Grooves
Radiohead
Hail to the Thief
(Capitol)
Mogwai
Happy Songs for Happy People (Matador)
Radiohead are alt-rock's unlikeliest heroes. At the risk of sounding
like a pop amnesiac, I wonder how they went from the bald Nirvana rip-off
of "Creep" to the near universal reverent regard that has
accompanied their sixth studio album, Hail to the Thief. Ballyhooed
as a return to the accessible yet high-minded hook rock of OK Computer,
Thief is a departure from the glacial, Floyd-fixated prog of
Kid A – not that Radiohead have gotten out of their royal
mope. Despite the effects-driven guitars, the skittery rhythms, and
a spattering of Autechre-style beats, Thom Yorke is still in a funk,
albeit a restless one, as he grouses about other party poopers
in "A Punchup at a Wedding," bemoans emotional and Enron-esque
messes on "Backdrifts," and laments that anxious, magical
phrase at dusk on "The Gloaming." Yet I don't buy the everlasting
glooming and dooming. Yorke makes his ethereal whine work for him amid
the sputtering, nervous rock of "2 + 2 = 5" and the elastic
noise of "Myxomatosis," and both songs hint at life after
sucky times. You're almost relieved at the appearance of the urban-horror
scat in the Beatles-as-Brothers Grimm adult lullaby of "A Wolf
at the Door." Yorke has a pretty voice, but is his brand of romantic,
passive drift what we need now?
Back in Kid A territory, Mogwai have returned to the milder
and wilder shores of post-rock with their fourth album, Happy Songs
for Happy People. The mostly mute Glaswegian four don't quite get
happy here – their morose, taciturn moods make them fair to compare
to 'Head, who seem like pop stars in contrast. Safe to say Mogwai's
gorgeous soundscapes are as reliable as the tide: they crescendo quietly
and effectively ("Kids Will Be Skeletons"), bathe in downright
pretty feedback ("Boring Machines Disturb Sleep"), and rise
to headbanging heights ("Ratts of the Capital"). You suspect
they're just a breath, beat, and hopeless love song away from an alt-rock
hit themselves. Mogwai play Mon/23, Bimbo's 365 Club, S.F. (415)
474-0365. (Kimberly Chun)
Evan Dando
Baby I'm Bored
(Bar None/Breath of Salt Water)
Like calling a band Garbage, naming an album Baby I'm Bored
begs for the obvious one-word response: indeed. Considering it's been
seven years since the Lemonheads' swan song, Car Button Cloth,
however, Evan Dando's first solo studio disc can't afford to simply
live up to the punch line of its title – it needs to prove he's
more than just an aging alt-pop pinup. Bored, unfortunately,
makes no such effort: a collection of acoustic pop and country-lite
rock, the album may not be an outright clunker, but it's far too nondescript
to regain the college rock crown of Dando's Lemonheads days.
Not that his previous band was particularly interesting, either. Its
biggest (the "Mrs. Robinson" cover) and best ("Into Your
Arms") hits were fun but frivolous, and Dando was far more famous
for his drug love and love life than for his music. Still, Bored
will disappoint everyone without the lowest of expectations: despite
high-profile pals like Jon Brion and Ben Lee helping out, the songwriting
here is so dull and monotonous that it's a little troubling to believe
it took him years to make Bored. As he sings midway through the
album, "Honey, it looks like you got some explaining to do."
Evan Dando plays June 27, Bottom of the Hill, S.F. (415) 621-4455.
(Jimmy Draper)
Trüby Trio
Elevator Music
(Compost)
Titling their long-awaited debut album with one of many derogatory
labels applied to a sound they helped define, Trüby Trio have met
their critics head-on and come out smelling like roses. A rather pleasant
surprise, this, as months ago I'd followed my baser, trendy instincts
elsewhere and wasn't expecting to love yet another hyped release from
Munich's Compost Records. But with Elevator Music, Roland Appel,
Christian Prommer, and Rainer Trüby have given their fans, and
plenty of swanky cocktail hours, the perfect sounds for summer.
The three producers got together in 1997, but they were already well
established on their own, Appel and Prommer for their drum 'n' bass
fusion as Fauna Flash and Trüby both as a DJ and as compiler of
the Glücklich albums of Brazilian-influenced dance sounds. Prommer
and Appel's training as drummers informs the percussion-heavy sound.
But rather than letting intricate polyrhythms overwhelm other elements,
Elevator Music is full of sweet melody and tonal tension drawing
on Trüby's vast knowledge of Brazilian music.
Warm vocals, courtesy of such guests as Marcus Begg and Wumni, are
central to the album's success, lending an emotional immediacy to the
tracks they grace. Joseph Malik threatens to steal the show on one of
Elevator Music's literally downtempo tracks, "Bad Luck,"
with his soul-soaked delivery (never has "bad motherfucker"
sounded so deliciously sad). Despite having outlived their 15 minutes
(in fact, at 72 minutes and change, the CD is a tad bloated), Trüby
Trio show that the real reason they're so hyped is because they're so
damn good. Trüby Trio perform Sat/21, Club Six, S.F. (415) 863-1221.
(Peter Nicholson)
Various artists
Amoeba Compilation
Vol. IV (Hip-Hop Slam/Amoeba)
I dropped by Amoeba Music in Berkeley last week and left $150 lighter
clutching a handful of CDs, including a pair by 4-Tay and Luther Vandross's
fabulous Dance with My Father. Looking back, I didn't need
Aretha Franklin's Platinum and Gold just to hear "I Knew
You Were Waiting," her duet with George Michael, nor was Bill Withers's
reissued Still Bill essential – I rarely listen to either
of the originals on my shelf. But no regrets, because for $5.98 (five
dollars and ninety-eight fucking cents, for crissakes) I came away with
Amoeba Music Compilation Vol. IV, which, among the 39 cuts, features
several very fine songs, including Balanceman's "Soup or Spy,"
Mr. Lif's "EarthCrusher (DJ Pone's Destruct and Paste Remix),"
and former Loved One Bart Davenport's "Miami Afternoon." The
highlight – and were it not for this cut I wouldn't be writing
any of this – was a haunting memoir called "Red Dirt,"
by Tim'm, who repeats a bass-drum-guitar figure so spare that to call
it a groove seems extravagant and over which he sings, "Of all
the places I've been to on this great earth / I'll always remember where
I come from, red dirt." Tim'm is best known (to me anyway) as a
member of the Deep Dickcollective and has an album coming out called
Songs from Red Dirt. When I play it upon waking, as I have for
five days straight, I remember that along with everything else, the
world we inhabit is capable of moments resonating with a quiet power,
with dignity, no small thing in this undignified age. Amoeba employees
contributed 24 of the 39 cuts, a clue to the ambitious minichain's success,
and if you listen to the dizzying assortment of styles and sounds, your
personality will fragment and all will be lost. Amoeba bands play
at Amoebapalooza Sat/21, Bottom of the Hill, S.F. (415) 621-4455.
(J.H. Tompkins)
