John Hammond, who planned on making Johnson an anchor of the now-famous 1939 From Spirituals to Swing concert at Carnegie Hall. Johnson died months before the New York event occurred. Still, having advertised his presence, and taken with his sound, Hammond played two of the guitarist’s sides on a phonograph for the crowd.

If Johnson lacked for recognition and fortune in his brief lifetime, his posthumous luck compensated for previous sacrifices. Elmore James took Johnson’s “I Believe I’ll Dust My Broom” as his signature song in 1951, but it wasn’t until Hammond’s insistence to Columbia Records more than a decade later that the label release King of the Delta Blues Singers (a compilation of several Johnson singles) that the Mississippi native’s impact was felt on an international level. Most significantly, the release—as well as a subsequent volume—came at the time when folk, traditional jazz, and old-time blues were in favor with the mainstream on both sides of the Atlantic. Johnson’s fare soon reached the ears of young guitarists such as Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Richards, and Brian Jones. They studied his style in the same way a Rabbi memorizes the Torah. By 1966, everyone from the Rolling Stones to the Yardbirds worked Johnson’s material into their sets. The rest is academic.

Johnson’s legacy benefited again when, in 1990, at the start of the CD craze, The Complete Recordings presented his output in a two-disc box set. The Grammy-winning retrospective triggered another archival music trend that lasted for years and witnessed the likes of Bessie Smith, Bukka White, and dozens of other historically significant artists get their just due in the modern age courtesy of comprehensive packages replete with appreciative essays and revamped sound. The latter, along with the occasion of Johnson’s 100^th birthday, is cause for the latest re-packaging of Johnson’s material.

Taking the form of two editions, The Centennial Collection is the most practical of the reissues, a double-disc set that essentially duplicates 1990’s The Complete Recordings with new essays and images. Its sibling, the $349.99 The Complete Original Masters: The Centennial Collection, comes in an extravagant box with four discs, DVD, hardbound book, and 12 10” 45RPM LPs that faithfully replicate Johnson’s original singles. Neither edition contains a note of previously unreleased music by Johnson; no more is known to exist. Each version features remastered sound that noticeably improves upon that which is on the original 1990 release. Anyone that doesn’t own this music should invest in the basic set; the same recommendation goes for listeners craving superior fidelity. Fans that rarely, if ever, revisit the sonically challenged sides won’t find anything new here.

But what of the $350 version, rounded out by a disc containing 24 songs by Victor recording artists circa 1928-1932 as well as another CD comprised of ten more tunes captured the same days as Johnson’s 1936 San Antonio and 1937 Dallas sessions. The Life & Music of Robert Johnson: Can’t You Hear the Wind Howl?, a 1997 documentary, is thrown in as a bonus. But the set’s inherent appeal lies in the vintage design and physical recreation of the old 78RPM sides; the packaging mirrors that of the landmark Charley Patton Screamin’ and Hollerin’ the Blues 7CD box set released by John Fahey’s Revenant Records almost a decade ago. And this is where the motivation behind the set’s existence gets sticky.

While the Revenant set came without vinyl, it replicated each and every 78RPM sticker from Patton’s singles, included two books, boasted 128 pages of new writing about Patton, had three more discs of music, and exhaustively reproduced the 1929 advertisements for the bluesman’s singles. It also retailed for nearly $200 less than the new Johnson deluxe set and, most importantly, did for Patton in 2002 what The Complete Recordings did for Johnson in 1990: Exhaustively collected the artist’s music in one place for the first time, and provided long overdue exposure of Patton to new generations. There was an actual need for such a package, just as there was for Johnson, which was met in 1990. By no means inexpensive, given what’s included, how it’s presented, and fact that no duplicative repackaging is involved, the Revenant set isn’t overpriced, either.

But does pressing 12 10” 45RPM LPs with just one song on each side really cost that much or warrant a $350 sticker price? Keep in mind that Chicago-based archival label Numero Group is selling Syl Johnson’s superb Complete Mythology—a box loaded with 4CDs, 6LPs, and gorgeous 52-page booklet—for just $80. And given that, outside of four relatively concise essays, the Johnson box doesn’t showcase much in the way of writing, it isn’t like the liner note fees broke the bank.

Clearly, a $350 box set isn’t aimed at average music fans.  But one would hope that, with vinyl’s resurgence over the past five years, such a lavish set would at least be accessible to audiences both familiar and unfamiliar with Johnson’s music, and not dictate that they need to take out a loan to acquire a copy. Box sets are the last great vestige of physical media. Yet, in many ways, The Complete Original Masters: The Centennial Collection epitomizes what’s plagued the audiophile community for more than a decade. It offers little in terms of anything new. Its steep pricing essentially freezes out younger generations—folks that have largely driven analog’s comeback via purchases of new releases and reissues, and which religiously visit the remaining indie record stores. What’s more, some of the sales rhetoric surrounding The Complete Original Masters: The Centennial Collection smacks of the kind of smoking-jacket elitism and hypocritical mentality that not only wards off people from becoming interested in good sound and hi-fi gear, but makes them scoff. The chief offender in this instance? Acoustic Sounds, which claims it has an exclusive on the deluxe set’s distribution and sales.

“This is as close as almost all of us will get to what it would feel like—and sound like—to have a Robert Johnson original in our mitts. And guess what? With the set limited to 1,000 copies, these too are going to be as rare as hen’s teeth someday soon. So, please, do not be surprised or angry when these go out of print and we raise the price. Please accept this as a friendly warning.” The aforementioned quote (italics mine) is part of owner Chad Kassem’s sales pitch that’s currently up on the Acoustic Sounds Web site.

So, is The Complete Original Masters: The Centennial Collection about celebrating Johnson’s music and legacy? Seemingly, no. As Acoustic Sounds’ pitch transparently states, it appears that the set is mostly about money—and how much the Kansas-based company can fleece from customers by resorting to shallow tactics, i.e., the blatant threat of raising the price even higher in order to sell a limited commodity. Since when did selling new records become like hawking stocks and bonds? And how ironic is the practice in this particular case, given that part of the blues’ timeless appeal relates to its ability to speak for the working class and downtrodden. Don’t think that the average blues listener you’d encounter at Rosa’s Lounge in Chicago will be ponying up the equivalent of a monthly car payment for this set. For someone who professes such a love for the blues, Kassem doesn’t appear to understand the nature of its audience. But again, this set isn’t about the music as much as it’s about furthering a privileged mentality and using an important musician’s birthday as a guise to cash-in on fans’ desires.

This isn’t the first time Acoustic Sounds has shown how much it “cares” for music fans. The company pulled similar shenanigans in 2009. Realizing it had the last remaining copies of Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion on LP while the critically acclaimed LP was in the process getting re-pressed, Kassem and Co. doubled the price, acting like a 7-year-old kid that sticks his tongue out and chants “nah-nah-nah-nah-nah” as he eats the last lollipop in front of everyone in plain sight. Rather than use the Animal Collective situation as an opportunity to lure indie-rock lovers into perusing the audiophile world, Kassem teased them with unjustifiably high prices for a record that’s never even gone out of print. But remember, it’s all because of the company’s love of music and its customers. Right. Just like its overnight doubling and tripling of the prices on a majority of Classic Records’ back catalog last summer. Property taxes in Kansas must be higher than reported.

For anyone that truly cares about the high-end pastime transitioning into the future, and for listeners that seriously love music, the continued greed-driven race to learn just how much cash a niche audience will pay for a single title should be both disturbing and disconcerting. In the last five years, the audiophile press has repeatedly stressed the need to get younger generations involved. But, just like record and/or gear reviews in which a writer blathers on about how many albums he or she owns and brags by way of making readers feel inferior if they don’t own a certain almost-unobtainable pressing of a given title, extravagantly overpriced albums and hedge-fund sales tactics constitute the latest nose-in-the-air deterrents to investigating a leisure that already strikes a majority of the general public as a snobby, conservative old men’s club.

What’s more, such strategies remain ignorant of what remains the audio industry’s biggest problem: the fact that music is fun, enjoyable, engaging, and social. Not the stale equivalent of a Sotheby’s auction that’s open only to collectors and the well-heeled. Emphasizing exclusivity in a popular sphere, like the National Football League, is one thing; stressing and promoting it in a cottage industry already hamstrung by entitlement, restrictiveness, and closed-mindedness is a guaranteed way to prevent growth and fuel further disdain. And that’s a shame, because the joy of listening to music on a good stereo remains one of life’s great pleasures—and one, that to most people, is accessible, provided they are guided by the right channels and unbiased opinions. They’re not going to come to know it from retailers that, even before a product is released, admit that they will raise the cost to make it even more unobtainable, as if it was some piece of rare art that you should feel lucky to display in your living room. These are records, not ancient sculptures meant to be kept under glass.

“Acoustic Sounds Exclusive,” states the company’s listing for the Johnson set. Odd. Most dictionaries define “exclusive” as “restricted or limited to the person, group, or area concerned.” Funny, then, that there’s at least one other site vending the box. Acoustic Sounds also leaves unsaid plant pressing and plating information, strange given the $349 set is being advertised as an audiophile release, even though, barring a major miracle, no amount of technology or care is going to ever be able to elevate 75-year-old recordings made under less-than-superior conditions to audiophile quality. If you’re considering the purchase, consider this, to quote Acoustic Sounds, “a friendly warning.” And get the two-disc set and Patton box set instead.

Those who have been waiting for this reissue since 2006, the year a few test pressings slipped onto the market, will be rewarded the second they drop the tonearm on the opening track. It sounds scrumptious. Thanks to the almost CD-quiet backgrounds, you hear much more of Mick Fleetwood’s percussion. On “Dreams,” Lindsey Buckingham’s backing vocals have considerably more space than they do on early pressings. A smidge of tape hiss creeps into “Songbird” at the end of the second side, but that’s not a bad thing. It actually reinforces the material’s analog greatness. Moreover, Christine McVie’s voice never sounded better and, thanks to the extra grooves made possible by the 45RPM extension, possesses more delicacy than the original pressings. “Songbird” is the best example of low-level detail; the following track, and beginning of the third side, “The Chain,” offers up the best example of dynamic punch. “I Don’t Want To Know” comes a close second.

The best news? Warner Bros.’ pressing is flawless from beginning to end. This is definitely the super-sized version of Rumours: It goes beyond big sound. You can just feel this record breathe, in and out, while listening to tracks that you thought you knew like the back of your hand. Wait until you experience the new information that’s available. And the soundstage is massive. If the music doesn’t float well past your speakers’ boundaries, it’s time to go shopping for a new stereo.

So, take a trip back to 1977 when Stevie Nicks had small breasts and Buckingham sported big hair. If you’ve got a rare, early first-stamper pressing, you may not need to add this one to your collection unless you are really obsessive compulsive. But if you love Rumours (and almost everyone does) and you don’t have a flawless copy, this edition is worth every penny. A 180g 33-1/3RPM version is also available for around $25. But fairly priced at $45 for four sides, the deluxe audiophile edition is the way to go.

Note:  Steve Hoffman told us today that his version of Rumours had a “previously unrelased countdown to the beginning of the song,” which is indeed present on this version.  Mystery solved and one less rumor. Hoffman fans that want another title to add to their collection can rest assured they are getting the version they are indeed after.

I’m cringing 15 seconds into the pitch-corrected, acoustic-guitar-through-a-synthesizer effects just waiting for the vocals. Here they come: “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” meets Graceland with some Phil Collins-era Disney riffs thrown in for good measure. Wife Edie Brickell contributes background vocals, but you’d never know unless you read the almost indecipherable album notes. Come on, A Jewish guy singing about “Getting ready for Christmas Day,” going on about his nephew in Iraq? Really? Can this get any cheesier?

Not really, but this record maintains a high level of saccharine influence from start to finish. But who am I to doubt Rhymin’ Simon? Graceland sold 5 million copies in the US and another 5 million in the UK. I swore if I ever heard “Call Me Al” again I’d hurt someone, so this one goes straight to the dumpster before something bad happens.

