Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

America has her share of rock n’ roll heroes: Elvis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Buddy Holly among them. But does she have a band that compete with Britain’s best? It’s a question that’s been circulating for some time among music critics, and one that’s gone largely unanswered despite all the heated debate. The Beatles; the Kinks; the Who; the Rolling Stones; Led Zeppelin; Pink Floyd… What group have we spawned to match their popularity and legacy? The Doors? Too brief a career. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band? Certainly American, but too populous and amorphous to qualify. You, waving your arm wildly in the back there… R.E.M.? Nice try, but still too recent. A strong contender, some say, forgiving the peculiarly American habit of distinguishing the singer from the backing musicians, might be Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Remember them? They’ve been around for three decades with three founding members still intact, and they just may have released one of the best albums of their career. Well, maybe not the best, but Mojo is certainly an attention-grabbing turning point, a look back to the loose, Southern-tongued immediacy of their eponymous debut, and at least in spirit, to Mudcrutch, Petty’s first band. But while 2008’s long-awaited Mudcrutch was a drab, sloppy outing, Mojo pilfers its philosophy of impromptu, bar-bones performances, and eschews all overdubs and studio razzle-dazzle in the rendering. Whatever you call it — “progressive regression” works nicely — Mojo is a band album in the truest sense of the word. They’re no Fab Four, that’s for certain, but neither are they Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders. And the less said about them, the better. — T. Bennison

The Gaslight Anthem
American Slang
Side One Dummy; 2010

It’s one thing for a band to reinterpret music they’re inspired by and another thing entirely for them to simply plagiarize it. Many get away with half-assed apery; a ballsy few even go so far as to claim original invention. Some merely dress the part until another style is exhumed. The Gaslight Anthem, from New Jersey, fittingly, do a little bit of everything. The recognized inheritors of old-fashioned American rock (whatever that is), Anthem have been getting away with murder since the 2008 appearance of debut Sink or Swim, a sonic pastiche of Social Distortion, Meatloaf, and early Bruce Springsteen. Two years on, they’re hailed as rock n’ roll saviors, embraced with equal verve by Warped skaters and pointy-headed hipsters, and, as if to hammer their relevancy home, joined on stage by the Boss. What’s the secret? Sincerity, that’s what. The Gaslight Anthem wear their hearts on their sleeves, and American Slang, their latest release, is the kind of muscle-bound confessional you just don’t hear any more. Sure it’s schmaltzy in places (Want to sound profound? What else is biblical imagery for?), but it gets the job done. It’s also a bit too generic and play-by-numbers to be groundbreaking, but the easy populism it exploits ultimately works to the band’s advantage. American Slang is the difference between empty pose and committed belief, and should be played from your car stereo on nights spent in the full bloom of careless youth (or at least in remembrance of it). Never was there a more soulful soundtrack for bashing mailboxes to. — T. Bennison

The Black Keys
Brothers
Nonesuch; 2010

Every band has that one album, the one that sets them apart from the race, brings them to the radio, and makes people who’ve passed them up simply stop in their tracks. For some bands, it’s their first release, but for bands like The Black Keys, it comes later… like six later. Brothers is that album. In spite of their large catalog of stupendously written and uniquely composed hits, something else happened for TBK on this sixth release. Though 73,000 copies were sold during the first week of its release, Brothers‘ success goes beyond mere numbers; it trickles down from sweet production, foot-tapping, hip-shaking, Pabst-chugging, dirty alley blues-rock that tops everything TBK have recorded thus far. “Next Girl” is sure to be heard on a movie soundtrack, if not coming from the car next to you in traffic very soon. “Everlasting Light” and “The Only One” could be the newest wedding songs for the pre-hipster crowd. “Tighten Up” will make you want to squeeze your “baby child,” and “Howlin’ for You” is like fishnets on Halloween — sinister, lusty, and fun. “Too Afraid to Love You” is an emotional gunfight, standoff-style; “Sinister Kid” pure Auerbach cool; “I’m Not the One” a phoenix of heartbreak; “Unknown Brother” a brotherly-love song for one who’s been lost by the one who got to live, and the airy “Never Gonna Give You Up” is an afro-platform-sequins-’70s song about sugary devotion that’ll make any woman hold her man tighter. But “These Days,” is truly something else: melodic and religiously beautiful. Auerbach delivers it like a swooning, secular apology — for nothing and everything all at once. In short, Brothers is family, and its songs make you part of the Black Keys’. — V. Bormann

Tori Amos
Abnormally Attracted to Sin
Universal; 2009

Confession: I’ve never really been big on Tori Amos. I know, she’s a feminist icon, an activist musician with scruples and morals — a sort of singing Gloria Steinem — as well as a fashion icon and a one-woman wildfire with good marketing presence. I should like her, but I never have. Now Amos fans, bear with me: if she represents anything, it’s change, and this review is here to tell you that with Abnormally Attracted to Sin, I have embraced it. It’s all thanks to “Give.” Then there’s “Strong Black Vine,” “Flavor,” the Vampire Weekend-ish “Not Dying Today,” the Madonnaesque “Police Me,” and several others. The title track reminds me of some kind of sexual journey into adulthood or the entrance into a dreamland, while “Starling” conjures up images of fairies, unicorns, and misty planets. “Fast Horse” is just… amazing. Check out these lyrics: “Girl, you got to find you the man who/Can smoke this out, Bad Medicine/Girl, you got to find you the man who/Can smoke this out, Good Medicine would say/You got you a fast horse darlin’/But all you do is complain it ain’t a maserati/You had a soul that you left back in Memphis/but your mama ain’t New York she is pure Tennessee.” Tori is pure brilliance, and I’m just glad I’ve been able to get past the smoke cloud of ignorance to discover what everyone else has been enjoying all these years. — V. Bormann

