October 16, 2002

The Streets, a.k.a. Mike Skinner, is the Oliver Twist of British rap. Like Dickens's streetwise scamp, the Streets observes and chronicles life on the lam as a British youth, which, if you believe his hip-hop vérité, is all about dodgy weed deals, fights in kabob shops, and chasing hot girls ("fit birds") in the heat of the night.

The overall effect of his debut, Original Pirate Material, is at once familiar and totally new. The Streets' beats are based on 2-step garage – a skittering mutation of house, hip-hop, and R&B – but they're not danceable, nodding toward funk, dancehall, and ska influences to create accessibly stoned grooves. His voice, a cheeky Birmingham-inflected monotone, is reminiscent of Slick Rick, eschewing vocal acrobatics for straight-up storytelling.

If you're turned off by hip-hop's faux glamour, fear not. The Streets' persona isn't about flash. It encapsulates the contradictions of being young and delinquent in 14 tracks. The Streets owns a laptop but can't scrape together enough money to buy a pint. He's imagining the world's leaders on Ecstasy, and getting fucked-up on mushrooms in Amsterdam.

It remains to be seen whether non-Anglophiles will be able to get with the Streets' hyper-British persona. Then again, his ability to tear up musical blueprints may be just the thing to take him worldwide. As he says on "Let's Push Things Forward," "This ain't your archetypal street sound." Indeed, the streets have rarely sounded so good. The Streets plays Tues/22, Justice League, S.F. (415) 289-2083. (Vivian Host)

Cristina Branco
Corpo Iluminado (Decca)

Cape Verdean earth mother Cesaria Evora, David Byrne-endorsed Peruvian singer Susana Baca, and other "global divas" have built a natural audience for golden-throated Cristina Branco. But fans of les misérables of indie folk and pop, from Nick Drake through Beck, would do well to broaden their musical worldview and indulge their moodiness in this 30-year-old Portuguese star's deep pools of melancholy. She sings fado, a sometimes-formulaic music that traditionally expresses a sense of tragedy tinged with fatalism. Fado is closely related to the bluesy ballads, or mourna, of Evora's Cape Verde, but owing to her crystalline vocal timbre and pure soprano range, Branco is Judy Collins to Evora's Odetta; her high, clear voice is as much prismatic crystal as Evora's is dusty earth.

Producer Custódio Castelo serves as musical Svengali on Branco's latest, arranging the tunes (several of which he cowrote), playing guitar, and channeling fado's sparkling three-guitar format into a flow that parallels the elasticity of Branco's phrasing. With the crisp acoustic guitars providing bright punctuation, a few songs accelerate into almost jaunty rhythms. Most of the performances, though, sway at the medium and slow tempos that best allow Branco to employ her command of dynamics and emotional nuance. She sings in Portuguese, and translations of the lyrics are provided. It helps to know she's singing, "I said good-bye to you and I died" and "What use are a thousand windows if I cannot see the sea," but it's the way she takes a song to the cusp of melodrama – only threatening to push it over the edge – that really communicates the "lemon of bitterness" and the exquisite "zero of remorse." Cristina Branco performs Sun/20, Brava! Theater, S.F. (415) 641-7567. (Derk Richardson)

Iannis Xenakis
Persepolis+Remixes Edition 1 (Asphodel)[The User]
Symphony #2 For Dot Matrix Printers (Asphodel)

In the mid '90s, Asphodel Records was a fledgling record label that threatened to take avant-garde ideas into the mainstream pop world with important works by then-new artists such as illbient theorist DJ Spooky (Songs of a Dead Dreamer) and turntablists the Invisibl Skratch Piklz (Vs. Klamz of Deth), as well as one-off projects by Christian Marclay. But by the end of the decade the San Francisco company had fallen into financial disarray. This fall has seen a triumphant return to form with new albums by artists like the late Greek composer Iannis Xenakis and Montreal sound artists [The User].

Xenakis's Persepolis, an hourlong piece of musique concrète, was created with a commission by the shah of Iran in the late '70s, who requested it for the country's 2,500th anniversary. Persepolis is an amazing piece of work composed of several layers of instruments and computer effects collaged as a repetitive and severe noise that symbolizes the confluence of ancient culture, aristocracy, and politics with the incursion of Islam (which the shah did not support) into Iranian society. Meanwhile, percussive and stringed instruments such as violins and bells are discernible amid the cacophony, allowing the listener to feel some empathy with the piece while being overwhelmed by its muscularity and power.

In contrast, the CD of remixes that comes with Persepolis seems like a superficial, if provocative, response to the sociopolitical issues raised by Xenakis's superior work, since the remixers here play with Persepolis's sound rather than confront what the sound means. To be fair, many of the second CD's tracks, including one by Polish composer Zbigniew Karkowski that's highlighted by guttural, fiery distortion, are intriguing in their own right, though they probably would have benefited if they had been released as stand-alone works.

With Symphony #2 for Dot Matrix Printers, [The User] faces a different set of issues: how does one create a lasting impression once the novelty of your chief gimmick has worn off? But after weathering the initial shock of hearing Emmanuel Madan and Thomas McIntosh coordinate printing machines to play complex rhythms, you'll find that the two have crafted a surprisingly sophisticated symphony of short, five-minute beats bridged by erratic and screeching noise. It will give you a new appreciation for the annoyingly loud computer equipment that seems to drive everyone crazy at the office. (Mosi Reeves)

No. 2
What Does Good Luck Bring? (In Music We Trust)

After Elliott Smith played kissyface with Celine Dion at the Oscars and Sam Coomes hit mope-pop pay dirt with Quasi, another alumnus of Portland's Heatmiser set out on his own search for pop-rock perfection. Former guitarist for that supergroup-in-reverse, Neil Gust formed No. 2 in 1998, teaming up with Jr. High's Paul Pulvirenti on drums and Braille Stars' Gilly Ann Hanner on bass. A year later the trio released No Memory (Chainsaw), an album that – despite being one of the most melodic, melancholic rock releases of 1999 – went largely ignored, earning Gust little more than the tag "that other guy from Heatmiser."

It's not surprising, then, that No. 2's follow-up is even more cynical than its Smith-produced predecessor. "I've got good intentions, but nothing's gonna change," Gust predicts on "Good Intentions," one of What Does Good Luck Bring?'s nine top-notch tales of disillusionment. The assertion is hard to dispute: for all its ridiculously catchy hooks, the trio – currently including Pulvirenti and the Minus 5's Jim Talstra on bass – is so unassuming that it's no wonder so many people, used to bands' shameless self-promotion, pay No. 2 no mind.

Just because Gust isn't as well-known as Smith or Coomes – who makes a guest appearance here – doesn't mean Luck isn't as noteworthy as anything recorded by his former bandmates. The album subtly expands No Memory's sonic palette with countrified balladry and rough-edged rockers, while sticking to the poignant pop formula that's long made Gust one of the Northwest's best songwriters. So while Luck may not bring fame and fortune to No. 2, in a better world, albums as excellent as this certainly would.