In song, Dulli deals with lingering personal demons in the manner that professional athletes confront their most lethal opponents: Head-on and fully engaged, nerves raw and exposed, his mind solely focused on the subject at hand. Determined to do whatever it takes to prevail, he’ll pay the costs later. When his cinematic records conclude, you’re thankful for the visit albeit grateful that your soul doesn’t reside in such haunting places. But the rush and reward one gets from going there? Addicting.

More than a decade removed from playing bravado frontman for the Afghan Whigs—a peerless group that still stands apart for resisting the nostalgic reunion circuit currently courting and bedding almost every other 90s rock band—Dulli remains invested in leading the Twilight Singers while also taking time for the Gutter Twins (his side project with Mark Lanegan) and pursuits as a photographer, writer, and bar proprietor. Nearly five years in the making, Dynamite Steps checks in as the Twilight Singers’ most cohesive, diversified, dynamic, and captivating record. It’s also among Dulli’s most confessional, stark, cautionary, and savage works; no small feat for a musician who once admitted to feeling as if he was “pulling the bones out of [his] skin” onstage every night in 1993 while touring behind the Afghan Whigs opus Gentlemen.

Never at a loss for biting one-liners and penetrating storytelling, the 45-year-old enfant terrible on Dynamite Steps inhabits the roles of a malicious provocateur, tortured spirit, calculating predator, and undercover rival—identities he’s assumed before, but seldom as viciously, passionately, or authoritatively. “Born a liar, obfuscate/Step aside while I manipulate,” Dulli hisses as if embodying the scourging voice of an evil subconscious, brushing aside any hope for peaceful reconciliation on “Waves,” a heat-blistered tune whose lashing violence and distorted commotion match the threatening wordplay. Not that he’s always in control of the sinister menace or afflicting situation. “Baby pulls me even closer/Tangled like the web she weaves/Shaking off her demons/Now they’re coming after me” Dulli divulges amidst the down-home pluck of dobro strings, mournful sigh of violins, and floating vocal refrains on “Never Seen No Devil.” Throughout, Twilight Singers contrast beautiful melodies and vulgar intentions to supreme effect.

“You’ll be lied to/You will suffer/I’m gonna get you back/Wait and see,” Dulli cries in his distinctive soulful croon on “She Was Stolen,” a sanguine piano-driven ballad that doubles as a fete accompli. On the hook-laden summons “On the Corner,” he juxtaposes gospel commands with lustful declarations, instructing a target to “Spread your legs/Insert your alibi” as a Mellotron hums and guitars rattle in the background. Sent up with the singer’s falsetto, the soaring song bears resemblance to the R&B-leaning material off the Afghan Whigs’ 1995 LP Black Love and draws from the same well of sources.

As has always been one of Dulli’s trademarks, black-music strains swirl amidst highly atmospheric soundscapes inked with electronica, rock, chamber, symphonic, and psychedelic colors. Arrangements flirt with densely packed layers of sound while exhaling spare, fragile accents that augment rise-and-fall crescendos and built-in drama. Textures abound; notes practically take on a physical shape. And vocally, Dulli is in peak form. He demonstrates a poise that casts looming shadows on ominous fare such as the creeping “Get Lucky,” funk-throbbing “Last Night In Town,” and “Be Invited,” a spooked fever-dream duet with Lanegan that’s washed with uneasy vibes and murderous implications.

Filled with scourge, deception, danger, revenge, death, and sin, Dulli’s narratives are nonetheless less linear and direct than in the past. He now pens verses in a more abstract fashion, connecting words via feeling and setting, the bundling together of individual words or short phrases intensifying the degrees of intrigue, coercion, and surprise. Seldom is the approach more effective than on the title track. A widescreen epic that finds the protagonist gain the upper hand by elimination, cunning, and circumstance, it closes Dynamite Steps with the cautious optimism of a vampiric figure who’s seen and knows too much to vest blind faith in relationships or love.

By Bob Gendron

As soon as I learned what ten-digit phone number to dial—the three middle figures were “666”—I knew the call with Greg Dulli would be a doozy. Not that there was ever a doubt. Conversations with the globetrotting Twilight Singers vocalist/guitarist are always refreshingly humorous, unsparingly honest, revealingly unpredictable, and full of awakening pop-culture references.

Reached at his home in Los Angeles three weeks before the release of his group’s excellent Dynamite Steps, the provocative frontman talked about subjects ranging from photography to the Polar Bear Club to performing, songwriting, traveling, and smoking. The new Sub Pop set represents Dulli’s first new record since he co-helmed the Gutter Twins’ opus Saturnalia, and the talk was our first since we met in the summer of 2007 in New Orleans while I was working on my 33 1/3 series book Gentlemen.

B: Alright, I have to ask: Is this your personal cell phone number?

G: No, it’s my landline. My father arranged it for me. Guess who my father is?

B: Yep, I noticed the 666. Satan.

G: [Laughs] That’s my real father.

B: Talking to you already reminds me that I need to go back to the Royal Street Inn & The R Bar [Dulli’s bar/inn in New Orleans] now that you’ve got everything completed.

G: We finally finished it. Being a first-time innkeeper, the one thing that I had never seen is that with people constantly being there, they beat everything down. Just three and a half years in, we’ve already had to swap furniture because it’s constantly used. At my houses, because I live in two different towns, I get more wear out of things because I’m only home for certain amounts of time. In some of the more popular inn rooms, we’ve already swapped out coffee tables twice. I’m like, ‘What the fuck is going on in here?’ I’m not part of the cleaning crew, but I always ask: ‘What did you find?’ [Laughs]

B: And?

G: Blood, ropes, handcuffs, bindles [small envelopes used for powdered drugs], including people flat out forgetting large amounts of whatever they bought and all that stuff. God, wow. I’m glad I’ve moved past all that. I’d be following the maid: ‘What did you find? What did you find?’

B: Sounds like everything is going well.

G: Oh, it’s going great. The only sad thing is that I used to come into town, and I have a great house, but I always liked to stay in the big room—the big rock and roll room. I used to stay there for two or three days upon arrival and it would be my home vacation. But I can never stay in that room now. It’s always sold-out. I haven’t stayed in it in six months.

B: Do you still have the same house at which I visited you in New Orleans?

G: No. I moved to a much nicer house. And I didn’t really like that other one. That was my business partner’s house, and it wasn’t for me. I’m not a duplex-y guy. I don’t need to hear the fighting or the fucking going on on the other side of the wall. I’m a standalone motherfucker. [Laughs]

B: Is the new house the one portrayed in the “blue picture” that’s in the booklet of Dynamite Steps?

G: That’s my house in LA. We had a bunch of recording happen in that room. [Guitarist] Dave Rosser took that picture. Do you have a final copy of the record? I don’t have it.

B: Yes. It arrived a few days ago.

G: With the artwork and shit? Fuck man, I don’t have that! How come I don’t have that? And furthermore, [Sub Pop owner] Jonathan [Poneman] and Megan were in my fucking house yesterday. Goddammit. [Laughs] Well, I took the rest of the photos in there.

B: I’ve also taken a look at your photos on Facebook. In addition to barkeeping and innkeeping, are you furthering your pursuit of amateur photography?

G: Amateur photography and now, for the first time since I’m a teenager, I’ve begun to paint. I’m following along a long line of old farts that start painting again.

B: You mentioned you recorded several tracks for Dynamite Steps in LA. But when we talked in New Orleans, in August 2007, you were working on material in a studio there as well. Was that for Twilight Singers?

G: Yeah, maybe, but I think was still pretty deep in the Gutter Twins. I can tell you that I recorded the last songs of August 2010. That means that I must have begun in the fall of 2008. Eighteen or twenty months of songwriting, whipping things up, tossing them away. Two of the songs were at one point ditched because I couldn’t unlock what needed to be unlocked on the songs. I brought them to a certain point and just got frustrated and quit. It was always a person who had heard the song and said, ‘Dude, what happened to “Get Lucky?”’ And I said, ‘“Get Lucky.” I got frustrated with “Get Lucky.”’ And they’d say, ‘You should go back to it. That was a good one.’ And then I’d go back. “Get Lucky” sat around for six months unfinished, because I didn’t know how to finish it. It was someone else’s enthusiasm for the song that made me want to complete it. “Last Night In Town” was the same kind of thing. I couldn’t figure out how to finish that one either. There was a chorus of people who were all over that one. So I had to really grind on those two. Certain songs were really easy and written in a day. Like “Never Seen No Devil.” “She Was Stolen” was written in an afternoon. Certain songs write themselves and they’re ready to go. They are as is; some songs you have to sweat for a little bit.

B: Dynamite Steps has that trademark Greg Dulli atmospheric feel. And there’s a nasty streak running through some of the material that evokes your famously provocative personality. Does any of the vengeance relate to circumstances that were happening in your life?

G: [Pauses] Anything kind of vitriolic, it had a target. Once I completed it, I called it even with the target. [Laughs] That said, there are parts of this record in particular that I think are optimistic and even transcendent. But I had a couple of things to work out. And I worked them out. And I will repeat that I’m going to call it square with the targets now.

B: You mention transcendence. Some of the music, especially the scope and sweep of the symphonic arrangements, sounds like you recorded the album to be played back on a big film screen in a movie theater. Was this intentional?

G: Yes. It also helps that I had great musicians. Amy Farris came in to play violin and cello; Petra Haden played violin. I have timpani and strings, because upon hearing it, I decided some songs needed strings. Some of the music just builds and builds. And Dave Rosser is fucking great on guitar. He’s one of my favorite musicians I’ve ever worked with.

B: The sequencing also seems deliberate. Dynamite Steps sounds like it’s meant to be heard from start to finish.

G: Yeah, I designed it that way. But I also kept playing with the song order. It’s not meant as a story, but the songs have a flow, beginning with the slow entrance of “Last Night In Town” and finishing with the grandness of “Dynamite Steps.”

B: Given the theatrical trajectory, are you considering playing the entire record live?

G: I don’t know yet. I’m thinking about it. But I’m actually really excited about all of the other stuff I get to play. We’ve got five albums now, and there are a lot of songs I haven’t played in nearly five years. I went on tour with the Gutter Twins in 2008 and 2009. And I just finished my solo tour. So I’m ready to go back to Twilight Singers material. Besides, I haven’t played with a full band in more than two years. It was just Lanegan and I in 2009. Playing with him really taught me a lot about singing, and how to blend voices.

B: Did you learn anything new from playing the acoustic solo tour last fall?

G: To be honest with you, man, I never thought I’d want to do anything like that. For years, people kept telling me I should do it, and I’m like, ‘No, that isn’t for me.’ But it ended up being great. Still, I never would want to go up there [onstage] alone. [Rosser and multi-instrumentalist Rick Nelson joined Dulli.] And it was great to play those shows with [former Afghan Whigs bassist] John Curley. And you know, I didn’t play anywhere big, but we sold-out the whole tour.

B: Anything happen that surprised you?

G: I played “Let Me Lie To You” on a couple of dates, and the first time I did it, I started thinking that I wrote that like, what, when I was only 26 years old? And I’m like, ‘this is a really good song.’ So it was cool to realize that the material held up well.

B: Compared to 1992, your voice still sounds tremendous and unaffected by age. Your falsetto and range on Dynamite Steps are as good as they’ve ever been. Are you doing anything to keep your voice in shape?

G: I quit smoking a few years ago.

B: I heard you quit because you got to smoke in an elevator and didn’t think you could ever top that.

G: Yeah, I was in Turkey. Everybody smokes there. There’s a reason cigarette packages say “Turkish Blend.” And I’m in an elevator. And they fucking have ashtrays in the elevator. I’m like, ‘Man, I reached the peak of smoking.’ What more could I do?

B: So you’re feeling the benefits of quitting?

G: Oh yeah. All the time. I feel it when I go up the steps. And when I sing. But there are times that I really miss it. Sometimes I’ll see someone with a cigarette and it’s like seeing your ex-girlfriend with another guy. And when I’m having a drink. They go hand in hand. People think I quit drinking, too. I’ve read a few times where people said, ‘Oh, I saw him with a drink.’ And they’re shocked. I haven’t quit. If I quit, I’d sell the bars [Dulli owns three bars]. What would be the point of having them?

B: Speaking of drinking, since your prototypical onstage persona involved smoking, boozing, and a debonair stance, are you enjoying Mad Men?