Jack Johnson
To the Sea
Brushfire Records/Universal; 2010

Full disclosure: I’ve never really cared too much for Jack Johnson. His stuff strikes me as what you might call “lifestyle music,” an inoffensive soundtrack that goes well with your batik curtains and Quicksilver baggies. Take a loosely reggae-fied strum, throw in some oceanic imagery and a couple of brahs on bongos, and Bob’s your grizzled, longboarding uncle. I know it’s a blasphemous opinion, but it’s also a fact that, depending on how you look at it, makes me either better equipped to critique his latest album, To the Sea, or taints my ability to approach it with unbiased ears. To be completely honest, To the Sea is, as you’d expect, more of the same: mellow, acoustic-based tunes filled with mellow ruminations on the sea and a mellow life lived in tandem with its mellow rhythms. But beware: there’s nary a song here with the catchiness of “Never Know” or “Good People.” In fact, Johnson seems to have exhausted his quiver of hooks here, and the bamboo frame he hammers new songs like “You and Your Heart” into is showing signs of strain. There’s no doubt they’ll grow on Johnson disciples, but to those sitting on the pier railing, To the Sea sounds like a pretty ineffectual argument for paddling out. There’s a difference between enlightened mellowness and comfortable complacency, and To the Sea has a hard time making that distinction. It’s a pleasant enough ride, but nothing close to the memorably epic session you hunger for. — T. Bennison

Toots & the Maytals
Flip and Twist
D&F Music; 2010

It’s been a long time since Toots and the Maytals recorded their first album, Never Grow Old, at Coxsone Dodd’s Studio One back in 1962, but their latest makes it seem like the day before yesterday. Like that debut, Flip and Twist sounds just as fresh and exciting. With its ingenious injection of gospel and soul into a roots reggae sound, Flip recalls the band’s early beginnings as one of the most unique acts to come out of the Jamaican scene during its heyday. Led by Frederick “Toots” Hibbert, and originally called simply the Maytals, the band started out as a vocal trio. Hibbert, Henry “Raleigh” Gordon, and Nathaniel “Jerry” McCarthy all grew up singing in their church choir, and their close harmony gospel style earned them the attention of Dodd, who enlisted his house band, the Skatalites, to back them for their first record. Eclipsing the Wailers in popularity during their start, they changed their name to include Toots, recorded songs for The Harder They Come soundtrack, and released a string of classic singles — “Pressure Drop,” “Monkey Man,” and “Do the Reggay,” which is widely credited with having brought the term “reggae” into common parlance. Flip and Twist further cements their legendary status by returning to original form with songs like the soulful “Almighty Way,” “Higher Ground,” and the blues-inflected “Good Woman.” Nearly 50 years into a career that shows no signs of slowing, Toots and the Maytals don’t just enjoy a prime spot in the reggae pantheon, they were there when the blueprints for it were being drawn. — G. Fortnum

Ray LaMontagne
Gossip in the Grain
RCA/Victor; 2008

Considering how off-the-path singer/songwriter Ray LaMontagne is, it’s amazing how the media has picked up tracks from his third release like they just… belong. You’ve probably heard something from Gossip in the Grain if you’ve seen a Traveler’s Life Insurance commercial (“Trouble”), watched “Grey’s Anatomy” (“Winter Birds”), “Fringe” (“Let It Be Me”) or “House” (“Sarah”), or if you’ve seen the movie “I Love You Man” (“You Are The Best Thing”). But don’t stop there. You can’t sell yourself short on what the media purchased — you have to listen to “Roses and Cigarettes” while driving a country road. You must curl up with “A Falling Through” when your lover leaves. Oh, and definitely share “Meg White” with anyone who likes The White Stripes (yes, he wrote a song to that Meg White). If by some chance none of this has convinced you to iTunes him, I’ll add that he’s a pastoral counter to Ryan Adams. LaMontagne isn’t the kind of artist who’s going to get into a fight at the bar, but he is the crooner who’ll play in the car on the way home from just such a night. He plays for the wild men who make their way home to have their wounds dressed, and gets them thinking about what really matters. — V. Bormann

Etta James
Etta James Rocks the House
Chess; 1964

There’s just something about a live album that reveals an artist’s true soul. I cut my teeth on a 1960s understanding of music: if an artist meets or exceeds the quality of their studio recordings when they play live, they’re pretty much excellent. Since Etta James’s touring ended before my time, I figure Etta Rocks The House is as close as I’ll ever get, and if the album is any indication of her chops, her legendary status is clearly a given. As the muggy summer air settles on me one late evening, a few days after I’ve carried boxes and furniture up and down stairs to move, I find her rocking my house indeed, right down to the wads of packing tape on the floor. Recorded on September 27-28 in 1963 when she played at Nashville’s New Era Club, Rocks is often tagged as her most accomplished live album. With an impressive mix of classic blues covers from Ray Charles, Berry Gordy, Jr., Willie Dixon and B.B. King, there’s a sultry and sweet mix of standards, plenty of sax, and, of course, some moments of ridiculously astounding vocals (see “I Just Want to Make Love to You”). If you don’t move to this album, you’re probably dead. Toss this on at your next BBQ — or you’re if like me, you find yourself surrounded by boxes — turn up Etta and let her carry the crowd into the sunrise. — V. Bormann

Gorillaz

If there’s one thing you can expect from a new Gorillaz album, it’s the unexpected. The brainchild of Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett, this musical collective embraced the talents of Ibrahim Ferrer, De La Soul, Shaun Ryder, and Roots Manuva to stirring effect on past albums Gorillaz (2001) and Demon Days (2007). Plastic Beach, their latest, continues in this tradition with the inclusion of some surprising guests — Mos Def, Bobby Womack, Mark E. Smith, Lou Reed, and Snoop Dog among them — but as thrilling as it sounds at first listen, the album suffers after repeated spins, and seems oddly rote despite the considerable effort it makes to sound otherwise. And that, in many ways, is the gaping pitfall of open-bordered musical postmodernism. Buried African rhythms? Check. Middle Eastern tonalities? Yep. Dance/hip hop sensibilities? R&B smoothness clashing with clunky electronic blips? But of course. Despite this churlish complaint, Plastic Beach does offer a few moments of inspired brilliance (“Empire Ants;” “On Melancholy Hill”; “Broken;” “To Binge”), but they’re all essentially Albarn tracks, devoid of the unfettered, conceptual mishmashery that mars a goodly portion of the album. God love Damon Albarn, but curse his current penchant for unchecked collaboration. — T. Bennison

