stinky hot slabs:
THE SUMMER OF '08 BATCH
- JOHNNY DOWD
- JASON COLLETT
- GARY LOURIS
- DAMHNAIT DOYLE
- LADYHAWK
- JANET
- DOLLY PARTON
- YAEL NAIM
- MARK PICKEREL
- SPIRAL BEACH
- STEVE REID ENSEMBLE
- KAMERA
- ANDY SWAN
- HOT CHIP
- MATTHEW BARBER
- LIZZ WRIGHT
- THE RAVEONETTES
- ROBERT FORSTER
- BILLY BRAGG
- LENNY KRAVITZ
- TEENAGE HEAD
- RAMBLIN' AMBASSADORS
- EUGENE RIPPER
- HILOTRONS
- E.S.L
- THE ORCHID HIGHWAY
- OLD 97'S
- PAS CHIC CHIC
- DOLLY PARTON & PORTER WAGONER
- TAMMY WYNETTE & GEORGE JONES
JOHNNY DOWD
A DRUNKARD'S MASTERPIECE (Bongo Beat)
What business does Johnny Dowd have making records? Imagine a moving man with no knowledge of music structure taking rock and roll for his mid-life mistress. You'd think a red Ferrari would do, but no. Stranger still, in spite of his obvious shortcomings - a dreary monotone, an obsession with the seedy side, torturous pacing - Dowd is now well into an established career in music. Stranger still is the new record. After carving a rusty niche for himself with a distinct voice, Dowd not only shares, but often yields vocals to Kim Sherwood. Why the hell would you want someone else, especially one with a soothing female delivery, delivering your pulp fiction tales? So many questions, with nary a solid answer in sight, and that has been the key to Dowd's work from day one. Nothing makes sense, but it works. "A Drunkard's Masterpiece" works. Works as crazy three part Opus, in which Dowd shows a formidable pen and a knack for churning out some killer beat noire melodies. Huh.
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JASON COLLETT
HERE'S TO BEING HERE (Arts & Crafts)
Yet another splinter from the Broken Social Scene tree, Jason Collett will no doubt receive microscopic attention on his quite fine solo outing. Good thing too, since understated folk pop gems like this tend to fly way below any conventional radar (see Matt Keating). Collett can mosey up to the new Dylan bar and rub elbows with any of the scruffy faced alt-country troubadours out there. His sparse, intricate arrangements are perfect for a laconic drawl of a well weathered voice. The lazy, ho-hum tunes develop slowly, but they do evolve, into one perfectly sequenced forty-seven minute listen. Collett doesn't have a knockout punch single buried in here, but what he does have is a record that'll stand the test of time. Nice.
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GARY LOURIS
VAGABONDS (Ryko)
Perhaps we should all face facts: The Jayhawks are no more - let's move on. Gary Louris seems to have realized that without songwriting partner and chief harmonizer Mark Olson along for the ride, the facade he called The Jayhawks was an altogether different (and sadly, inadequate) beast. With his first proper solo record, Louris ignores his recent rock leanings in favour of angelical, fragile country lullabies and weepers. It's a damn fine attempt at rekindling what made his earlier work so indispensable, but without crescendoing waves to break the monotony, it just feels plain empty. Vagabonds is half an album, full of beautiful playing and singing, but lacking a rhythm to make it memorable. Maybe next time.
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DAMHNAIT DOYLE
LIGHTS DOWN LOW (Turtle Music)
Damn if this ain't the Damhnait Doyle record we've all been dreaming about! Not sure why it took so long, but this inexplicably easy formula - a covers a record performed by a fetching lass with a distinct voice - is really a no-brainer. Fruition of said idea is one thing, but the toyingly sweet arrangements and deft musician backing by clever boy genius Danny Michel give this cliched record a wealth of irresistibility not usually found on these types of endeavours. For instance: revamping the bombastic arena rock of Cheap Trick's "I Want You To Want Me" into a sultry croon replete with toy piano tinkling is sheer genius. Just wait till you hear Doyle sexy up The Clash and Joy Division. Misstepping only slightly with renditions of the ridiculously overrated Foo Fighters, and the cover master himself Bryan Ferry (how redundant), Doyle loses content marks and has to settle for near perfection.