G: You know what? I have watched only one episode but I can tell you this: Whenever I do bus tours, that’s when I stockpile those shows. I watched four seasons of Lost and all five seasons of The Wire on the Gutter Twins tour. Which is great for me because of my television-watching habits. The only shows that I’m hooked on right now, and that I wait for from week to week, are Breaking Bad—a masterpiece of a show—and Bored to Death on HBO. I think it’s amazing; Ted Danson in particular is fucking hilarious. Eastbound and Down, I like it, but I want to like it more. The shows I’m going to watch on the upcoming tour are Mad Men, Deadwood, and my friend Donal [Logue]’s show that got cancelled, Terriers.

B: I haven’t seen Terriers but I’ve heard it’s excellent.

G: Donal is my old roommate and one of my best friends of all time. I remember when he told me the name of the show. And he asked me what I thought. And I said, ‘Well, as long as you don’t mind alienating the 18- to 50-year-old fan base that you’re going to alienate with that title, you should be fine.’ The advertising they did for it told you nothing about what the show was about. I watched the first episode and it was great. The performances were great, Donal was great, the other dude was great. But the creator could not be swayed on the title. It’s what happens when you call something a weird name. Trust me: Afghan Whigs, if I had that one to do all over again, I would have. But that’s [former Afghan Whigs bassist] John Curley. That’s not mine. I had Twilight Singers and then that fucking vampire bitch came along. What could I do? Gun in my mouth. [Laughs]

B: Regarding the Whigs, I just want to say congratulations for spurning the 90s alt-rock nostalgia reunion wave that’s claimed almost every other period band. Thank you.

G: You’re welcome. You can thank Bob Mould [Husker Du], Paul Westerberg [Replacements], and the late Joe Strummer, too.

B: Rather than spend your time on a reunion jaunt, you spoke to me last time about wanting to eventually hang out in and play at a piano bar in Hawaii. Is that still the plan?

G: I sort of still have visions on it. But now I’m kind of digging the Mexican coast. I’ve been frequently hanging out on the West coast of Mexico on the beach. That is ripe for the get-down down there too. One way or the other, I’ll be an old beach dude.

B: Your houses, bars, and the inn are in warm weather cities.

G: I don’t like cold weather. Our record comes out February 15, and they’re like, alright, you’re going on tour then. And I’m like, ‘In South America?’ And they’re like, ‘No, Europe.’ And I said, ‘Fuck that, man. Hell no.’ I’ll go in March. And that’ll be bad enough. It’s cold, but at least I’ll get to wear some of my good clothes, which I never get to wear. But February? I cannot do that. I have to stay in my zones. Norway is not one of my February zones. But I tell you what. I am masochistic enough to Polar Bear Club. If I was around, and it was going down, I bet you I’d do it. They used to do it in the Ohio River on New Year’s Day in Cincinnati. But they did it on January 1st at 9 in the morning, and I would’ve just passed out an hour before that. I don’t know if they would’ve wanted to pull my corpse out of the water after it having gone into shock from all the booze that was in me the night before. [Former Minutemen leader and current Stooges bassist] Mike Watt does it every year in San Pedro. I’m on his email list. He was in Japan this last New Year’s and regretted that he could not show his Polar Bear Club shirt. But I’m like, ‘Dude, you Polar Beared in California. Why don’t you Polar Bear in Minnesota?’ They do Polar Bear Club in International Falls. That’s the coldest place in America. And that’s where if you leave your car there all year and it still starts, hell yeah! Remember that battery commercial that used to be on TV in the old days? When they showed pictures of the battery, I was like, ‘I’m going to get that brand for my car.’

B: So you’re not going to recreate the White Stripes’ tour of outpost Canadian towns?

G: Dude, I don’t think we’re playing Canada, period. [Laughs] Canada makes it a big-ass hassle to get there. They want to go through your shit and ask you a bunch of questions. And I’m like, ‘What the fuck? We’re your neighbors. Let me in. Run my fingerprints. I’m fine. I’m not taking my pants off for you. N. O.’ Mexico doesn’t make me take my pants down, you know? Canada is just kind of a hassle. Until they drop the hassle, I’m going to pass. I like Canada. Once you’re in, it’s great. Toronto? Beautiful. Montreal? Beautiful. Calgary? Beautiful. Ottawa is pretty good too. But it’s getting in there that’s the bummer. I’ll put it to you this way: I’m going to cruise around Europe, 16 countries, and where they used to have checkpoints back in the old days, it still wasn’t that big of a hassle. Except for France, who are total bitches. Now, I’m going from Belgium into Holland, Holland into Germany, Germany into Denmark, they’re not fucking Canada-ing me. Here’s the deal: I will give you my passport, I will you give you my fingerprints, you can do a fucking retina scan. I don’t give a fuck. I did nothing wrong. Either let me in or I just won’t be in to coming back here.

B: Last question. In Chicago, you played at Metro with the Gutter Twins and went onstage at around 1:30am. Then you returned and played in the afternoon daylight at Lollapalooza. An enormous contrast. Seems that meeting in the middle would be best.

G: To be honest with you, if you play at 1am in New Orleans, that’s normal. If you play at 1am in Madrid, that’s normal too. You play 1am anywhere else, and it’s a bummer for people, even if it’s a weekend. Especially if it’s on a Friday night. People that come to your gig had to be at work at 8:30 or 9am. They’ve been up since 6:30am. And unless you’re jacking yourself full of Red Bull or unmentionables, fuck that. 11 o’clock is time to rock. And I even like 10 o’clock. I even like 9pm. It’s just got to be dark out. 1 o’clock in the morning is New Orleans or Madrid, the two places you can pull that off. Because the Spanish love it really late; they’re just getting going then. And in New Orleans you take naps, probably against your will. You know what? I have never been into super-late shows. Whenever I see it, I’m like ‘fuck, really?’ It happened with Twilight Singers in Chicago in the wintertime, so it’s freezing outside. People are waiting in line and they’re tired and cold. That doesn’t make for a good time, so fuck that. And I tell you what: We’re very excited about the particular show that we’re going to be playing. It will be a triumphant evening.

On many levels, Driftwood is a quantum leap from her first record. Bluhm’s clear tone is now front and center, with a rich, ballsy tone that puts her in the same league as Linda Ronstadt’s best. And much like Ronstadt at her peak, the record is tastefully crafted, featuring a smooth, seductive mix that just floats between your speakers. While Bluhm could very well become the next big thing, this record could easily become an audiophile classic as well. A big thanks goes to Dave Simon-Baker from Mission Bells studio in San Francisco. Bluhm told me that they recorded on a “very special reel to reel deck that was given to the studio by Bob Weir.” While not in stone just yet, Bluhm hinted that Driftwood might just be available on vinyl soon.

Driftwood has a wide range of different song styles, going easily from an AOR sound to a bluesy feel, and a substantial helping of all out country. Bluhm admits that she loves Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton, “you know the strong female voices.” She shares their sense of independence as well. On “Jetplane” she cautions “If you want my love tomorrow/you better give it up today/cause I ain’t makin any plans anymore/and I don’t know how long I’ll stay.”

When explaining the wider range of styles on the new record, she gives a fair amount of credit to husband Tim Bluhm and Daren Ney, who all have different musical perspectives. “It really helps to have three songwriters in the band.” On repeated listening, you’ll swear that you’re picking up on other styles too, but Bluhm blends them craftily, borrowing and paying homage, but never stealing. That’s her gift.

The record begins with “Carousel”, slightly melancholy, yet warm and inviting, where Bluhm reflects on an early relationship and the possibility of becoming entangled again when she sings, “When you came back, I only asked that you not turn my world around again.” The next tune, “Before You Loved Me” starts out dreamy as the first, but gets a heavy dose of grit half way through as Bluhm belts out the main chorus before slowing it down again.

The next few tracks take a definite turn for the twangy, to great result, sharing the mike with husband Tim. Bluhm admits that a good portion of the songs are about her, but she does try to write some songs from another person’s perspective as well. “Women’s Prison” isn’t about me though, she laughs. “It started out as part of a songwriting workshop I attended in Yosemite last summer. Looking out from a friend’s house, I could see the woman’s prison.”

And much like the great records from the 70′s, every track on this disc is strong-the level of playing is first rate from start to finish, with a lot of space and air complementing the players. A welcome change in today’s world of the loudness war. Driftwood hits the record store today and while it is also available on Amazon, iTunes and a few other download services, it would be a shame to only hear it as a low resolution file. This is a record that you will truly enjoy on a great hifi system.

Music lover and audiophile alike, I’ll bet you have more than one copy of this record, but here’s a few reasons for buying THIS version.

First, it’s pressed on blue vinyl, which is coolio in its own right.  Also included is a two CD set that includes the album in its entirety along with some previously unauthorized tunes and a DVD featuring a documentary about the making of this jazz classic.  If that weren’t enough, there is a wonderful book about Miles inside, along with some very nice photos and Miles’ personal notes of the recording session.

The recording quality is decent, but hardcore collectors will have a better version somewhere in their collection, but that’s not why you should have one of these on your record shelf.  The 50th anniversary box is a great presentation of the most famous jazz record in history, so you need one!

Even though these LPs spin at 33 1/3RPM, they sound fantastic—proving that a great-sounding record can be produced on one slab of vinyl, if done with care. Seven of the nine tracks on the extra LP are previously unreleased, including “Nowhere,” recently found by Petty engineer Ryan Ulate, who performs engineering duties on most of the bonus material.

Most notably, Damn the Torpedoes reveals new dimensions on ORG’s vinyl set. Where the original LP sounds relatively flat and compressed, this pressing spreads the Heartbreakers out across your room, with every instrument having its own distinct space. Drums are fleshed out quite a bit more, with better textures and a large dose of decay absent on the original. Regardless of what version you choose, the second you cue up “Refugee,” you’ll hear an extra bass grunt that gives the record a weightier presentation.

If you’re not an analog enthusiast, the 24/96 files lose precious little, if any, of the LP magic. Whereas the vinyl boasts a slight edge in midrange warmth, if you have a great digital front end, you’ll be hard pressed to tell the difference. And, depending on your system’s overall tonal balance, you may even prefer the digital edition.

Interestingly, Mobile Fidelity’s 24K Gold CD, released in the 90s, still holds up well, with the slight advantage going to the 24/96 files in terms of overall clarity. Considering that a sealed MoFi copy regularly sells for between $125-150 (and features no bonus tracks), getting two LPs and the high-res files is definitely the best value.

It’s always exciting to hear a rock record sound this good. With so many faux-audiophile labels springing up, the masters still are still at the head of the class.

Click here to purchase the HD Tracks 24/96 files

Wild Things is more accessible than Mitchell’s last two records, (Hejira and Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter), with shorter songs featuring some catchy hooks including her remake of the Elvis tune, “(You’re So Square) Baby I don’t Care.” However this record only made it to 25 on the Billboard chart in 1982.

Brief history lesson aside, if you like this record, click the link above the album cover and buy it right now. It is superior to the original pressing in every way. Early Geffen releases have never been known to be sonic masterpieces and the original pressing is no different, it’s relatively flat, two dimensional and bright. You could easily mistake this one for a CD. Pressed at Pallas on a pair of 45rpm discs, the ORG version, mastered by Bernie Grundman (who also performed mastering duties on Hejira as well as Mitchell’s most commercially successful release, Court and Spark) is positively brilliant. ORG has made a reputation for vinyl excellence, but this could be their finest achievement yet.

In the original, where Mitchell’s voice often disappears in the mix, she’s now out front and center, with a creaminess that I’ve never experienced before. There’s just more space everywhere; more bass weight and a huge soundstage in all three dimensions. All of the harshness in the original is gone. The additional space in the recording now lets you really hear the genius in the arrangements; if you thought you knew this record before, you are in for a number of sonic treats upon listening to the ORG pressing. They did it right, even at 45 rpm, the grooves only go half way into the vinyl surface, so there will be no worries of inner groove distortion on this record! Should you decide to perform your own quick comparison, be prepared for a transformation.

So, if this is one of your favorite Joni records, you owe it to yourself to purchase this one, it’s pure sonic perfection.