Paul Weller
Wake Up the Nation
Island; 2010

Lofty business, this rousing an entire country from its slumber, but if anyone’s up to the task, it’s Paul Weller. He kept Britain wide-eyed during his time fronting the Jam (the trio put out a staggering number of hit singles in the late ’70s), had her on the edge of her throne with the Style Council in the ’80s, and fed her pots of strong coffee with a string of admirable solo albums throughout the ’90s. But she finally nodded off this past decade to the sounds of some largely ho-hum material, albums whose individual merits and impressive chart rankings couldn’t save them from acquiring a dull patina. Wake Up the Nation, thankfully, is something entirely different, executed with all the efficiency, immediacy, and snarl of a sharper, more youthful Weller. Dispensing with the experimental, pastoral themes that by 2008’s 22 Dreams had become worrisome trends, Nation is a citified, breathless collection of blurred impressions viewed through the window of a speeding underground train. And while there are some restful station stops (the Phil Spector-ish “No Tears To Cry;” the woozy “Andromeda;” “She Speaks”), Nation works best when it spikes the pulse (“Up the Dosage”) and tunnels back under (“Find the Torch, Burn the Plans”). All in all, an album worth tumbling out of bed for. — T. Bennison

K’Naan
Troubador
A&M/Octone; 2009

There’s something undeniably motivational about K’naan — his song “Dreamer” has been used by the NFL and “Wavin’ Flag” has been remixed for the 2010 World Cup. But beyond his ability to move people through emotion and into action, there’s just something so organic about his work. He celebrates his Somali roots, ironically, in the track “America,” discusses rap’s place in the music world with the help of Metallica’s Kirk Hammett in “If Rap Gets Jealous,” and mentions the Facebook’s role in infidelity on “People Like Me.” K’naan isn’t afraid to try something new, bring some friends along for the ride (like Damien Marley, Mos Def, Maroon 5, and Chubb Rock), and talk about awareness of the problems he carries with him from Africa. Listening to Troubadour, his third album, K’naan comes across as a Somali-Canadian Eminem; if you don’t believe me, you’ll just have to hang out a little while with the stylings of this so-called “Dusty Foot Philosopher.” If you listen to only one K’naan song, “Take A Minute” will say everything about his contribution to music and society. — V. Bormann

Nujabes
Modal Soul
Hyde-Out Productions; 2005

Imagine Miles Davis with turntables and a preference for classical music, and you might get close to what Nujabes sounds like. Regardless of comparisons, he’s truly in a class of his own, with the world in all its parts serving as an obvious influence. If poets are sponges, absorbing the sounds of subways and fireplaces, than Nujabes (born Jun Seba in Tokyo) is a poet DJ. This third release on his private record label shows a creative maturity reminiscent of Common and Remy Shand — part hip-hop genius, part smooth R & B crooning, all soul, and all unique. Guest starring underground American acts such as CYNE, Substantial, and Five Deez, Modal Soul is a collection of collaborations and collages. From radio-play hip hop to smooth jazz and everything between, tracks like “Feather” and “Luv (Sic) Part 3″ explore the plight of humanity and violence with a Zen-like delivery that crosses boundaries and opens eyes. “Eclipse” (featuring Substantial) is the perfect song for an estranged loved one, and with Nujabes’ death in Japan this past February, it’s hard not to listen to it and not think of all those his untimely death left so lonely. — V. Bormann

Massive Attack

Back in the ’90s, Massive Attack (along with Portishead and Tricky) were at the forefront of the original trip hop scene, one that traded the social conscience of its hip hop foundation for ambient introspection and ghostly, downtempo disaffection. The creeping menace that marked Blue Lines (1991), Protection (1994), and Mezzanine (1998), made them albums cornerstones of the genre and each still stands as a powerful musical statement today. But their latest, Heligoland, while couched in their original instrumental and collaborative orthodoxy, is much less effective than it thinks it is. Is it the fault of Andrew “Mushroom” Vowles, Grant “Daddy G” Marshall, and Robert “3D” Del Naja (here reunited as the original central trio) or the result of a changed world? The answer is that it’s a little of both. Showing their age, Massive Attack can’t save the feeble Heligoland from descending into a morass of aimless, defeatist gloom. Even favorite collaborator Horace Andy is rendered impotent; his “Girl I Love You” is all but drained of blood thanks to some indifferent production. Bereft of the perspective and guiding ethos that made their previous albums so great, Heligoland comes across as rather adolescent and irrelevant, its only discernible message one of mopery for its own grey sake. — T. Bennison

Carolina Chocolate Drops
Genuine Negro Jig
Nonesuch; 2010

What’s old is new again is a cliché, sure, but for the Carolina Chocolate Drops, it’s also the musical philosophy on which they hang their finger picks. Unbeknownst to one another, Rhiannon Giddens, Dom Flemons and Justin Robinson had each picked up various “old time” instruments such as the fiddle, kazoo, jug, banjo, and harmonica while in their 20s. Their individual variety and interest in the sounds of yesterday led them to the Black Banjo Gathering in North Carolina back in 2005. It was during these annual Gatherings that the three would meet, swap stories about being outcasts, and ultimately gel as a unit for years to come. Now with their fifth album released, they’ve moved well beyond jamming on a front porch in the Carolinas, but they’re still committed to the value of stirring up the mix. Since their inception, music has been a way for CCD members to hold a public conversation about slavery, African sounds, stigmatized instruments, and the best way to pay homage to their predecessors. Ever heard masterful beatboxing alongside a banjo? How about Blu Cantrell’s “Hit ‘em Up Style” covered with a mesquite Piedmont flavor? Genuine Negro Jig is mountain music meets relevant modernity, and no matter which state you’re from — or what state you’re in — the Drops will get your legs ‘jigging. — V. Bormann