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LADYHAWK
SHOTS (Jagjaguwar)
Whilst Canadians turn their focus on the exploding Montreal and Toronto scenes, the west coast continues to forge ahead with great, bludgeoning, stoner hard rock, and out of control facial hair. With links to trend setters Black Mountain (who often guest star on stage and record), Ladyhawk's penchant for spliff induced riff rock should come as no surprise (spliff rock?). It's a messy guitar wigout with soaring vocals and clash-happy drumming. As with the Mountain, there is an undeniable pop charm lurking beneath all that macho posturing. After all, give the lads a set of razors and what you have left is just a boy band.
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JANET
DISCIPLINE (Island)
DOLLY PARTON
BACKWOODS BARBIE (Dolly)
Ah yes, the battle of the bosom: Janet vs. Dolly. Dropping the Jackson name, Janet has been auspiciously quite since her boob on the tube incident years back, but enough time has passed since the national television flash that we can sit down again and listen for what she's worth. And sadly, it ain't much. When Janet was hot, she was really hot. But there's only so much "of the moment" excitement you can ride, and a talent like her's, which depends solely on the fickle nature of the current teenybopper preferences, can only hope to catch the right wave. Here Janet is sorely out of date with a series of lame, vampy soul ballads (is that a clavinet I hear?). They ruin the album, which only works when peppy dance numbers like the fetching thumper "So Much Betta" blast forth. She looks great, but she sinks. Over to the floater. Just how long can Dolly Parton play the Daisey Mae shtick is anyone's guess, but one scary facial close up reveals all that nipping and tucking is about to unravel in a nasty way. Still the lady has spunk, prancing around the barn with high heels, and covering a couple of irresistible chart nuggets from days past to reel us in. Countrifying Motown should be blasphemy but a clever version of "The Tracks of my Tears" is actually quite palpable, and is Dolly coming out with "She Drives Me Crazy"? What a card. She fills out the record like her push up bra: with fluffy substance. "Backwoods Barbie" is a nice return to her Grand Ole Opry form before rhinestones ruined everything. While Parton clearly enjoys poking fun at herself, Jackson just seems too damn serious. The winner by a D-cup: Dolly.
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YAEL NAIM
YAEL NAIM (tot-Ou tard / Warners)
You've been grooving to Yael Naim for weeks. No really. Her's is the whimsical, enchanting voice imploring you to buy the new MacBook Air. Much like Feist's whimsical, enchanting voice implored millions to buy the new iPods. Never underestimate the power of the multi-media! Though nothing else on the album has the infectious lure of "New Soul", there is plenty here for a pleasant early afternoon listen. Naim comes out of a Jewish community in Paris, via Tunisia, and manages to touch on all aspects of her upbringing in a gentle global record. Soft French pop chansons and throaty Hebrew numbers mix with esoteric beats for an enticing sound Steve Jobs found irresistible. You will too.
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MARK PICKEREL
CODY'S DREAM (Bloodshot)
It may be about time to revisit the Screaming Trees legacy. The (seemingly) forgettable long haired arm of noisy grunge has now spawned two solo performers of note. Following Mark Lanegan, Mark Pickerel (a tale of two Marks?) takes his place among the most interesting songwriting performers of the day with this, his second solid slab. Unfairly slotted in the alt-country heap, Pickerel offers much more than a twangy delivery. His rich, evocative voice sets cinematic moods much like Robert Forster of the Go-Betweens, or Nick Cave for that matter. "Cody's Dream" is certainly swirling in dark matter, but Pickerel mood-swings it back and forth between gloomy dirges and lush pop numbers, giving it a magical ugly beauty feel. The anthemic, push-pull masterpiece "Deep Inside Your Shade" is one the year's best recorded moments, and the centrepiece of a brilliant album. Just goes to show not all drummers are fated for a Spinal Tap ending.