Ever since signing to Rick Rubin’s Def American Records in 1986, Slayer has proven an exception to the unwritten rule that metal bands’ albums automatically sound inferior. While Metallica, Testament, and Megadeth—not to mention lesser-known thrash groups such as Nuclear Assault and Exodus—had to wait until later in their careers to get well-produced records, Rubin gave Slayer the treatment on 1986′s landmark Reign In Blood and never looked back. Ever since, the bearded producer has been involved on all but one Slayer album as producer or executive producer; whether planned, fortuitous, or both, the upshot of his participation has never loomed larger than it does on The Vinyl Conflict. Collecting nine Slayer studio efforts (spanning Reign In Blood through last year’s brutal World Painted Blood) well as 1991′s double live album Decade of Aggression, all made for American, The Vinyl Conflict takes its unique place as the hands-down best-sounding metal package ever produced.

Mastered from the original analog master tapes and pressed on 180g LP at RTI, these records are frighteningly good, possessing the kind of air, dimensions, dynamics, details, and imaging normally expected of a high-end classic Blue Note jazz pressing. Sparing no expense, lacquers were cut and re-cut several times to ensure the highest-possible sonic excellence. The meticulous quality control has paid immense dividends. Placed in the context of their metal genre and recording eras, there is no available comparison to how lively, realistic, open, and balanced these LPs sound. And since Warner Bros. had to fight through shoddy original production on the first four original Metallica albums (not a problem in Slayer’s case, much thanks to Rubin), not even WB’s otherwise excellent 45RPM remastered editions of Kill ‘Em All, Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets, or …And Justice for All touch the breathtaking pace, sound staging, separation, and impact achieved here. (Rhino’s analog remasters of Pantera’s essential studio efforts, reviewed in TONE 29, are the nearest contenders.) There’s not a metal band more deserving of the honor. With the exception of the punk detour covers album Undisputed Attitude and slightly experimental Divine Intervention, Slayer has persisted as a model of consistency while continuing to both push limits and take innovative approaches.

Moreover, eight of the records in this set, housed in a slipcase, have been out of print for years; some, for decades. In one feel swoop, generations too young or then without turntables can now realize the unrelenting riffs, immersive tempos, and head-spinning rhythmic architectures that, even on the CD remasters, never delivered the massive level of disarming gut-punch and severing slam present on these LPs. The degrees of instrumental isolation and textural colors astound; these sound like completely new albeit familiar records. In particular, Dave Lombardo’s inhuman drumming has, almost impossibly, become more astonishing by virtue of the fact that his precise timing, double-bass beats, and blistering speeds are that much more apparent and visible. Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman’s guitars come on like marching armies, the grinding textures and fanatic momentum split evenly between the left and right channels, with solos often hovering near the center. And Tom Araya’s vocals are nearly three-dimensional, with previously unheard echoes and howls carrying and decaying across an extra-wide field. The amount of newly uncovered information is staggering.

What’s been unburied (and/or filtered) from the original, more congested mix is a testament to Rubin’s understanding of the quartet’s strengths and structures, and how they can be expressed in the most riveting manner. To be certain, Slayer isn’t for everyone. Audiophiles that prefer to hone in on Norah Jones’ tongue smacking against the roof of her mouth rather than feeling the unsettling, invigorating, and visceral music of one of the five best, most virtuosic, and socially relevant bands to emerge in the last three decades are welcome to their soulless porn. But for those that seriously want to rock and experience what’s possible across the dynamic spectrum via decibel-pounding, surface-quiet, amazingly produced LPs that bring to life several of the greatest metal records ever made in a way that places Slayer on a stage feet away from where you sit—a thrill as exhilarating as any in audio—The Vinyl Conflict is a godsend.

Featuring Young just playing guitar and singing, Le Noise is a record that changes how music can be presented and heard. Originally intended as an acoustic solo effort, it evolved into a grand, epic-sounding work made in a style that Young has dubbed “folk-metal” due to producer Daniel Lanois’ stunning sonic treatments. Recorded live with no overdubs and no outside band assistance at Lanois’ Silver Lake home, the album is like nothing else in Young’s catalog—or that of contemporary music.

How Lanois got such terrific sounds, and what he did with the guitar, is part of the genius. He initially outfitted an acoustic model with a pickup that imitates the human voice and loops it through the song, manipulated the two low strings to give them heavier bass presence, and plugged it into a tremolo amplifier. A hollow-body electric guitar, used on six of the eight tunes, got fed through two amplifiers—one clean and one dirtied with tremolo, the dynamic contrasts paralleling Le Noise’s striking juxtapositions of intimacy and enormity, calm and turbulence.

Chords are augmented, magnified, echoed, stretched, thickened, stripped; arrangements unpredictably build, decay, and disintegrate, with some of the random pieces then reassembling into different shapes that collect like iron shavings on a moving magnet. Individual notes break off from parent structures, occasionally taking the form of jagged chards, other times doubling as the clink of a piano or stop of an organ. Riffs seem as if they’ve been filtered through a multitude of distortion devices, choral pedals, sustain gadgets, and delay boxes. An entrenched sense of melody and rhythm allows the songs to hold their shape, and Young’s singing is as clear, attentive, and passionate as it’s been in years. Straightforward and direct, the songwriting is equally superb.

Dealing with tremendous loss—two of Young’s longtime collaborators, L.A. Johnson and Ben Keith, passed away within the past year, and Lanois almost died in a motorcycle crash last June—Young addresses mourning, love, politics, conflict, redemption, and the environment (all hallmark themes) in penetratingly honest lyrics that appear less interested in concrete answers than arriving at certain understanding and finding peace of mind. Several songs take on a decidedly autobiographical bent.

“The Hitchhiker” chronicles Young’s life journey, touching on his geographical bases, drug use phases, and marriages before concluding with the 64-year-old hauntingly confessing “I don’t know how I’m standing here/Living in my life.” On the affecting hymn “Love and War,” one of two acoustic tracks, Young again invokes mistakes of his past while punching the song through with forthright emotion and terrifying sincerity. It’s a concise gem, the simple words teeming with poignant meaning and heartbreaking tenderness. “I said a lot of things that I can’t take back/But I don’t really know if I want to,” Young contemplates, his intimate voice aching with a chilling mix of soulful fear and deferred relief. Pain and trepidation are also present on “Peaceful Valley Boulevard,” a socially conscious reflection that the singer delivers with lullaby softness. Asking a host of refined questions and making salient observations, the song distills many of Young’s longtime favorite subjects into a quiet anthem for the ages that ends with a stark scenario: “A child was born and wondered why.”

On its own, Young’s material would prove engaging if experienced in normal folk settings. Yet it’s the new language of Lanois’ rich soundscapes that elevate it to thrilling levels. Rhythmic blocks reverberate as if emanating from a massive hall located in some enormous European palace. Young strums, swipes, and strikes at guitar strings that snap, crackle, moan, howl, hiss, and rumble. Provided enhanced definition and dimension, the noises waft and carry, disappear and reappear. Covering a vast tonal spectrum, the music often feels like a series of alternately choppy and even waves, ebbing and flowing, monumental in size and impression. And so the ragged glory bite of the saw-toothed guitar patterns during “It’s An Angry World” and oncoming thunder of the chunky chords on “Walk With Me” sound titanic—all the better to share space with Young’s booming, from-the-heavens vocals. What an album.

Reprise’s 180g LP possesses depth and width that defy limits. The louder the record is played, the more extraordinary Young and Lanois’ work becomes. The lifelike nature of the acoustic properties, myriad frequencies, and surreal tonalities is eclipsed only by the imaging. It often seems that Young—just as he’s pictured on the album’s cover—is that short of a distance away from the speakers.

Around his rich assembly of characters and creations, the singer/guitarist/organist constructs outlandish tales of mayhem and mercy, desperate pleas for love and deliverance, possessive threats of desire and destruction. And around these, his simpatico cohorts in Grinderman—the rambunctious quartet comprised of Cave and three of his mates from the Bad Seeds, which initially assaulted senses in 2007 with its self-titled, distortion-raining debut—wrap voodoo storms of pounding rhythm, random noise, and undulating melody in seemingly free-form albeit sophisticated manners that extend the wild, severely neglected traditions established by musical personalities such as Howlin’ Wolf, Captain Beefheart, and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. Hysterical, humorous, volatile, surprising, and liberating, Grinderman 2 epitomizes what rock and roll should be but seldom is—a Wild West of ideas, sounds, sex, menace, rawness, and fun.

Picking up where the band’s initial offering left off, the sophomore effort claims improved songwriting, looser structures, and greater diversity—a trifecta of accomplishments that rarely come together. Multi-instrumentalist Warren Ellis, bassist Martyn Casey, and percussionist Jim Sclavunos respond to Cave’s narrative sprees with a lavish spread of mangled effects, chords, beats, and grooves. Guitars double as meat grinders, clogged drains, ray-gun lasers, and rusty radiators. Ellis’ Mandocaster, flute, bouzouki, and violin create chamber havoc, his scratches, plucks, drones, and ploinks contributing to a new sonic vocabulary. Casey’s tractor-pulling bass contributes resistance and foundation, stringing up innocent victims while allowing plenty of room for spontaneous interaction and come-what-may peril. Sclavunos takes a jazzy approach to his trapkit, refusing to abide by any rule and playing by feeling rather than following a given beat. Songs resound with post-punk bite, bluesy bluster, unbuttoned looseness, and wailing intensity.

Better still is Cave’s way with words—and unchecked libido. He seizes every opportunity to tease out phrasings, howling and moaning vowels and consonants, stretching out as if he’s become a rabid animal inspired by the glow of a full moon. He brings persuasive glee and mercurial personality to his murderer’s row of devilish protagonists, welcoming the madness, yearning, and lust with an assortment of voices. He shivers on the intimate, minimalist “What I Know,” capturing uncertainty with scary intent. He’s a demon shouter on “Evil,” on which children are tossed into a heap. And he’s a mercenary on “Bellringer Blues,” an intoxicating psychedelic romp rooted in Eastern modalism and backward loops.
However, nothing bests the singer when his mind focuses on the opposite sex. Females in Cave’s songs are often powerful, emasculating, mysterious, attractive—qualities that prove irresistible. He’s in love with a lightning-cracking snake charmer on the eerie, rumbling, sex-driving “Worm Tamer,” and not surprisingly, the narrative’s femme fatale serpent wrangler is immune to his boasts. The girl in the creeping “Heathen Child” plays with guns, powder, and poison while sucking on her thumb in the bathtub; Cave cautions that no form of protection works against her spell. More pistols, pistols, and guns greet “When My Baby Comes,” which features Cave in full-on crooner mode, completely conscious that he’s about to lose his object of affection at any moment. “Kitchenette” is the most twisted courtship song since Elvis Costello’s “I Want You,” replete with sleeping executioners, Oprah on the plasma television, and a prowling-by-the-back-door Cave throttling the protagonist’s husband while sending the kids down the street. “It’s getting hard to get my act together,” he says, almost as an aside, attempting to maintain the fragile balance between suitor and solicitor. He’s a man on a mission, and Grinderman’s conviction makes plain that these songs aren’t intended as novelty items in spite of the inherent humor.

Just to be sure, Grinderman delivers “Palaces of Montezuma,” a devotional soul song flush with serious romance—and impossible promises. “A custard-colored super dream of Ali McGraw and Steve McQueen?” “The spinal cord of JFK wrapped in Marilyn Monroe’s negligee?” Along with shots of blasphemous energy, mushroom clouds of nasty garage rock and noise-drenched funk, and deranged art-punk, Cave and Co. give it you all in spades. Get it on

As for the actual band responsible for the joy, it’s loaded, with former longtime Emmylou Harris lead guitarist and solo artist Buddy Miller, multi-instrumentalist Darrell Scott, bassist Byron House, and percussionist Marco Giovino cultivating colorful acoustic and electric swatches. Co-producing with Miller, Plant washes the 12-song set in rich, salty baths of texture, timbre, tone, and atmosphere. Sonics, feel, and space play as much a part of the experience as the arrangements. And while the psychedelia-treated roots material here is more thrilling than the cosmic country and gypsy soul that peppered 2007’s Raising Sand—Plant’s intriguing albeit drowsy, polished collaboration with Alison Krauss—he could still afford to step out of the box with more curiosity and courage.