Gil Scott-Heron
I’m New Here
XL; 2010

Gil who? You could well be forgiven for asking. It’s very title an arch, Scott-Heronesque bit of understatement, I’m New Here bashfully assumes ignorance of his previous work, but is clad in the same well-worn togs that earned him initial plaudits in the ’70s with albums like Small Talk at 125th and Lenox and Winter in America. A gifted poet, multi-instrumentalist, and vocalist, Scott-Heron blended spoken word, R&B, jazz, soul, and rap on songs like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” “The Bottle,” “Whitey on the Moon,” and “Johannesburg.” Many vie for the “Godfather of Rap” title, but few are as qualified to claim it. So his latest album (and his first in 16 years) is less of an introduction than a reworking of his original approach, refracted through the lens of self-discovery afforded by a decade spent in and out of prison on drug charges. First single, the desperate, heartbreaking “Me and the Devil” — part sermon, part dirty blues distillation — is an instant classic. Eschewing outraged objectivity in favor of melancholic subjectivity, I’m New Here isn’t so much of a letdown (especially when you consider to the kinetic, revolutionary quality of his earlier work), as it is a bruising reminder of the cost of taking on the system. — T. Bennison

Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros
Up From Below
Vagrant; 2009

From the ashes of a fallout in frontman Alex Ebert’s (formerly of Ima Robot) personal life came the birth of Edward Sharpe, a Jesus-like alter-ego who was supposed to save the earth, but kept falling in love instead. It’s not clear if singer Jade is Edward’s next heart-stop or if their chemistry is purely musical, nor does the lack of clarity matter. The only thing you need to be clear about with regard to ESM0 is that they’re probably very serious about saving the world. Even before the chorus, the first time I heard their single “Home,” I knew ESM0 was a band apart. Every single track on their debut, Up From Below, sounds like celebration and freedom, some kind of lively expression of humanness that’s so easily glossed over by other bands. This ten-member gypsy-gang of messy neo-hippies is timeless and timely, but mostly they remind me what I want to believe in above all else: love, life, and happiness. They’re kicking off their first post-release tour, traveling the country in their white school bus. And until they make it our way, watching them perform via video, it’s clear that their unique authenticity and Jade’s ability to LET GO while performing is truly… “something to see.” With songs about brothers, deserts, black water, redemption, and lust and love written in poetry that recalls to the Beats, ESM0 will get stuck in your head and your heart in all the right ways. — V. Bormann

The Dubliners

ARC; 1988
Recorded in 1976 while founding member Ronnie Drew was on hiatus, A Parcel of Rogues is something of anomaly in the Dubliner’s discography. Known for their boisterous, bearded, rough-and-tumble swagger on stage and off, the band toned things down for this album of thoughtful ballads, probably their best. From the light lilt of opener “The Spanish Lady” to the nursery rhyme-ish “Killieburne Brae,” vocalists Luke Kelly and Drew replacement Jim McCann imbue Rogues with melancholy and yearning. Bracing adept sets of reels with traditional classics like “Foggy Dew,” “Avondale,” and a particularly tearful “Boulavogue,” the band also manage to nod respectfully to their pub-playing roots with the foot-tapping fervor of Ewan MacColl’s “Thirty Foot Trailer,” a wistful goodbye to the passing of tinker ways. — T. Bennison

The Pogues
Red Roses For Me
WEA; 1984

Often dismissed for its tinny production, the Pogues’ debut album captures the untethered raucousness of their legendary live performances. Torch bearers of the Dubliner’s legacy, the Pogues put Irish music back on the map in the mid ’80s and brought it from the smoky pub to the swelling stadium, and though If I Should Fall from Grace with God spawned more hits and Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash is more beloved, Red Roses is the best representation of the band’s rebellious essence. With palpable energy they smash their way through standards like “Waxie’s Dargle,” “Poor Paddy,” and Brendan Behan’s “The Auld Triangle,” and introduce the burgeoning craftsmanship of Shane MacGowan with originals “Transmetropolitan” and “Boys from the County Hell.” MacGowan’s reputation as the most gifted poet of his generation could easily rest on “Streams of Whiskey” alone, evoking as it does the whole past of Irish song and the possibility of its future. Respect for tradition runs in threads from track to track only to be turned on its head and kicked in the face with lyrics like: “At the time I was working for a landlord/And he was the meanest bastard that you have ever seen/And to lose a single penny would grieve him awful sore/And he was a miserable bollocks and a bitch’s bastard’s whore.” Beautiful. — T. Bennison

Christy Moore
Live at the Point
Grapevine; 1994

On Live at the Point Christy Moore becomes one with his crowd, playing with them rather than to them. From the start, you’re immersed in the evening with “Welcome to the Cabaret’s” jaunty gait interspersed with Moore’s own brand of ad-libbed Irish scat. He then falls into a soothing hush with the bittersweet “Natives” and a subdued take on Shane MacGowan’s “Fairytale of New York,” a version so wistful that it threatens to change ownership. Moore then stirs the crowd into a roar with the anti-drinking stomp “Delirium Tremens,” only to fall back once again into some gentle ballads of lost love and longing for home. The definitive balladeer of his generation and one of the finest live performers of any genre, Moore makes Live at the Point one the most masterful performances ever committed to tape. — B. Bennison

The Chieftains
The Long Black Veil
RCA Victor; 1995

When the august Chieftains decided to mix modern pop and rock with the age-old sounds of Éire’s green hills, they may have caused many to spill their pints in shock. But with their eclectic, carefully endered selection of supporting musicians and tunes, the outcome is superb. The band lay a solid, traditional groundwork for the likes of The Stones, Tom Jones, Van Morrison, Sting, Ry Cooder, and Sinéad O’Connor, allowing each to do what they do best. So natural is the sound of Sting singing “Mo Ghile Mear” (“My Gallant Darling”) in Ireland’s native tongue you’d think he’d been raised with Gaelic on his lips. Other tracks include Mick Jagger lending his trademark twang to the fluttering harps and haunting fifes of the title track. A favorite though, has got to be Tom Jones’ rendition of “The Tennessee Waltz,” which plays out so convincingly and flows so naturally, you’d swear it was the original recording. There’s not a duff tune in the bunch, and the outcome reveals the mainstream crossover to be much more bridgeable than the ocean that divides us. — B. Bennison