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SPIRAL BEACH
BALL (Sparks)
Lousy cover, great record. Hey, you can't have everything. Just close your eyes and bliss will follow. Spiral Beach have the fountain of rock youth exuberance going on. They throw themselves into every song like it was an inevitable bubble gum chart topper that'll have the teenage population bouncing off their bedroom walls all weekend. These feel-good spunky tunes borrow from the golden age of snarling female new wave; a couple of months back in 1980 when the beat was the thing, before the synths took over. Bow Wow Wow, The Waitresses, Bush Tetras, Martha & The Muffins - that crowd. Not that this is dated. No sir. Spiral Beach crank out enough heavy guitar riffs (they weren't invented back then) to stay clear of the dreaded retro tag. Catchy, fresh and fun. What more do you need?
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STEVE REID ENSEMBLE
DAXAAR (Domino)
Steve Reid may be the ultimate skins legend for hire (Miles Davis, Fela Kuti, Sun Ra, Marvin Gaye anyone?), but here he shows someone behind the stars can also step up and deliver the goods when the time is right. Reed takes his African influence to heart by having Isa Koyate open the album with a traditional Senegalese welcome, before sifting cultures with the magical title track. The transition from continent to continent (ending up in North America of course), fusing old school beats with current electronics courtesy of Kieran Hebden is as fetching as it is seamless. You know the old dog / new tricks saying? It ain't happenin' here.
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KAMERA
RESURRECTION (Nettwerk)
Holy flashback Batman. Who on earth would think it a grand idear to resurrect the early eighties new wave synth corpse? Those pesky Scandanavians that's who. And boy oh boy do they ever have their skinny tie, straight legged black jean action goin' on. Kamera certainly seem to be taking their craft very seriously, right down to the period album graphics. Anyone longing for a fresh continuation of the Spoons/Blue Peter/Strange Advance Canuck legacy of lively but forgettable choppy dance anthems will surely hug the heck out of this one.
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ANDY SWAN
ANDY SWAN'S OTTAWA (Kelp)
When Andy Swan asks "Can I pay you with sunshine?", he's really asking about the whereabouts of the long lost Canadian music staple: the feel good, giddy pop country nugget folks like Gordon Lightfoot, Anne Murray and Ian Tyson used to crank out. It's a deliciously silly piece of simple innocence that seems a bit out of time. But is it? Swan plays off his uncanny country charmers like "The Sound of Snowflakes Falling" with subversive odes like "Brian Jones" and "Starfucker" without skipping a knee-slapping beat. It's a formula (infusing excellent and honest country rock playing with a good heaping of humour) that Corb Lund has parlayed into Juno gold. Swan may be part of the steadfast independent Canuck alt-country clique, but his product is major in every way.
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HOT CHIP
MADE IN THE DARK (EMI)
Is there anything worse than having a giddy crush on a record? The kind that immediately grab you, force you into spastic gyrations on the dancefloor, thump deep through every vein and fire all those dormant neurons? The kind that take you on a higher plane where little else matters. It becomes the lone sustenance required. It is all encompassing. In a word: Mojotatsic. With hot Chip it is sugary pop ditties mixed with stomping dance anthems with enough killer rock riffage to bring it. Kinda like gravy on pizza: it's so good that it's bad, or it's so bad that it's good. Whatever. When there's a call to get the headphones on, you best follow orders. And after a couple of glorious, sweaty weeks it will disappear just like all those other ear candy flings, and you will crash back to that daily existence grind with a face-slapping thud. So no, there is nothing worse. Hot Chip I loathe thee, and I'm sure I'll have to revisit thee when it comes time to capsule the year's grooviest singles.