That’s exactly what he does on the two standout tracks, “Silver Rider” and “Monkey,” each originally recorded by the husband-and-wife indie band Low. Dark, moody, murky, and mysterious, the renditions are pregnant with danger and suspense. On both, guest vocalist Patty Griffin doesn’t harmonize with Plant (as Krauss did) but instead functions as a looming shadow that creeps across the horizon. The mystic songs take us into a rural Midwestern landscape at dusk, where otherwise innocent images of farms, hills, and backroads give way to potential bloodshed and desolation. Miller and company add to this ethereal vibe, their notes soaked in shivering reverb on “Silver Rider” and pent-up with muffled violence on the surreal “Monkey.” David Lynch, your next soundtrack is ready.

Plant’s reverent, patient-to-midtempo treatments of folk-rock (Richard Thompson’s “House of Cards”), traditional country (“Satan Your Kingdom Must Come Down”), and throwback pop (“You Can’t Buy Me Love,” which shares plenty in common with several blues-based originals on Tom Petty’s recent Mojo) are respectable if standard affairs, distinguished only by the familiarity of that voice. Plant’s singing remains a trumpet knowing of secret chords, capable of delicate finesse and unexpected bursts of brassiness. But there’s little here that listeners haven’t heard Plant tackle before. Absent is the imaginative manner in which he challenged himself by exploring African music, desert modalism, and Malian rock on 2005’s extraordinary Mighty Rearranger. Yes, Plant sounds more authentic than most contemporary artists in capturing the essence of mountain bluegrass during “Cindy, I’ll Marry You Someday” (shades of Led Zeppelin III) and shapes Los Lobos’ “Angel Dance” into a nimble rumba courtesy of a prancing, Middle Eastern-inspired mandolin line. Similarly, he’s utterly convincing stepping into the role of a love-struck crooner on the sweet, swooning “Falling In Love Again,” a country-soul torch delight that could come right out of 1963.

Band of Joy possesses expert musicianship and scintillating sonics that frame each song with stripped-down scenery and vintage, organic vibes. One only wishes Plant brought the same sense of adventurousness and intrigue to more of the songs. There’s already enough music out there to lull listeners to bed. Besides, Plant’s always been better when he stays out all night.

Staples’ fortunes are forecast to change with the highly anticipated You Are Not Alone. Produced by Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, it’s the record that many predict—or at least wish—will bring her wider acclaim and serve as a commercial breakout. Having dazzled audiences in August at Lollapalooza, at which Tweedy joined her onstage, all indications suggested that the former leader singer for gospel’s legendary Staples Singers had, at the age of 71, finally created a defining solo statement that would carry her for years to come.

There’s only one problem. While there’s nothing egregious about You Are Not Alone, it’s not the album it could—or should—have been. Yes, all of Staples’ trademark vocal and stylistic personas are present. There are gospel rave-ups that float on heaven-bound clouds of rejoining voices and flanged guitar (“Don’t Knock,” “Downward Road”). Hand-clapping soul stirrers (a hopping cover of Rev. Gary Davis’ “I Belong to the Band—Hallelujah”). Aching, wounded-soul balladry (a cover of Randy Newman’s “Losing You”). Swampy shuffles (the Allen Toussaint-penned “Last Train”) and upwelling folk-rock (an engaging take on John Fogerty’s “Wrote A Song For Everyone”). Tweedy’s pair of originals split the difference, with the sleepy title track falling short and the blues-punctured melody of “Only the Lord Knows” triumphing over a few bland lyrics. Keen listeners will note the latter tune’s parallels to Wilco’s recent work, as well as the tameness of “In Christ There Is No East or West,” a forgiveness-preaching traditional tethered to Wilco member Pat Sansone’s twilight keyboard notes. And it’s the Wilco angle that might be the source of the problem.

While clean, reverberant, and organic, the record lacks edge and risk. Seeming more and more like he’s permanently settled into “dad rock” mode, Tweedy plays it safe with the arrangements and stellar backing band, ostensibly repeating moves Staples executed in the past. There’s plenty of salvation and spirituality but a glaring shortage of fire and brimstone. For all intents and purposes, the approach yields solid results. Still, a proverbial “great record” this is not. And that’s a shame.
What’s most overt is that the well-intentioned, 13-track set fails to capture the transcendent dynamic present at a Staples concert. She is an irrepressible woman who can make an atheist believe, uplift the most depressed soul, and move an audience to tears. Staples possesses a raw power that isn’t dissimilar to that referenced by the Iggy Pop and Stooges song of the same name. And it’s not for lack of preparation; Tweedy knows his subject and did his homework. You Are Not Alone is a communion of two like-minded souls. However, he somehow forgot to pour Staples’ essential live components into the music and shape a record that claims a similar energy, urgency, and feel.

Lord knows that Staples still has the drive, intensity, and voice to create a studio album on par with her enormous talents. You Are Not Alone is satisfying. But you’re going to want it to be absorbing. And, because of that deficiency, listeners—and, indirectly, Staples—are left wanting.

What hasn’t changed is Diaz-Reixa’s ability to craft songs that have it both ways. His summery tunes seem capable of igniting a tropical dance party as easily as they’re able to function as cutting-edge, laidback music designed for kicking back. And as infectious as the African, Caribbean, Brazilian, South Asian, and European blend of lightly swinging grooves and percussive effects on colorful songs such as “Soca Del Eclipse,” “Bombay,” and “FM Tan Sexy” may be, what’s equally intriguing is how Diaz-Reixa arrived at their creation and piece-by-piece assembly.

Seeking to recapture the sounds of Spanish pop he heard on the radio 25 years ago, El Guincho undertook a full-scale investigation into recording studios and engineers. He devoured biographies of top-name producers, yearning for insight into techniques as well as nuggets of inspiration. Hence, the lush, wide-open canvases of Pop Negro pay homage to sonic alchemists such as Tony Visconti, Nile Rogers, Quincy Jones, Marcus Miller, and Paco Trinidad, spilling over with dynamic instrumentation equally suited for small, sweaty clubs and gigantic outdoor festival settings. El Guincho doesn’t employ drums, for instance, to simply maintain a beat but provide atmosphere, echo, and texture. And while he still draws from many corners of the world map, the blends come off as if they inherently belong together, the calypso pulses effortlessly pairing with mainstream pop chants and celebratory Spanish-language gloss.

Think of the tropicalia-drenched Pop Negro as the equivalent of the Arcade Fire’s groundbreaking, interactive video for “We Used to Wait,” wherein new windows of sound appear amidst a larger framework, coming and going, much as if myriad radio wavelengths scrambled together simultaneously and all combined to yield a single exotic frequency.

A cool, refreshing, gleeful experience. All that’s missing is the rum and palm tree.

Years of touring has made Porcupine Tree very accomplished in the live realm, producing a show the old fashioned way – working for every bit of it. And they have been rewarded with a very loyal, passionate fan base.

The quality of this recording is outstanding, succeeding at capturing the essence of the live feel. Very rich and full on, when the band let rip as on the opening track, “Fear of a Blank Planet” , it is an assault on the senses that takes me back to the two gigs I saw on this tour in London and Sydney. This hi-res recording takes you as close to a live Porcupine Tree experience as it is possible to get without actually being there.

While this recording is an excellent place to start if you are new to the band, with a setlist focusing mainly on their recent albums. They cover most of the Blank Planet album, as well as tracks from Deadwing, In Ansentia and the Nil Recurring EP. Legacy fans will appreciate that this recording is unique, containing the first live release of the track, “A Smart Kid.”

Finally, there is another good reason to own this recording as all profits from the release of this download go to the Teenage Cancer Trust so as well as a good listen, your money is going to a very good cause!

Bob Dylan’s “What Good am I” is the first track, with Jones singing over a pounding bass drum with a delicacy that might surprise fans used to his high octane crooning.  You have to wait long though, the second track, “Lord Help The Poor and Needy” features the signature pipes at full volume, with a healthy dose of twangy guitar from producer Ethan Johns (Kings of Leon) cranked up to the same level, could be the most kick ass track on the record.

But it’s all good.  No, it’s all great.  Recorded at Peter Gabriel’s Real World Studios, this disc is full of texture from start to finish, much like Johnny Cash’s first in the American Recordings series. The recording is fantastic, with such a big soundstage that Jones big voice envelopes the room. So far, there are no plans for a vinyl or high resolution digital release, but this record begs for it. The delicacy on “Nobody’s Fault But Mine,” is reminiscent of Johnny Cash’s “Delia.”

The ease by which Tom Jones is able to switch gears from album to album is a testament to his musical diversity and his ability to continue to attract top notch musicians and production talent proves his greatness.  The only thing he hasn’t done is a metal album.  Who knows what might happen if he and Rob Halford run into each other in a pub?

The highly unimaginative title lets you know what’s in store.  For those that have no idea what I’m talking about, Symphonicities is a collection of selected hits from his Police and solo periods, laid over the top (and I’m being way more polite than I want to be here) of various orchestral music.  While the liner notes mention that the albums “most blinding moment” is the opening track, “Next to You”  I think abortion would be a better word.  The liner notes also go on to say that “daring is one of Stings essential artistic gifts” and that he’s created “some of the most compelling popular music of the last half century.”

As my father likes to say, “Who writes this shit?”  When I called the guy at my local record store who smirked at me while buying this CD to complain (while I was driving back to my office), he said, “Sir, let me remind you of our no return policy” and laughed hysterically as he hung up the phone. Yeah, it’s that bad.

Listening through this torturous disc all the way through to make sure I didn’t miss a creative nugget, just got worse.  The only remotely un-hateful track is the quasi-bossa nova rendition of “Roxanne”, which pales in comparison to Todd Rundgren’s excellent Todd With a Twist. (A Bossa Nova compilation of TR’s favorite songs)  Sting just never seems to line up with the orchestra or his accompanying vocalists.  Again, I’m reminded of Spinal Tap, when the boys are trying to sing “Heartbreak Hotel” at Elvis’ grave and Derek says, “well, you have to be in the same key…”

I guess the bright side of the story is that classical musicians all over the world are short on work, so I applaud Sting for giving any of these fine musicians some extra paying work this year, recession and all.  And Abbey Road Studios (where most of this was recorded) is certainly in a cash flow crunch as well, so I’m sure this helped their bottom line for a month or two.  The classical musicians did a first rate job and the sound quality of the disc is very good; it’s a shame DG just didn’t release this sans-Sting as a classical release.

If we gave out an award for the worst record of the 21st Century so far, Symphonicities would get my vote. Ironically, though Sting claims to be quite the enviromentalist, I’m guessing most of these polycarbonate discs will end up in a landfill site somewhere, provided people can avoid the temptation to throw them out the window.

Mastered from the original tapes and experienced on both vinyl and digital via Universal’s Super Deluxe reissue, the album has never sounded so vital, loose, transparent, present, or alive. And none of the trademark dirt, rawness, and swagger have been sacrificed. Casual fans that don’t want to shell out $179 (list) for the gorgeous box can enjoy the peerless record on either remastered CD (complete with a bonus disc) or standalone LP. Those that spend the extra money get both formats, a book, and a 30-minute DVD with snippets from the Cocksucker Blues, Ladies and Gentlemen…The Rolling Stones, and Stones In Exile documentaries. The footage of the Stones creating and milling about guitarist Keith Richards’ French mansion in Nellcote is invaluable; it’s too bad we’re not given more. Ditto the live footage from the 1972 tour. For the price, listeners deserve all of the treasures that can be unearthed.

A 64-page hardcover book gets it right. Outstanding period photos function as windows into the sessions and the infamous vibes and parties that surrounded the Stones’ 1971 summer in exile in Southern France; the visual reproduction quality is excellent. Current recollections from the Stones are mixed in with older statements to supply perspective. Anthony DeCurtis’ short essay brings the album’s situational context (the Stones fled England due to unpaid taxes stemming from poor management) into focus, as well as the unique manner in which it was recorded—via a mobile truck parked out front the mansion’s basement that, akin to Woodstock’s Big Pink, served as the unlikely albeit character-rich setting for some of the most legendary sounds ever put on tape.

