January 22, 2003

Recently, a friend of mine described the song "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word," by Elton John, as typical of music "made during the years when they made music for people who hate music" – meaning the overproduced and indulgent soft rock movement of the 1970s. As great as I think that song, and a lot of soft rock, is, I think my friend is right on. The hooks are great, and the sentimentality is fun, but ultimately, Elton John's schmaltzy genius of the '70s and Gary Puckett's bizarre pop of the '60s, as so much of the lite rock from those periods, was produced and put on the radio for people who heard the Beatles or the Stones and felt a deep, unnamable rage, much the way people react to Andrew W.K. or the White Stripes. Maybe they feel like they don't get the joke and in reaction to being excluded from what is supposed to be the "cool" crowd, they just hate it, with passion.

That said, is there any other way to describe the music of the Wallflowers? Why else would such a bland, watered-down band receive major-label backing? Red Letter Days passes by like a breeze, with nary a rustle as far as creativity or nuance or anything to do with the music of today is concerned, or even the classic rock of the '80s that it's supposed to reflect somehow, judging by the way everything sounds like something off Tom Petty's Full Moon Fever. The thing is, Red Letter Days is not bad, really; it's just not there.

It's music that's deader than dead. It's like a billboard that says, "Bob Dylan's child is back, bringing that roots-rockin' adult alternative sound from 1992 into the bright new day that is 2003, and thank you, Jesus, because those kids in Detroit, with their sexually charged, deconstructed rock 'n' roll, are just about ruining everything."

I just wish they would stop putting those stupid organs on everything. Every Wallflowers song has these squiggly organs that are supposed to make you think it sounds just like The Basement Tapes or something. It's the same thing as the stupid trick of singing through a megaphone to make your voice sound like it's coming from out of the past. Bullshit. The Wallflowers play Wed/22, Fillmore, S.F. (415) 421-TIXS. (Mike McGuirk)

Bad Company U.K.
Shot Down on Safari (System)

British stadium-rock dinosaurs Bad Company and British drum 'n' bass collective Bad Company U.K. have more in common than anyone would think: both have a penchant for rather daft "rock" outfits, both have released "greatest hits" compilations, and both have become known for a proto-heavy metal sound. But while Bad Company the rock band hasn't improved with age, jungle's four-man powerhouse Bad Company U.K. are only getting better, their gut-twisting bass lines and anthemic melodies proven to rock stadiums of ravers from London to Los Angeles.

Bad Company U.K.'s first two albums, Inside the Machine and Digital Nation, showcased their genre-defining sound, in which growling synthetic low-end dry-humped snarling techno sounds and resolutely fierce and fast breakbeat loops. Epic breakdowns and soaring melodies (mined from atypical influences such as the Doors) distinguished the crew. Both records proved lethal in the clubs but were still too underground to lure anyone but die-hard drum 'n' bass lovers and the odd speed metal fan, who might be enticed by the pace and swagger of Bad Company's work.

Shot Down on Safari shows the group stretching beyond bombast, creating tracks that are gripping with and without their trademark menace. Machine-made snarls and bleeps still play a central role, but they are soldered together with limber vocals on the summery "Wednesday," woven into a vague Latin swing on "Dr. Shevago," and crafted into a virtual electronic zoo on the chirping, animalistic "The Hornet." As a bonus to listeners curious to hear Bad Company's audio journey to becoming the rock stars of drum 'n' bass, an accompanying mix CD – Best of the Bad – features 21 of the quartet's anthems loosely sewn together. The Bad Company boys aren't the most talented DJs, but the CD is worth a listen because it contains nearly every B.C. 12-inch that's ever detonated a dance floor. "Planet Dust," "The Nine," and "Son of Nitrous" are included, but there's not an "All Right Now" in sight. (Vivian Host)

Cuica
City to City (Ubiquity)

Spicing up house music with Brazilian rhythms and instrumentation is not exactly a new recipe, but done right, it can be tasty. Englishman Peter Herbert and Milan-based Simone Serritella's first album for Ubiquity Records as Cuica certainly has the quality ingredients, but it is the pair's expertise as in-demand DJs that really makes City to City work. Steering clear of the too-busy, muddy sound that often curses records using big doses of Latin percussion, they craft a collection of pared-down cuts designed to get you on the floor and keep you dancing.

Herbert and Serritella play other roles in the music industry (Herbert formerly ran London's legendary Atlas record shop and does A&R for Quango; Serritella started the Solaria label and now runs Arision), and their experience wading through myriad possibilities to find the few that work is reflected in the deceptively basic hooks that propel each track. Simple, repetitive notes underlie "Double Blues," but the key and tone lend a deliciously melancholy feel to a haunting song with a minimally techno feel. On "Nights over Vauxhall" (the one track that showcases the cuica, or Brazilian drum), three discreet, descending tones form a bed for layers of percussion, syrupy keyboard, and funky, echoing guitar.

Despite an attention to the dance floor that occasionally lends City to City an almost DJ-tool air, Herbert and Serritella manage to keep the listener engaged with song structures that allow for breaks and development, like the multitempo excursions of "Meirising Pt. 2/3," which spends the last two of its nine minutes in a stately samba half the speed of the previous seven. Cuica may not have a blindingly original formula, but their interpretation is definitely a winning one. (Peter Nicholson)

Chitlin' Fooks
Did It Again (Palomine/Hidden Agenda)

Not to be confused with Britney Spears's similarly titled second album, the sophomore effort from Chitlin' Fooks proves that the stunning old-style country of their 2001 self-titled debut was no fluke. Not that you'd be blamed for harboring doubts: with track records including stints in alt-rock refugees Bettie Serveert and psych-pop project Sukilove, respectively, the Netherlands' Carol van Dyk and Belgium's Pascal Deweze aren't exactly shoo-ins for the Duo Most Likely to Torch 'n' Twang. It wasn't just musically impressive, then, that their first collaboration in modern Americana sounded so stunningly authentic – it was recent memory's most improbably successful genre-jump.

On the aptly titled Did It Again, the Fooks stick close to the stylistic stomping grounds of that debut. Once again playing Emmylou Harris to Deweze's Gram Parsons, van Dyk soars so far above the material that it's a wonder Nashville hasn't come a-knockin' with a million-dollar contract. Deweze is no slouch at the mic, either, but the Fooks are clearly van Dyk's shining moment. "I lie to myself and I call it defense," she sings on "Sorry," the muted melancholy in her voice turning your average tear-in-your-beer banality into anything but corny, alt-country caricature.