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MATTHEW BARBER
GHOST NOTES (Outside)
Sometimes a record just feels right. Matthew Barber may not change, rock or rule your world, but he will definitely add some sweet music if allowed. Yup this is the dreaded folk-pop, singer-songwriter no man's land, where most albums go to die, or at least stay on store shelves collecting dust. Yet every now and then one catches the public's fancy and inexplicably explodes. "Ghost Notes" certainly has enough charming moments to sway the populace - "I'm Gonna Settle My Accounts With You" for instance - and make Barber the leading contender for the Canadian Jack Johnson pulpit.
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LIZZ WRIGHT
THE ORCHARD (Verve)
Now that all that industry buzz has had a chance to settle (a couple of misfire albums will do that), Lizz Wright and her formidable pipes may get on with it. Weaving seamlessly between folk, jazz, blues, pop and best of all, gospel, Wright can certainly handle a mike. Though a surprisingly subtle album, "The Orchard" is a keeper. Covering Led Zep and Ike Turner, and having the Calexico rhythm section on board shouldn't make any sense, but Wright brings it all together in a wonderful gumbo of an album. Cassandra Wilson once made special records like this, and the comparison doesn't hurt a bit.
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THE RAVEONETTES
LUST LUST LUST (Vice)
Everyone's favourite he/she Euro fuzz pop duo return with another delicious slice of music mayhem. No longer limited to one key, The Raveonettes offer up a veritable key chain of music. Still it does tend to sounds all so same, unless you stumble upon the secret listening formula: draw the blinds, start the bubble projector and crank the amps to eleven. This is Velvet Underground with Nico magic with some Jesus and Mary Chain bubblegum feedback. It's a glorious sonic wall that requires cooperation on your part to extract full pleasure. Recommended for scenesters who wear sunglasses indoors, and are not ashamed to show off their go-go booted moves in a dance cage. Yeah baby!
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ROBERT FORSTER
THE EVANGELIST (Yep Roc)
There is grandiose majesty in the sadness here. Forster's croon is a wallow, the piano is gently caressed one key at a time, and a violin cries in the background. "Why why why" Forster pleads on the remarkable "From Ghost Town", a striking eulogy to his recently departed Go-Betweens co-conspirator Grant McLennan. Sappy yes, but oh so beautiful. Few can master heartbreak like Forster, and this is one of his best. Solo albums in the past have trodden on the well worn lost love path, but here Forster channels his music in a new direction, offering an ode to a partner he often quarrelled with but created scintillating pop masterpieces with. A couple of late in life collaborations with McLennan round out what is truly a fitting tribute.
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BILLY BRAGG
MR LOVE AND JUSTICE (Anti-)
Me, I like Billy with a band. There's only so much of that scruffy voice and scruffy guitar and scruffy politics I can digest, unless some soothing, soulful accompaniment offers some counter balance. Remember "Levi Stubb's Tears"? Now THAT was a record. My wish comes true on Billy's debut for the wonderful Anti- Record label (what is their bloody secret?). Anyone enjoying Billy riding around with Wilco on the Woody Guthrie albums will surely rejoice at the full sound offered up here. Billy's also stretching his writing skills, showing a wide ranging scope and new maturity in his melodies. Of course the lyrics remain as sharp as ever, even under the guise of more personal material. It's a great transition album, showing a diversity we all knew was brimming under all that spit. At long last a record to really Bragg about.
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LENNY KRAVITZ
IT'S TIME FOR A LOVE REVOLUTION (Virgin)
Obviously smarting from my relentlessly scathing dissection of his last vinyl turd ("Lenny needs some slapping"), King Kong Kravitz reloads with the heaviest arsenal a studio could put to tape without spontaneous combustion. Blending the best of seventies excess rock (big time dinosaur guitar attacks), with the whomp of nineties white metal rap, and his own inimitable pompous funk stylings, Kravitz throws up a cross-generation cookie for the masses. Playing "date the nicked riff" couldn't be any more enjoyable. Never mind that Lenny runs out of steam, ideas and mojo by track eight (hey, he's getting up there); this is no doubt, the baddest arena album of his insistent career. Besides you get a free ringtone ... (waiting for the roar to subside). The apprenticeship of Lenny Kravitz continues.