However, anyone expecting to learn about the mysteries and myths that have long pervaded Exile on Main Street are bound to be slightly dismayed. Richards and company’s vague allusions to the non-stop parties that occurred on the mansion’s third floor, the liquor- and drug-fueled environments, the all-night performance sessions, and the impromptu mix-and-match lineups that saw Richards occasionally sit in on bass and horn players Bobby Keys and Jim Price play random instruments serve only to deepen the intrigue. What exactly happened? How, in the midst of such chaos, did the songs get written? How did Richards’ preference for spontaneous activity jibe with singer Mick Jagger’s structured demeanor? Did “Tumbling Dice” arrive as quickly as “Happy” (penned and recorded in just a few hours) or “Ventilator Blues,” the latter developed on the spot as a reaction to the basement’s suffocating humidity, inferior ventilation, and jungle-level heat? To paraphrase a hanger-on who recalls the sessions on the DVD: How in the hell did the Stones and their friends operate in such conditions and, quite simply, get it all done?

The ten previously unreleased bonus tracks (not available on LP) don’t provide any definitive answers. Nonetheless, the songs are fantastic, easily topping anything the Stones have released in decades—not a huge surprise. The sleazy “Good Time Women” (a precursor to “Tumbling Dice”), ragged “I’m Not Signifying,” soulful “Plundered My Soul,” and vehement kiss-off “So Divine (Aladdin’s Story)” join alternate takes of “Soul Survivor” and “Loving Cup” as mandatory fare. As does the beautiful, forlorn piano ballad “Follow the River.” Yet, most of these tracks come with an historical asterisk. Rather than present them in as-is condition, Jagger elected to overdub vocals on a majority of songs, and in spots, added guitar, percussion, and harmonica. The results are strong but not genuinely representative of the Exile recording.
At every juncture, it seems the Stones willfully suppress anything that would shed too much light on the process. The absence of plentiful bonus material—scour the bootleg market to get an idea of just how much is available, especially given that the tapes were said to be continually rolling—fuels the notion that the group is intent on keeping many secrets despite the fact that such revelations would boost Exile’s status, lore, and enjoyment. Unfortunately, unlike lavish box sets such as The Stooges’ Complete Funhouse Sessions that allow music lovers to literally trace songs’ development and origins, the Exile on Main Street reissue teases when it comes to breadth and scope.
Does the lack of more meaningful knowledge matter? Or, does it actually enhance the original music so expertly arrayed across four sides of vinyl? If anything, the reissue makes stronger any case for arguing Exile on Main Street as the penultimate rock n’ roll album. And why not, given that it’s a decidedly British take filtered through a thick, rootsy American lens. Never again did the Stones draw so extensively from the American South—or dig down so deep.

Organized so that songs are cohesively bunched together according to style—uninhibited boogie, dusty country, haunting blues, and redemptive gospel, all of which are tethered to early rock n’ roll and spirited soul foundations—the album is a roundhouse of swinging rhythms, off-the-cuff arrangements, ghostly atmospherics, and communal grit. As DeCurtis observes in his liner notes, every song is firmly connected to the one that proceeds and follows it; skipping ahead to a certain track on the record robs the music of some of its impeccable allure.

Thematically, much has always been made of the Stones’ ability to move beyond the 60s’ hippie dreaminess and into an edgier, seamier territory that nonetheless doesn’t close the doors to salvation. The transition isn’t only due to the era (and the band’s direct involvement at Altamont), but the tax problems that forced the band to relocate and the sticky confines in which the music was recorded.

And it’s this murky, dark, dank sense of place that Universal’s multimedia reissue excels at producing, as the remastered sonics reveal just how much grime, sweat, and dampness cling to the grooves. The full-time availability of a horn section—a benefit of the living quarters and haphazard work schedules—is reflected in its appearance on a bulk of the album. Jagger’s vocals are kept low in the mix (which, thankfully, wasn’t touched on the remaster), putting him on equal footing with music that’s more about feel than punch, dynamics, or pop appeal. Rock, and the Stones, would never be the same again.
Maybe one day the full story will be told and heard. Until then, Exile on Main Street: Super Deluxe Edition gets us a little closer to that dirty Nellcote basement but no nearer to the conversations, exchanges, and festivities that took place during that long, hot summer.

Pub. Note: We’d like to thank Josh Bizar at Music Direct for getting us copies of this release a few days before street date, so that we could get this review out in a timely fashion…

Seriously. Frampton Comes Alive was one of the most ubiquitous rock records of the late 70’s, raising the bar for live album quality. Everyone had it in their record collection, and for good reason – it was a great snapshot of Frampton’s tour along with killer sonics. Even though his next record, I’m in You would eventually go platinum, it didn’t have the essence that made Frampton Comes Alive great.

Frampton continued to tour and make records, though he never matched the success of Frampton Comes Alive. (Frampton Comes Alive II, released in 1995 features a great track selection, yet has probably only sold a few thousand copies to date) He started to regain notoriety with his 2006 release, Fingerprints, winning a Grammy in the process with an album full of instrumentals.

24 years on a wild rollercoaster have seasoned Frampton. While his guitar playing has lost none of his trademark intensity, the focus of his lyrics has matured tremendously. Years ago, he sang, “I don’t care if they cut my hair, all I wanna be is by your side.” Now he thanks Winston Churchill for bringing his father home from the war in the title track and on “I’m Due a You” he laments a crashed hard drive derailing his creative process. Lyrically, this is by far the heaviest album Frampton has done.

Frampton’s guitar playing has never been better and more diverse, no doubt from years of endless touring. He’s lost none of the fire live, and it translates well on this record, offering a good balance of spirited soloing and textured acoustic playing. Always the consummate rock guitarist, Frampton makes it a point to list every guitar used on each track in the album credits.

The album has come full circle from a production standpoint as well. The co-producer and engineer Chris Kimsey was also the engineer on Frampton’s first solo record in 1972, Wind of Change. Recorded at Frampton’s home studio in Cincinnati, there’s an interesting roster of guests. Benmont Tench (Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers) plays the Hammond organ on the opening track, Pearl Jam drummer Matt Cameron handles most of the drumming duties and the Funk Brothers make an appearance on Frampton’s tribute to Motown, “Invisible Man.”

The most interesting guest on the record, however is Frampton’s son Julian, who takes the lead vocal on the third track, “Road to the Sun.” The younger Frampton asserts his individuality, offering a gritty rendition to the track. To his credit, he is not a carbon copy of Dad’s voice.

Side three of the album (Track 7 for CD listeners) is Frampton’s take on the Wall Street crisis, “Suite Liberte”, beginning with an instrumental reminiscent of the Fingerprints album, ending with the vocal track “Restraint.”

The last side has three straight ahead rock tunes that are closer to Frampton’s past work in pace and feel. The sound quality is first rate; the CD was mastered by Bob Ludwig and the LP by Chris Bellman at Bernie Grundman Mastering. The LP version is outstanding, taking up two slabs of vinyl, with plenty of room for dynamic grooves. It’s always nice to see this much care taken with any recording.

Peter Frampton has grown a lot as a man, as songwriter and a guitarist. Thank You, Mr. Churchill is quite possibly Frampton’s best record.

Alice Cooper’s hard-rock classic Billion Dollar Babies blends cabaret, pop, and horror themes to spectacular effect. Along with 1972’s School’s Out, the 1973 set stands as Cooper’s finest studio achievement, a front-to-back miasma of engaging hooks, absorbing riffs, eerie lyrics, and the singer’s trademark sneer. The presence of mega-producer Bob Ezrin and underrated guitar tandem of Michael Bruce and Glen Buxton—as well as choice cuts like the familiar “No More Mr. Nice Guy,” theatrical “Elected,” twisted title track, and blood-curdling “I Love the Dead”—help account for the record’s timeless appeal and how, nearly 40 years on, its subtle creepiness outdoes today’s overly obvious attempts at shock (here’s looking at you for the past decade-plus, Marilyn Manson). Billion Dollar Babies is the blueprint that followers such as Kiss, Rob Zombie, John Lydon, and yes, even Meat Loaf, followed to the proverbial ‘T.’

Pressed at RTI on 180g virgin vinyl and cut from the original analog master tapes, the LP sounds fantastic and features extraordinarily quiet surfaces. The always-tricky inner grooves don’t give off a whiff of distortion or compromise, and the balance between Cooper’s vocals and the musicians’ tamed thunder is steady throughout. Ezrin’s production is clean yet gritty enough to serve tunes that tackle themes of necrophilia, greed, and the macabre.

Better still? The deluxe packaging. The sleeve’s original dimensions (rounded rather than boxy corners) and imitation glossy snakeskin cover are meticulously reproduced, and the giant pullout dollar-bill poster and punch-out wallet photos of the band members reside inside the gatefold sleeve. Fans couldn’t ask for better. Love it to death indeed. –Bob Gendron

In case you missed them last summer or earlier this year, This $49.95 collector box includes remastered versions of, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! and Freedom of Choice on CD, along with a special 7-inch 45 (on clear yellow vinyl, no less) featuring the album cut of “Jocko Homo” on one side and “Mongoloid” on the other. Other goodies include a great DEVO mini-poster and a booklet with the credits from both albums.

There’s not much we can say about these two seminal DEVO albums that hasn’t been said over the years, but in case you’ve worn out your original LP’s or detest the sound of the original CD’s, (the remastered versions sound a lot better), you need the DEVO-LUX version because it includes a DVD of the original Truth About De-Evolution video collection and a second DVD with footage from their London where they performed Are We Not Men… in it’s entirety.

And those albums aren’t just the originals remastered, they’ve got some great bonus tracks. Are We Not Men… features demo versions of “Uncontrollable Urge” (Produced by Joe Walsh!), “Social Fools” and “Sloppy.” The Freedom Of Choice features three bonus tracks as well as the six track DEV-O Live EP, which was recorded live at the Warfield in San Francisco in 1980.

But the real jewel for this writer is the new concert footage on Disc two; The spud boys put on a rocking performance. Though they bounce around a little less than they did in 1978 when I first saw them, the enthusiasm is still there, and their voices are all strong. Kudos to Mark Mothersbaugh for dusting off his vintage synthesizers for the performance, it makes the show that much more of a time warp. If you missed the recent mini-tour, this is the closest you can get.

The original DEVO videos are crude but a blast. If you were around to see them the first time in 1975, you went apeshit and your parents definitely suspected you were on drugs for enjoying this kind of thing. DEVO’s slogan “Lay a million eggs or give birth to one” is as true in 2010 as it was in 1978, and it’s always fun to see Booji Boy. This footage reminds us all just how far ahead of their time DEVO actually was.

So pull your credit card out and buy the DEVO-LUX edition, you won’t regret it. Stay tuned, as the 2010 tour unfolds, we’ll be there to cover it!

I love 60′s and early 70′s rock classics as much as anyone, and yes I’ve got six different pressings of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon but I think we need a wider range of great rock records with sound quality to match. Kudos to Audio Fidelity and Steve Hoffman for doing a bone crushing job on this Judas Priest classic.

Arguably, one of Priest’s most powerful albums (titled Killing Machine in the UK), Hell Bent For Leatherfeatures four of the original members of the band, Rob Halford as lead vocalist, bassist Ian Hill and the power lead guitar duo of K.K. Downing and Glenn Tipton.

As I just happened to have a very early pressing of the LP (yes, I went and bought it the day it was released) on hand for comparison, the record is somewhat thin in comparison to the CD, but has a tiny bit more air on top. However the AF release is an overall winner, because there is a lot less compression and muddiness to the midrange on the originals, and I’ll give up some air to hear both of those lead guitars blazing distinctly in the remaster. As an added bonus, Hill’s bass line has more prominence and Halford’s screams have a wider range.

So, at your next audiophile listening party when everyone is talking about their new favorite female vocalist, sneak this one in the CD player, and turn it up. I had the big blue meters on my McIntosh MC 1.2 KW’s pinned on this one!

I can only hope that Audio Fidelity will produce British Steel and Screaming For Vengeance next!

Bill Mumy is the real deal. With a very unique, folky style, on The Landlord or the Guest he reminds you a little bit of Cat Stevens at time, others perhaps Tom Petty or even Steven Stills, yet not really any of them. As I said, Mumy has a unique style that grabs you right away. He’s a great guitarist and approaches the instrument with a very delicate touch.