Paolo Conte

Often described as Italy’s answer to Tom Waits, Paolo Conte, while similarly eccentric and oddly charismatic, bears nothing more than a passing tonal resemblance to the gruff bohemian icon. Conte’s weathered voice supplies plenty of broody mood, but his real charm lies in the way he can shift from style to style — cabaret; Neapolitan folk; jazz; French chanson, and tango — without sounding hackneyed. Whether you know Italian (or French, Spanish or Portuguese, for that matter) or not makes no difference; the force of Conte springs from his deeply emotive expressivity, and the way he effortlessly assumes the identities of the lovelorn characters in his songs. If ever there were an argument for pure emotion’s ability to transcend linguistic barriers, Reveries is it. A collection of some of Conte’s strongest tunes culled from his long career, Reveries is a great introduction to a true master. Give it a spin for a romantic evening; keep it as guidebook for the many dalliances to come. — T. Bennison

Madeleine Peyroux
Dreamland
Atlantic, 1996

Some people see the release of cover albums to be signs of weakness in an artist, but I beg to differ. Madeleine Peyroux has the voice of a pretty little bird, and her ability to cover artists ranging from Patsy Cline (“Walking After Midnight”), Frank Sinatra (“I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter”), Bessie Smith (“Lovesick Blues”) and Edith Piaf (“La Vie En Rose””) on Dreamland shows a great range of both musical inspiration and technical ability. Also, I tend to think that when an artist covers on older tune that they should bring something new to the table, and on that count Peyroux doesn’t disappoint — everything she touches becomes her own. Critics have called her the “21st Century Billie Holiday,” and I can’t help but agree. Her voice has a twist in it that flows through every song — from blues to ballads — and she carries the tune as much as she does the story of how she feels about what she’s paying homage to. Her cover of Billie Holiday’s “Getting Some (Fun Out of Life)” is the perfect V-Day song: “When we want to love, we love/When we want to kiss, we kiss/ With a little petting, we’re getting some fun out of life… Maybe we do the right thing, maybe we do the wrong/But when we want to sing, we sing/When we want to dance, we dance…” Dreamland is a tour of love, French, jazz, folk and of course, dancing. — V. Bormann

Sade
The Best of Sade
Sony, 1994

There’s nothing that isn’t sexy about Sade, and if you’re looking for some mood-making music on V-Day, this album won’t steer you wrong. From the smoky “No Ordinary Love” to a rhythmic “The Sweetest Taboo,” Sade’s sultry voice was made for slow dancing in the dark. “Your Love Is King” is a mid-’80s staple and “Smooth Operator” will remind you of what they play on cruise ships after all the kids have gone to bed. Mixing smooth jazz, R&B, and island flavor, The Best of Sade will help you through the main course and then well into dessert. If you’re lucky, it will help steam up the windows later. Her cover of “Please Send Me Someone To Love” calls back to the jazz standards that have inspired her artistry and shows fans that her signature vocal effects are as voluptuous as they are versatile. Enjoy Sade with someone who gives you the “Kiss of Life.” Just don’t forget to blow out the candles. — V. Bormann

Roxy Music
Avalon
Virgin, 1982

The make-out album of the ’80s only grows sexier as the years progress. Smoothed over with atmospheric soundscapes (courtesy of a budding Brian Eno) and tempered with sultry shades of saxophone, the achingly fragile Avalon remains the definitive soundtrack of the New Romantic movement, which sprung up in response to the comparative nihilism of punk just a few short years before. The songs are a bit on the melancholic side (“Take A Chance With Me;” “True To Life”), but when beautifully crooned by Bryan Ferry — he of the immaculately tailored suits and expertly tousled hair — the sentiment is immaterial. This is the sound of yearning, heartbreak, and fulfillment wrapped up in timeless elegance. If the opening, gasping strains of “More Than This” don’t get the juices flowing, nothing will. Make that the make-out album of all time. — T. Bennison

He may have four names, but you only need to call him by this one: unforgettable. I drove past my destination because I was so wrapped up in this album — not once, but twice. Summer of Fear is an album of pain and sadness; it’s the work of a man who’s worn his heart on his sleeve for most his life. Remembering the past with a reverence one can only have when they’ve spent a lot of time in it, he takes us through loss, relationships, childhood, humanity, death, and of course, fear. “The Sound” will have you at the first chord, “Shake a Shot” will make you remember, and “Gold and Grey” will make it all okay. Robinson’s lyrics are honest, raw, and kind of depressing, but all of that comes in contrast to some ballsy Americana-rock which begs to be played somewhere without fear of reprisals. The bare-bones writing on Summer is the work of an artist who calls it like it is and holds your hand while you work your way through it. Sounding somewhere between Dylan and Petty, Summer of Fear needs to be in your life because it’s about your life.  – V. Bormann

The Avett Brothers
I and Love and You
Sony; 2009

I and Love and You, the Avett Brothers’ eighth full-length release, is the kind of album you put on to just focus on feeling. The title track will wreck you in all the right ways, “January Wedding” will make you wish you played the banjo, and “Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise” is a song for anyone who’s ever been scared to fall in love. “And It Spread” is a pitch-perfect ode to a broken heart, and “The Perfect Space” is about finding your place, while “Ten Thousand Words” is a pure writers’ song. And if “Kick Drum Heart” doesn’t make you dance, then you don’t have a pulse. “Laundry Room” is about the risks we take for love, “Ill With Want” will speak to anyone caught up in what they don’t have, and “Tin Man” is a theme song for the emotionally unavailable. Elsewhere, “Slight Figure of Speech” is a party song that will remind you of some of the Brothers’ greatest hits, “It Goes On and On” is about jumping off the cliff of emotion for someone else, and “Incomplete and Insecure” tells of being inspired to do better despite the urge for self-destruction. As always, the Brothers deliver a fully beautiful package. – V. Bormann