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TEENAGE HEAD
WITH MARKY RAMONE (Sonic Unyon)
What folly is this? Who needs newly recorded versions of Stink Town (Hamilton) punksters Teenage Head, with some silly street cred draw with a remaining Ramone (who's left?) on board? Turns out I've been asleep longer than I thought. All those glorious garage rockabilly anthems like "Top Down", Let's Shake" "Picture My Face" and "Teenage Drinkin' Party" went down a couple of generations ago, thus chances of readers actually recognizing the titles in this sentence may be nought. So here's the turnabout: go ye younguns and procure the Teenage Head, for it is a sound so fetching there is little doubt who should rule the moshpits like they did back in '79. Frankie Venom still has the pipes (and the prima donna eccentricities) of a true frontman, Gord Lewis can still manipulate a few chords into something head bob enticing, and Marky Ramone shows he may still be the best 1-2-3-4 skins man in the game. This really is "Some Kinda Fun".
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RAMBLIN' AMBASSADORS
VISTA CRUISER COUNTRY SQUIRE (Mint)
Brent Cooper is jumping straight up and down, like on a pogo stick. Up and down, up and down. Seems like forever. It's a memory locked into my "all time great gig memories". You see Brent was playing a kick ass surf guitar at the time, all sparkly and shiny - he was a glowing blur of impeccable string plucks. That was in the heady days when Huevos Rancheros were plying their instrumental trade. Now Cooper bends similar metal wires for the Ramblin' Ambassadors. The exquisite garage surf sounds are still there, but added to his Dick Dale axe mastery, Cooper offers a bit of flaky Austin Powers style mojo to his playing. There's a definite cheekiness the fabulous dozen trinkets on display here. As guitar slinger records go, this is a doozy.
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EUGENE RIPPER
FAST FOLK UNDERGROUND (Ind)
The Ripper's at it again. Just when I finally managed to pigeonhole him, Eugene adds a new wrinkle to his expanding repertoire. It only takes a couple of bars but there it is: a sultry, seething funk groove, something like Tom Wilson has been rummaging in. Both were early punk icons on the Ontario scene who turned acerbic folkies, so it makes sense to continue the parallel. Especially since the groove is so damn delicious. Ripper gears down with each successive tune until he reaches a sombre nadir with "Alberta" and the spirited "Banks of Newfoundland". If your hand isn't over your heart by then, and there's not a tear in yer eye, then you need to switch prescription. And all this on a teency weency four track EP. We need more Eugene. More!
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HILOTRONS
HAPPYMATIC (Kelp)
Damn the sneaky sweet "knock knock knock" refrain in "Comrade Elvis". Damn it all to hell. Insidious pop hooks as such litter this puppy, and mark my words folks, you will be singing these dastardly snippets at all hours of the day. This will slow the glorious capitalist assembly line and cause major disruption in our work days, grinding the economy to a crawl not seen since The Cars unleashed their addictive attack three decades past. Sure there are fancy musical stylings trying to mask this album for what it really is. With plenty of heart-wrenching vocals, the odd surf and turf guitar, and a bevy of deceptive style curves, the Hilotrons play at big time music, but truth is they are clever masters of the classic pop single, and there's a baker's dozen here to gobble up.