In “No Show”, he sings “I tossed your photographs into the riverbed, I burned your letters too…I gave you too much of my dreams.” The whole record has this intimacy to it that almost makes you feel as if you stumbled on someones innermost thoughts that were written somewhere, perhaps not meant for your reading. This feeling continues throughout the record, with “I Drove by Your House Night” containing some great bluesy guitar riffs, reminiscent of your favorite Dave Alvin record. The record stays somewhat sad right until the end with, “Goodbye”, a sparse piece accompanied by a single acoustic guitar.

Interestingly, the cover on The Landlord or the Guest was photographed by Angela Cartright.

The next record is titled Speechless. Appropriately, because it is all instrumental. Mumy describes it as “21st Century Ambient Blues” but he’s being way too modest. This is one of the best ambient discs I’ve ever heard. I hope Mumy won’t mind the comparison, but the first track, “Depth of Feel” sounds like it could be an outtake from Brian Eno’s Ambient series. To put this to the acid test, I tried it on a good friend who is an Eno fanatic. About three minutes into the track I told him that this was an Eno bootleg and in a Wayne’s World moment, he exclaimed, “No way, where did you get this?”

By the second track, “Pardon me Asking”, Mumy adds more synths to the mix and folds in some more of that blues feel. Definitely a great groove that almost makes you feel like you’re in one of those Volkswagen ads where the music syncs up with the adventure that is your life.

Speechless really has three distinct grooves; gentle ambient, spacey/bluesy and spacey/synth-y, with a slight bit of crossover on a few tracks. If you’re looking for a new soundtrack for your leisure time, I highly suggest Speechless. My apologies to Bill Mumy for missing this one last year.

Even if this wasn’t a “Christmas” album, it would stand up because Detrick has a great voice with a tremendous range. One minute, she sounds sort of like Sade (“Soulstice”) and then the next she sounds like Patti Smith, with a little Chrissie Hynde thrown in (“A Christmas Spark”). And there’s still ten tracks to go. By the look of the video clip on her website, she plays a mean guitar as well.

What’s not to like?

But what makes Too Cool for the Yule stand out is Detrick’s great sense of humor. Her lyrics are witty and never cross the line past clever to stupid. And the snotty audiophile in me has to admit that the MP3′s I downloaded even sounded damn good. So download this one right now, turn it up loud and have a blast at Christmas.

-Jeff Dorgay

For those of you that might dismiss this as another “heavy metal” Christmas album, the Judas Priest frontman shows that he’s got a sensitive side too. If you really want to catch the fam off guard, start with the title track, “Winter Song.” It’s just slow enough that no one will guess that you’ve got another thing coming. Then skip to the opening track, “Get Into the Spirit.” The Priest scream that we all know and love is right there on the first chorus, “Get into the spirit, reach up to the sky….raise your spirits high.”

Winter Songs is a great mix of holiday songs that features something for everyone, and isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

You’re only fourteen bucks away from holiday boredom. Go for it.

So make your favorite music lover happy and give the gift of music instead…

Nirvana: Bleach (20th Anniversary Deluxe Edition). Sub Pop (CD or 2LP)

The circumstances surrounding the recording of Nirvana’s debut album—released in June 1989 on then-fledgling Seattle imprint Sub Pop and made for a paltry sum of $600 at Reciprocal Studios—are so ingrained in pop-culture lore that little further explication is needed to address its irony and importance. Just over two years later, the trio (augmented by new drummer Dave Grohl) forever changed the face of music. It’s for these reasons that the deluxe reissue of Bleach is all the better for bypassing the temptation to wax poetic about the group’s early status as crude, distortion-scarred, metal-scraping underground garage-rock upstarts whose ragged rumble reflected their Pacific Northwest environs.

Instead, listeners get remastered sonics (that thankfully don’t disturb the music’s do-it-yourself rawness and yet still manage to amplify the impact) and an engaging, thick booklet chock full or rare and unseen period photos that illustrate the band better than any essay possibly could. Dig the acne on Curt Cobain’s face; read the text of the band’s recording contract. Then, there are the songs—troll-like stomps, sludgy drones, and grinding sidewinders that howl with pent-up emotion, drunken fun, and youthful boredom. Cobain’s way with words is already evident on “School”—count the ways he twists the same four-word spoken refrain turn into several different phonetic variations—as is his blistering self-deprecation (the chugging “Negative Creep”) and tortured wail (“Paper Cuts”).

Better still, the inclusion of a complete, previously unreleased concert from February 1990 in Portland puts Nirvana’s meteoric rise into clearer perspective. A spry cover of the Vaselines’ “Molly’s Lips” and then-unreleased original “Sappy” point at the catchier, pop-laden hooks the band would soon blend in with the bruising, down-tuned grooves it beat into submission on Bleach. As for the set-ending destruction? Indicative of another tradition to which the band stayed true until the very end. –Bob Gendron

R.E.M.: Live at the Olympia. Warner Bros. (4LP + 2CD + DVD box set)

After bucking the trend by resisting the urge to release a live album and capitalize on its mass popularity during the early 90s, R.E.M. finally gave in and issued the plainly titled R.E.M. Live in 2007. The double-disc set is as bland as its title, a document so uninspired and uninspiring that it seems to be a mistake—a contract-fulfilling statement that stains the group’s legacy in the same manner that a majority of its post-Bill Berry studio albums done.

Seemingly recognizing the misstep, R.E.M. arranges Take Two with the far superior and consistently delightful Live at the Olympia, available in a deluxe configuration box set laden with the 39-song program on 4 LPs and 2 CDs as well as a documentary film on DVD by Jacknife Lee. “This is not a show” announces singer Michael Stipe near the beginning of the program, explaining R.E.M.’s experiment: a five-day residency designed as a rehearsal performed before live audiences in Dublin. Whether due to the decreased pressure of the informal settings, or by virtue of revisiting myriad deep-catalog tunes ignored for years, or the thrill of playing still-unreleased new material, this is the R.E.M.—bold, lively, attuned, passionate, engaged, balanced, loose, jangly, unfussy, noisy, literate—that in the 80s established the precedent for indie-rock acts to follow.

The group’s energy is palpable, its enthusiasm and willingness to woodshed a sorely needed reawakening that translated to parts of 2008’s Accelerate. Bypassing obvious hits (“Losing My Religion,” “Stand,” “Everybody Hurts,” “It’s the End of the World As We Know It”) in favor of equally great albeit less-famous selections from earlier in its career (“Letter Never Sent,” “Feeling Gravity’s Pull,” “Maps and Legends,” “Wolves, Lower,” and scads more), R.E.M. completes its goal of getting back in touch with its roots, and in the process, demonstrates that it still matters—a question that’s remained unresolved ever since Berry departed.

A gift for old fans and a fine entry point for newcomers that aren’t yet aware of the genius of R.E.M.’s IRS recordings, this career-spanning collection is the group’s finest work in 13 years. The sonics feature a generous soundstage and above-average imaging; the colorful packaging includes song-by-song liner notes by guitarist Peter Buck and three sturdy gatefold sleeves to hold all of the discs. Excellent. –Bob Gendron

Light: On the South Side. Numero Group (Book +2LP)

Since emerging in 2006 as a niche reissue label specializing in both unearthing lost music gems as well as the incredible stories that accompany the regional labels and artists that produced them, Numero Group has established itself as the country’s premier crate-digging imprint. While excavations have turned up everything from children’s music to folk to power pop finds, the Chicago-based company’s nose for soul is unparalleled.

Its latest volume may be its best yet. If not, Light: On the South Side is undoubtedly Numero’s most extravagant and audaciously packaged set—a dazzling collection that should receive an automatic Grammy nomination for Best Recording Package. Housed in a slipcase box, the compilation’s 2-LP gatefold vinyl and 132-page hardbound 12×12 book offer the ultimate immersion into Chicago’s African-American South Side nightclubs and the sounds, sights, personalities, and smells that filled them on a nightly basis. The gorgeous collection is a prerequisite for any fan of blues, R&B, and soul (and by natural extension, rock and pop)—and anyone curious to glimpse a bygone era of life-after-dark celebrations staged by urbanites that lived for evenings on the dance floor, in front of the Wurlitzer, and in leather booths surrounded by the opposite sex, booze, and cigarettes.

Stuffed with revealing black-and-white photographs snapped by Michael L. Abramson, who between 1975 and 1977 frequented long-gone locales such as Pepper’s Hideout, The High Chaparral, The Patio Lounge, and The Showcase Lounge between, the coffee-table-caliber book brings to life the atmosphere, feel, and emotion of the period better than any medium imaginable. Abramson focused not on bands but the crowds inside—and outside—the clubs, capturing a range of expressions and fashions that disclose intimate conversations, dangerous secrets, and multiple moods.

People are stoned and high, pimped out and pooped out, overjoyed and overdone. The spaces’ interiors and walls breathe and sigh. Big, street-hogging, gas-guzzling cars loom outside, their whitewall tires and broad steel frames magnets for the drivers and passengers hovering around them. Patrons get close in booths and engage in dances of seduction and romance, the men and women pursuing different strategies but sharing common motives. A diverse blend of clubgoers—musicians, macks, churchgoers, hucksters, toughs, deejays, girlfriends, hookers, working-class stiffs—highlights the lack of such mixing at today’s modern venues. Nick Hornby contributes a short albeit pertinent essay. But wisely, the producers let the photos—all published without captions—stand, and speak, for themselves.

Dubbed “Pepper’s Jukebox,” the 17-track compilation of simmering funk, blues, and soul aurally transports listeners to the mid-70s and into clubs whose standard accoutrements comprised cigarette machines, cans of Schlitz beer, broken tile floors, jars of pig’s feet, and metal-grate-covered windows. Organic and warm, yet raw and occasionally thin, the sounds are true to the time and place, and will make anyone wish they could have experienced Pepper’s on a cold January night in 1976 or 1977. –Bob Gendron

The Rolling Stones: Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! ABKCO (Super Deluxe 3LP + 3CD + DVD Box Set)

The Rolling Stones have release more live records and DVDs than most bands have issued studio albums. Save for 1995’s Stripped, which presents several of the band’s lesser-performed catalog nuggets in bare-bones arrangements, every Stones concert effort from the past three decades exists as nothing more than a post-tour, cash-it-in, instantly forgotten souvenir. (Seriously, when is the last time you spun Love You Live?) And none comes close to matching the energy, sass, and luster of 1970’s Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! Documenting the group’s two-night stand from Madison Square Garden in November 1969, the rambunctious album captures the group at its bluesy, primal peak. It’s no coincidence that guitarist Mick Taylor is onboard. He’s instrumental in fanning the heat of the epic “Midnight Rambler” and sultry, purring “Stray Cat Blues,” tunes that the quintet seldom revisited after Taylor’s exit.

In commemoration of the concerts’ 40th anniversary, ABKCO assembled a splendidly over-the-top “super deluxe” package that expands the original album with five previously unreleased live cuts as well as material from show openers B.B. King and Ike & Tina Turner. The remastered musical program is repeated on both CD and LP. An accompanying DVD features backstage and live footage, as well as scenes from the record’s cover shoot (yes, a donkey is involved). Directed by the Maysles brothers, the film—also titled Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out!—hasn’t been available in decades.

Anchored by a 56-page collector’s book and replica tour poster, the packaging is exceptional, and the sound quality on vinyl as good as live Stones have ever sounded on analog. Casual fans won’t want all of the bells and whistles, but aficionados will be transported to their favorite band’s heyday in a time-traveling manner replete with compelling visuals, striking audio, and physical ephemera. All that’s missing is the Uncle Sam hat Charlie Watts is wearing on the cover. Now, how about the same treatment for Let It Bleed and Exile on Main Street? –Bob Gendron

Grateful Dead: Winterland June 1977: The Complete Recordings. Grateful Dead (9CD box set)

Archival performances continue to spill from the Grateful Dead vault, which seems to contain a limitless supply of material that is good enough to warrant release in the face of literally hundreds of hours of already available and officially sanctioned live Dead material. While the band’s gatekeepers need to soon consider moving beyond the 70s and yet avoid the early and mid-80s—why not a grouping of Wynton Marsalis performances with the group in the 90s?—Winterland June 1977: The Complete Recordings is another choice selection as it presents the band’s complete three-night homecoming from a tour that’s among the most celebrated in Dead history.