Paul McCartney
Good Evening New York City
Hear Music/Mercury; 2009

It’s not easy being a Paul McCartney fan. In the eternal battle being waged between the Lennon and McCartney camps, Paul usually comes out the loser, not so much for his sappiness, but for the pesky fact that he’s still drawing breath. How can he compete? With four times as many good tunes, is how. Despite their Tin Pan Alley schmaltz, McCartney songs, at their finest, have no peer. He still is the standard by which all songwriters should be judged, both for his prolificacy and his ear for catchy hooks. So how does he fare live? There’s little in the way of the spontaneity or off-the-cuff improvisation that makes the greatest live albums great, but the lack is made up for by the scope covered on this three-disc set (one’s a DVD). “Live and Let Die” appears, as do “Band on the Run,” “Hey Jude,” and “Let It Be,” but Good Evening is exceptional (it’s also his sixth live album since 1990) for its inclusion of comparative sleepers and rarities: “I’ve Got a Feeling”; the brilliant “Calico Skies”; “Mrs. Vandebilt”; “Eleanor Rigby”; “Paperback Writer”; “I’m Down”… the list goes on. At it’s best, Good Evening reminds us (again) that “The Cute One,” though jowly now, still has the power to move epic crowds in the way U2 will by proxy once he’s kicked the bucket. As it stands now, that’s Sir Paul you see up there on stage ruling the roost. – T. Bennison

Various Artists
In The Red Zone: The Essential Collection of Classic Dub
Shanachie, 1997

Dub was born in the early ‘70s of the Jamaican music business’s mean economic circumstances. It was cheaper to put one song on a single than two, so record labels encouraged engineers to liven up instrumental versions of the a-side with echoes, drop-outs, and all manner of studio trickery. The style caught on with the Jamaican record-buying public and expatriates took it to England, where it was championed by punks like The Clash and The Raincoats. Dub’s golden age ended in the early ‘80s when reggae producers turned to dinky-sounding computerized accompaniment, but in the ‘90s the crossover success of Massive Attack and the tireless championing of dub by post-rockers like Tortoise renewed interest in the style and spurred a plethora of reissues. If you want to sample the genre but don’t know where to start, consider this swell, clinker-free collection. It features all the key names and a few undersung obscurities, and it’ll give you a good handle on the virtues of dub as well as the variations worked by its leading practitioners. Using outrageously outmoded gear, Lee Perry processed horns and guitars into unrecognizably psychedelic sounds that swirled around steely bass lines and implacable drums. King Tubby preferred to accentuate unstoppable rhythm tracks by dropping everything else in and out of the mix, while Augustus Pablo essayed indelible melodica solos over gentler, more pastoral rhythms. –- B. Meyer

Bob Dylan

Is nothing sacred? The problem with Christmas In the Heart isn’t that it’s… a collection of Christmas tunes sung by Bob Dylan, for crying out loud, nor that it effectively kicks a doorstop under what should be a deadbolted portal into an exclusive, peppermint-scented room. (What’s next? Bono tackling Handel’s Messiah by his lonesome? Prince’s Christmas In My Pants?). No, the problem with this album is that despite its Mad Lib-inspired idea, it’s actually pretty damn good. Nowhere near the karaoke novelty it first appeared to be and not as solemnly reverential as you might alternately expect, Dylan treats these beloved standards (and a few klezmer/zydeco-styled comedic numbers) as part of the homegrown, populist lore that’s influenced everything he’s done. And if calling the whole thing “Christmas In The Heart” sounds suspiciously like a forewarning of their unimpeachable worth protecting them from Dylan’s increasingly Kermit-like moan, the title is only meant to strengthen the idea of each tune’s adaptability and universal appeal. Through Dylan, these songs become, once again, part of the true public domain — of kindergarten holiday programs and Vienna Boys Choir recitals; of neighborhood caroling and Dean Martin specials. Once you get over the obvious sonic incongruities of hearing him warble “Adeste Fideles” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” Christmas In The Heart settles down nicely with you beside the fire. Jolly good fun. — T. Bennison

JJ Grey & Mofro
Orange Blossoms
Alligator; 2008

If you’re in the mood for something a little down-home, a little dirty, a lot of sweet and a ton of fun, you need to stop and smell the Orange Blossoms. The fourth release from Jacksonville group Mofro, headed by JJ Grey, is just the ticket to warm up your soul during the Florida winter. Already well known for their “swamp funk” sound and their themes of life in the coastal South, this album brings their solid reputation to the next level by adding in a set of blues ballads, including “Dew Drop,” “I Believe (In Everything),” and “She Don’t Know.” A central feature of Mofro’s sound is the hip-moving, foot stomping crooning of Grey, whose almost gospel-like voice is guaranteed to have you closing your eyes in reverence. Complex and pungent, Orange Blossoms will get your joint jumping (see “On Fire”) and your heart strumming (see the title track). Straddling the line between blues greats like Muddy Waters and blues contemporaries like The Black Keys, Mofro strikes a pitch that local Brevard residents will recognize as on par with our own treasure, Josh Miller. — V. Bormann

Edith Piaf
“La Vie En Rose” Original Soundtrack
EMI Classics; 2007

“La Foule” made me fall in love with Edith Piaf. A circus-inspired and regal sounding song about being thrown into a dance with a man just as quickly as a maddening crowd takes him away, it represents the jovial element of her work. At once haunting and beautiful, violent and delicate, strong and feminine, Edith was a complex contradiction and her prolific career demonstrates her inner self in equal measure. The “La Vie En Rose” soundtrack is a collection of her greats. From the infamous title track (which has been covered by artists such as Louis Armstrong, Cyndi Lauper, and Donna Summer) to the war song “Heaven Have Mercy” and the passionate “Padam Padam,” we experience the songs that play through and with her life. To listen to her music is to understand her existence, even if one doesn’t understand a word of French. Her work can be navigated by emotion so eloquently that speaking her language is secondary to just listening and allowing yourself to feel its effect. This soundtrack is as much her biography as the movie from which it derives, and to experience Edith is to be let into the life of one of the world’s most unique singers. — V. Bormann