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E.S.L
EYE CONTACT (Jericho Beach Music)
"A band of bohemians in white gowns prancing about in the forest" alert! Actually E.S.L. may not be doing much prancing since there's a piano along for the ride, but you get the drift. Four ladies who've seen too many Kate Busch videos, mix fetching original orchestral pop with covers of Neil Young and Lou Reed (no really). Cello and violin eschewing the standard guitar and bass set up makes for a distinct sound indeed. One that'll lead to comparisons with fello cello chick outfit Rasputina, though E.S.L. resist the former's urge to rock out, preferring to bend their strings instead of breaking them. The result is a nicely haunting collection of dreamy pastoral tunes.
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THE ORCHID HIGHWAY
THE ORCHID HIGHWAY (Rainbow Quartz)
Classic rock complete with heavy duty organ fills, soaring guitar leads, and swanky sideburns, is what The Orchid Highway put on the table. Twelve string guitars and Marshall stacks is where it's at. Dipping into Faces, Doors, Kinks and Floyd territory means desperate FM stations hungry for extinct dinosaurs will be all over this, and frankly, they could do a lot worse. These Vancouver lads honed their pop chops in England before returning to Canuck soil to unleash their coming out album. An excursion, as it turns out, well worth the ticket. Forget reminiscing about swinging London, cuz here's the psychedelic soundtrack. All they're missing is the lousy teeth. Yeah baby!
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OLD 97'S
BLAME IT ON GRAVITY (New West)
Few remember that Alt-country music was basically ushered in by three bands: Uncle Tupelo, Whiskeytown and Old 97's. And whereas the former two have gone on to fame, if not infamy (Wilco, Sun Volt, Ryan Adams), the band named after Johnny Cash's train just kinda spun their wheels. After several tepid, mid-career albums they lost their distinct voice when Rhett Miller decided on a (thankfully brief but inevitable) solo turn, and remained well out of any spotlight since. Fast forward to now. "Blame It On Gravity" picks up like it was 1996 all over again. You know: reading No Depression, wearing cowboy boots, not shaving, scouring vinyl stores for Gram Parson albums. Great jangly guitars, honey sweet harmonies, Miller's deceptively clever wordplay and some lap steel magic makes for a pretty fine listen. Sometimes a little retro ain't such a bad thing. This is after all what the Old 97's do best, and there's no reason to try and teach this old dog any new tricks.
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PAS CHIC CHIC
AU CONTRAIRE (Semprini)
Quebec's long standing love affair with prog rock continues to this day. With swirling orchestral overtures (is that a mellotron?), airy angelic harmonies, and pulsing electronic beats, Pas Chic Chic could easily be dismissed as King Crimson apers, but their spirited and fresh approach (no parody here folks, this is for real) infers they are serious about their well honed art. This is seemingly an album way out of time, but with the recent bombastic indulgences in the Montreal scene (started by Godspeed! You Black Emperor, and recently explored by Arcade Fire), a further step back in time to the roots of all that is progressive was indeed inevitable. A surprisingly nice listen. Wonder what the light show is like?
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DOLLY PARTON & PORTER WAGONER
DUETS (Sony / BMG)
TAMMY WYNETTE & GEORGE JONES
DUETS (Sony / BMG)
There she was standing by her man - even through the tough times (the wide lapel and helmet hair seventies) - Tammy Wynette sang her way to repeated country chart action with hubbie George Jones. The president and first lady of country music had it going on. Few could make the tears well with such jerkers as "Crying Time", "After The Fire Is Gone" and "We Loved it Away". Hurtin' songs offered a nice respite from the guffaw hick shtick HeeHaw perpetrated, and when presented with both voices feelin' the pain, it ensured the feelings resonated with the entire audience. If this was the songbook of crumbling relationships, Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner offered duets about the early, hopeful stages: "We Found It", "We'll Get Ahead Someday" and "Together Always". This was a time before rhinestones and glitter took over the Grand Ole Opry (and Dolly's wardrobe). A time when words reigned supreme, and country music was a cherished, pure American entity; a perfect distraction for the bible belt middle class tired of the distracting, unpatriotic news headlines of the day.
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