Some believe that San Francisco had an adverse affect on the band in that the familiar turf made Jerry Garcia and Co. too relaxed. Yet such criticisms largely fail to carry sway here, where not even Donna Godchaux’s backing vocals get in the way. Sure, the Dead played wilder shows during this period, but the interplay is sharp, rhythms tight, textural washes rich, chemistry strong, tones pronounced, and the extended jams building to exciting heads. Containing a total of 68 songs, the three evenings each contain hot sequences: in particular, the first night riding high on “Samson and Delilah”→”Terrapin Station”→”Morning Dew”→”Around And Around” and the third featuring a six-song segue that culminates with “Terrapin Station.”

Overseers of all things Dead continue to get the most sonic pleasantries out of CD as possible. Via Plagent Processes, every passage of the original analog master tapes is distortion free and pitch perfect, and mastered onto HDCD for superb sound. Sure, there are plenty of freely available Dead shows on the Web, but none claim this sort of fidelity. Engaging. –Bob Gendron

Where the Action Is! Los Angeles Nuggets 1965-1968. Rhino (4CD box set)

With its latest Nuggets entry, Rhino follows the same packaging model as it did for the scintillating Love Is the Song We Sing: San Francisco Nuggets 1965-1970 and moves a few hundred miles down the California coast. Thematically arranged by geographic area, the four-disc Where the Action Is! Los Angeles Nuggets 1965-1968 is another deserving edition to the essential series, an excavation of near-flawless counterculture singles by bands familiar (The Byrds, Jan & Dean) and obscure (The Mustangs, The Spats). And while known tracks such as Lee Hazelwood’s “Rainbow Ballroom” and The Doors’ “Take It As It Comes” hold true, its lesser-known gems by bootstrap bands that were trolling clubs on the Sunset Strip and in the suburbs that deliver the biggest thrills.

Whether it’s the Standells raving about a “Riot on Sunset Strip” or Ken & the Fourth Dimension daring anyone to “See If I Care,” this is what gritty, raw, raucous 60s rock and roll is about. However crude, there’s a timeless quality to the overdriven guitars, humming organs, gauzy vocals, R&B-spiked rhythms, jangly chords, waterfall harmonies, stinging solos, and psychedelic accents that pepper the economically concise songs—most of which still come across with a freshness that suggest they could well be emanating out of basement windows today. Of course, the lyrics belie that notion. In step with the period, there are plenty of references to dying young, teenage rebellion, drug experimentation, hippie delights, and abstract thought. Performances are urgent and compelling, even when the material leans in folksy directions or whimsically dreams of love. And it does: Discs 3 and 4 are dedicated to L.A.’s producers, arrangers, and studio wizards, while Disc 4 encompasses the region’s transition into a country- and canyon-rock mecca.

Ranging in scope from echo-laden pop to jazzy psychedelic odes to hard-biting soul, the 101 tracks are illuminated by song-by-song commentaries and histories. A Los Angeles timeline, regional nightclub crib sheet, and radio-station essay also accompany the music, each providing context and trivia that place the groups in a light that most never experienced. With one’s eyes closed and ears open, it’s all enough to serve as a time machine that takes a trip back into a quainter, hipper, and cooler Los Angeles that, like the eclectic albeit tunes here, is a secret garden to which you’ll want to return again and again. –Bob Gendron

David Bowie: A Reality Tour. ISO/Columbia/Legacy (2CDs)

When David Bowie embarked on his Reality Tour in 2003-04, the Thin White Duke was in the midst of a creative renaissance fueled by back-to-back studio album successes. Puzzlingly, the celebrated outing stands as Bowie’s last venture—and one celebrated on a live DVD. The entire contents of that program, as well as three bonus tracks—“China Girl,” “Breaking Glass,” and “Fall Dog Bombs the Moon”—are remastered and included on the 33-track A Reality Tour double-disc set, which serves as a reminder of Bowie’s convincing, oft-exhilarating performances.

From the opening “Rebel Rebel,” here slightly rearranged, the singer toying with tempo and phrasing, to the ferocious “I’m Afraid of Americans” and mystical “Five Years,” Bowie treats every song with equal passion and soul, favoring no era or style. A crack backing band flushes out all of the necessary colors, textures, and tones. Doubling as a career-spanning greatest hits (and then some) package, A Reality Tour does more in that it demonstrates Bowie’s contemporary relevance via the ten tunes played from his last two records as well as his penchant to continue to mix things up, even when he’s got nothing left to prove. As a bonus, he’s in spectacular voice and spirit throughout. Punchy, dynamic sonics round out a collection that should appeal to those that never heard Heathen or Reality, as well as anyone not fortunate enough to see what may stand as Bowie’s final tour. –Bob Gendron

Big Star: Keep an Eye on the Sky. Rhino (4CD box set)

The only question surrounding Keep an Eye on the Sky, a four-disc box celebrating the music of the relatively short-lived Big Star, isn’t whether or not it’s great. That’s a given. Rather, the issue why it took so long for the set to materialize. More than three decades after it split, the penultimate power-pop band finally gets its due via a sparkling collection that assembles 55 previously unreleased cuts (in the form of live tracks, alternate takes, unused mixes, demos, and rarities) and 43 songs from the cult-favorite group’s three studio albums—as well as solo efforts from key members Alex Chilton and Chris Bell. There are enough soft harmonies, bounteous hooks, psychedelic touches, and cascading melodies here to last a lifetime—or so it seems.

Part of Big Star’s appeal is how a group with such immaculate skills and sweet sounds remained obscure, even in its hometown of Memphis. It ultimately took mainstream success by the likes of Tom Petty, Cheap Trick, and the Replacements to push Big Star’s legend, and never has it loomed larger than it does on this fantastic treasure trove. No matter the song—“Back of a Car,” “When My Baby’s Beside Me,” “Manana”—contagious energy abounds, along with an unflinching desire to sing along. The vault material lends an even greater perspective; a complete concert recorded in 1973 at Lafayette’s Music Room proves the band knew its way around the stage as well as the studio.

Essays by Bob Mehr and Robert Gordon abet extensive track-by-track notes by producer Alex Palao in painting a detailed picture of the group’s history that will both appease longtime followers and put fortunate newcomers on solid ground. Pleasing sonics, too. Essential. –Bob Gendron

Rod Stewart: The Rod Stewart Sessions 1971-1998. Rhino (4CD box set)

For better and worse, the trajectory of Rod Stewart’s career is accurately traced on The Rod Stewart Sessions 1971-1998, a four-disc box set that collects 63 previously unreleased outtakes, alternate versions, and rehearsals that span nearly three decades. While casual listeners will want to stick with familiar studio versions, fans of the singer’s looser, unpolished—and eminently superb—songs should delight in the stripped-down arrangements and oft-naked takes offered here.

Stretching from 1971 through 1982, the first two discs are nearly infallible, containing early renditions of rock classics such as “You Wear It Well” and “Seems Like a Long Time,” each featuring Faces mates Ronnie Wood on guitar and Ian McLagan on piano. Stewart’s voice simmers, as it’s etched with an emotional grit he abandoned later in his career. Alas, the 80s is where he begins to lose the plot. Discs three and four are largely inconsistent, as the songwriting erodes and Stewart becomes obsessed with flashy hit-making. Granted, edgier renditions of “Show Me” and “I Wanna Stay Home” reveal that Stewart hadn’t completely abandoned his roots. Yet a pronounced split between eras remains. Nevertheless, the box comes closer than anything else to salvaging some of Stewart’s late-period credibility.

Kudos to Rhino for the usually dependable sonics and inclusion of illuminating liner notes. More than a curiosity item, The Rod Stewart Sessions is almost enough to make one forget about those dreadful Great American Songbook albums. Almost. –Bob Gendron

Jane’s Addiction: A Cabinet of Curiosities. (Rhino) (3CD + 1 DVD)
A rarities set that’s housed in a snazzy wooden shrine packed with concert memorabilia, ticket stubs, and other trinkets, A Cabinet of Curiosities exclusively focuses on the group’s original incarnation, suggesting that everything else doesn’t matter. Primarily aimed at diehards, the 43-song collection features 30 unreleased tracks in the form of demos, live cuts, covers, and scattered B-sides. A DVD compiles assorted music videos and a short European MTV performance. But it’s the early demos and a 1990 concert from Los Angeles that prove revelatory.

As made evident by the chronologically ordered set, by fall 1987, Jane’s had already recorded rough (and in many cases, surprisingly complete) versions of songs that comprised a majority of its first two albums as well as several demos of tunes that would land on its breakthrough third record, Ritual de lo Habitual. The raw recordings further expose the genuine purity of the quartet’s innovative sound and juxtaposed moodiness. Favorites such as “Jane Says,” “Had a Dad,” “Ocean Size,” and “Three Days” brim with the dark exoticism, free-spirit soulfulness, hard-rock explosiveness, gothic psychedelia, and avant-garde pop that make the band’s music and ideas so pioneering. This is the sound of both the touristy and seedy sides of Los Angeles, a collision best experienced through the context of the live takes and practice sessions included here.

Similarly, an invigorating concert from a three-night stand at the Hollywood Palladium captures the group at its peak. Months away from imploding, Farrell and company tap into the mystic vibes of a hometown crowd and burgeoning album that presaged a coming “alt-rock” movement that ultimately took hold as Jane’s drifted apart. Such peeks into history make A Cabinet of Curiosities worthwhile for the uninitiated and enthusiast even if its unconventional approach may not be for everyone—just like Jane’s itself. –Bob Gendron

The Stone Roses: The Stone Roses. Legacy (2CD + DVD “Legacy Edition,” LP “Gatefold Vinyl Edition,” and 3CD + 3LP + DVD + book “Collector’s Edition”)

Anointed “the greatest album of all time” by British publication New Music Express, the Stone Roses’ self-titled 1989 debut has been given a hero’s treatment in the form of four different packages, all of which contain a remaster the original UK album and most of which come with bonus material. Leaders of the so-called Madchester scene, the band merged guitar-driven pop and shifty dance beats in an era when the two styles stood miles apart. Atmospheric washes, swimmy bass lines, restrained vocals, attitudinal stances, layered guitar echoes, and ocean-sized hooks round out a set that’s aged well and served as a blueprint for subsequent Britpop developments.

Ian Brown sings in a breathy tone that’s somewhere between bratty and precious on the landmark “I Wanna Be Adored,” negotiating a terrain that tunes such as the phase-shifting “She Bangs the Drums,” nimble “Waterfall,” and cocky “I Am the Resurrection” gladly pursue. Druggy, detached, and deliberate, the Stone Roses latch onto a cool that initially emanated from New York’s art-house parties and update it for a rave culture. As a whole, the album remains mandatory pop listening.

As for the bonus material? Not so much. Several highlights are scattered amidst the scads of rarities, particularly Disc 2’s B-sides and non-album A-sides. A collection of “Lost Demos” is for diehards only, yet the DVD of a now-legendary Blackpool Empress Ballroom gig warrants repeat viewings. Credit Legacy for making available options to suit everyone’s taste. –Bob Gendron

Miles Davis: The Complete Columbia Album Collection. Sony Legacy (71CD box set)

Yeah, you read right, 71 discs! If your Miles collection is spotty or you have to be a completist collector, this box comes neatly packaged complete with mini-LP style packaging and a few bonus tidbits of Miles that you might not already have. For the first time on DVD is the Live in Europe ’67 concert and an audio release of the 1970 Isle of Wright festival.

The press release from Sony promises bonus tracks and other unreleased bits sprinkled in throughout the collection. Also included is a 250 page book with a Miles’ biography and a complete discography to his work, which provides a nice index to the box.

The recording quality is above average and if you are a recent music server owner, this is a great way to just put the whole Miles’ collection on your hard drive. For now, this is an Amazon exclusive and at about $400, a great price. But the killer deal is at Amazon UK, where you can buy the box for 120 pounds. –Jeff Dorgay