Martin Newell
The Wayward Genius of Martin Newell
Cherry Red; 1999

The Greatest Living Englishman is more polished and concise, and A Summer Tamarind more recent, but The Wayward Genius of Martin Newell does a better job of introducing England’s unofficial songwriter laureate to a forgivably ignorant public. Writing in the vein of Lennon and McCartney (“Blue Swan”), Davies (“Miss Van Houten’s Coffee Shop”), and early Townshend (“The Popular Girl”), Newell builds wonderfully melodic, poetic vignettes aroundthe peculiar banality and eccentricity of English life. Culled from the fruits of a prolific career that began in the early ’70s and briefly blossomed in the ’80s with The Cleaners From Venus and The Brotherhood of Lizards, these songs — by turns amateurish and impeccably produced — show that Newell wields and uncommon command of melody and insightful lyricism. Though slightly famous in Britain as a memoirist, erstwhile TV presenter, and weekly fixture in The Sunday Express poetry section, Newell the musician is largely ignored among his countrymen due in part to his understandable disdain for the mainstream recording industry. But it’s this very intransigence that makes Martin Newell so worthy of discovery and appreciation. Encumbered with the overwrought treatments the bigwigs would surely suggest, songs like “Julie Profumo” and “Girl On A Swing” might make adequate hits, but only at the expense of losing their enchanting luster. At their simplistic best (“Clockwork Train”; “Jangling Man”), these are songs a child could master in a few days — and charming enough to make them want to. — T. BennisonCD

Mark Knopfler

If ever there were an under-the-radar musician, it would have to be Mark Knopfler. Sure, there are plenty of other deserving artists who slog away in unfair obscurity, but few have the former Dire Straits frontman’s professional cachet; even fewer have produced as much consistently pleasing material. Since he set out on his own in 1995, Knopfler has enjoyed almost unanimous critical praise for inimitable songwriting that favors subtle insinuation over eager showmanship. Guitar nerds revere him for his fluent, sinuous fretwork; others admire his pithy characterizations and insightful vignettes. From Dire Straits and numerous solo projects to soundtracks, supporting slots and production credits, Knopfler seems to thrive best in the shadows. And though he’s hardly unknown, his unique songs always merit wider exposure and deeper appreciation. The gorgeous Get Lucky, Knopfler’s sixth proper solo album, distills all of his impressive talents into a kind of mellow rumination on his entire career. Knopfler’s voice — somewhere between a drowsy Johnny Cash and Dylan with clear sinuses — carries as much weight as his trademark fingerpicking on tracks like the loping “Cleaning My Gun” and the Celtic-tinged “So Far From The Clyde.” Ultimately, Get Lucky suggests that under the radar is a beautiful place to be. — W. Tyler

Dan Auerbach
Keep It Hid
Nonesuch; 2009

Usually when you think about “half” of something, you think about that something being “half as good.” One half of The Black Keys, Dan Auerbach, is an exception. Marked by a soulful voice and highly skilled Delta-blues guitar work, Auerbach’s vacation from his other half, Patrick Carney, is hardly a substitution. From the Southern “Trouble Weighs a Ton” to the spooky, groovy “I Want Some More,” Auerbach gives us the shrimp n’ grits business without so much as a knowing flinch. Playing most of the instruments himself, he’s still made room for friends, including Jessica Lea Mayfield, his uncle, James Quine, and his father, who wrote “Whispered Words.” “Keep It Hid” tilts somewhere between seduction and bashful sentiment, and the adult-lullaby “When The Night Comes” reminds us of the lengths we’ll go to find a hand to hold as we fall asleep. “Goin’ Home” is a goodbye waltz that closes the album in perfect pitch: “Forget about the things you want and be thankful for all you got.” Auerbach’s first solo project proves he’s a man who sings with the conviction of someone who doesn’t regret being half of anything — and despite the rumors, The Black Keys are anything but over.  — V. Bormann

Janelle Monáe
Metropolis: The Chase Suite
Atlantic; 2008

Metropolis, envisioned as a multi-part concept album, tells the story of Cindi Mayweather, an “Alpha Platnium 9000 Android” who’s fallen in love with a human and must flee her planet. Monáe uses Cindi as a way to both explore her imagined Shangri-La and exorcise her demons, singing her way through themes like drug addiction, STDs and of course, mothers. Metropolis, based on the 1927 silent film of the same name, is a vaudevillian adventure, but it’s also a complicated and deep sonic project. In a nice pairing with the album’s unabashed fantasy element, Monáe uses the last two tracks (as herself) to send a working-class message to the president and cover the classic song “Smile” — proof enough that within the span a mere seven songs, she can take us to an unsettling planet and then bring us gently back down to a hopeful Earth. Like a harmonic bird from another time with a voice like a harp, Monáe uses her imagination to explore both the human condition and social action. No matter which world you prefer, this close friend of Outkast’s Big Boi will have you seeing stars. — V. Bormann

Sly & the Family Stone
There’s a Riot Goin’ On
Sony; 1971

By the time of Riot’s release, Sly Stone’s steady retreat inward was becoming increasingly apparent to those around him, as his dealings with the outside world became marked by disinterested cynicism. The same man who had given inspiration to so many with the positive message of his hit singles (“Stand,” “Everyday People,” “I Want To Take You Higher”) seemed to be methodically destroying the reputation he had worked so hard to build. The concerts that were once like a funkified electric church would start hours late, if at all, inspiring vilification and even violence in his steadily shrinking audience. After two long years between albums, Sly was back — but with a whole new kind of soul. Riot’s charting singles “Family Affair” and “Runnin’ Away” were only moderately representative of the density and darkness that lurked in the record’s grooves; others hint at the dissolution of a band that had spent the five previous years drawing up the blueprint for modern funk and soul music. Despite, or perhaps because of, all of these seemingly disastrous elements, Riot is a masterpiece. The introspective, yet political lyrics, the hard and dirty funk grooves, the inspirational, yet depressing songs — all of these elements would come to influence not only peers like Marvin Gaye and James Brown, but two generations of rappers and funkateers who paid homage to Sly’s vision by making his samples and beats an essential backbone of their own innovations. Sly’s riot is still goin’ on. — D. Rosen

Imogen Heap

Someone recently handed me a yellow Post-It with the words “bodies disengaged/our mouths are fleshing over” (from Imogen Heap’s “Last Train Home”) written out and told me to listen to Ellipse, her latest album. I’m here to pass the recommendation along — minus the Post-It. Ellipse is a fantastically magical exploration of what happens when you meld the organic and the inorganic. Heap’s voice and lyrics are of the soil, yet her use of technology is out of this world. After listening to these tracks, I dare you to believe she’s a one-woman act. It goes almost without saying that Heap is a master at the mixing board, but it’s her lyrics that will make her talent for chemistry even more obvious. “Wait it Out” is about the time between a break-up and a new-beginning, and “Earth” is a call to action for our planet, while “Between Sheets” is about the best part of falling in love. “2-1″ is a haunting reminder that “things are not always as they seem,” and “Canvas” seals the album by telling us that  “the more you look, the less you see/so close your eyes and start to breathe.” From the first single to the last song, Heap addresses major themes, all with the ethereal feather-touch of a sweet bird in your ear. – V. Bormann

Arctic Monkeys
Humbug
Domino; 2009

It’s disconcerting that after three solid albums and an impressive EP that Arctic Monkeys (called rock saviors even before the release of their 2006 debut) are still facing questions of legitimacy. It appears that if you’re a band these days — especially a British one — you’re damned if you repeat yourself and damned if you don’t. Humbug, their latest album, has drawn derision for being too “experimental” and “atmospheric,” and faces claims that they’ve abandoned their old hit-loving fan base in favor of a more discerning crowd. But as a “third album,” Humbug is merely meant to test the faithful, and much like another famous third album, Led Zeppelin’s III (“Gallows Pole,” anyone?), it’s the sound of a good band evolving into a great one. What is exactly at issue here? For one: the unorthodox “Crying Lightning,” admittedly an odd choice for a first single, but one that intrigues enough to incite closer examination of what it is they’re exactly up to. As with much of the Monkeys’ music, it’s less the bluster that turns your head than the gentle shoulder taps of down-tempo tracks like “Cornerstone,” “Secret Door,” and elastic closer “The Jeweller’s Hands,” all of which showcase a canny ear for sonic drama, lilting melody, and songwriter Alex Turner’s increasingly brilliant lyricism. Overall, Arctic Monkeys are a fine example of a band that has both little and everything to prove — a conundrum Humbug tackles with admirable aplomb. – T. Bennison

The Dave Matthews Band
Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King
RCA; 2009

From the first saxophone note, you’ll discover that the heart of the Dave Matthews Band hasn’t been lost, even if one of its founding members has been. Saxophonist LeRoi Moore passed away during the making of GrooGrux and it’s easy to tell that DMB released this album, containing the last sax notes Moore would ever play, partly as a memorial. However, this is no funeral. Moore may no longer be with the band, but his energy and passion for jazz still serves as their backbone. From “Shake Me Like a Monkey” (which I bet you can’t not move to) to “Alligator Pie (Cockadile)” and the tribute “Why I Am,” it’s clear the remaining members are carrying on with the infectious funky blues-soul they’ve become famous for. The softer side of the album shows a vulnerability you’d expect, yet still arrests in contrast to the preceding tunes. Beautiful poetic ruminations about God, flying, friends and love bring big questions and few answers. In this way, GrooGrux (which was Moore’s nickname) is perhaps more alive than ever. In “Funny The Way It Is,” we’re reminded that everything and everyone is connected as “someone’s broken heart becomes your favorite song.” – V. Bormann

Van Morrison
Astral Weeks
Warner Bros./WEA; 1968

Backed sensitively by jazz veterans such as Richard Davis, Connie Kay, and Jay Berliner, Van Morrison offers a brooding, melancholy, introspective, and mature debut record in the classic Astral Weeks. In fact, he must have stunned listeners who’d come to expect the R&B-influenced work of Them or the simple pop of “Brown Eyed Girl.” Morrison shoots for a mood and an atmosphere, and he carries it through the album. Most songs feature simple, repetitive two- or three-chord structures that give Astral Weeks a trance-inducing, hypnotic feel, and until you enjoy a few listens, it almost sounds like one long song. The intensity builds on “Sweet Thing” as elegant strings hover in the background and Morrison engages in a beautiful fantasy of love and lush scenery. Simple song foundations act as springboards for the musicians, who gracefully fill in the colors on tracks like “Cypress Avenue” and “Ballerina.” Even Morrison’s vocals seem improvised, with their unique phrasing and dramatic repetition, qualities that make Astral Weeks a delicate sonic painting. – M. Greilsamer

Heartless Bastards

If The Heartless Bastards’ last album, All This Time was about defining home, this album, their third, is about what you do when you’ve lost it. Aptly titled “The Mountain,” the title track sets the tone for the next 10 songs: coping with and exploring curiosity and desire in life, taking risks and kicking ass. A moving metaphor for growing up, change and adventures yet-to-be-had, it’s incredibly timely in our current national state of rebirth and transformation. If you’ve lost your job, if you’re trying to “figure it all out,” if you’re starting over, this album needs to be on heavy rotation. “Be So Happy” is a determined mantra about looking on the bright side and cowboying up. Motivating without ever being wimpy, weepy or weak, you might not make it through “Hold Your Head High” before you’ve pulled yourself out of bed and into some shoes. “Wide Awake” will be a familiar-themed tune for anyone who’s heard the band’s other Fat Possum releases, and like those, this one will not disappoint with their signature gritty blues-rock. Starting over is a common theme in the Bastards’ songwriting and no one delivers reality-centered rock-poetry quite like frontwoman Erika Wennerstrom. From the banjo and violin in “Had to Go” to the earthy and raw vocals in “Sway,” The Heartless Bastards have their fingers on the pulse of what we need to hear and how we need to hear it. The Mountain reaches into your heart and pulls at those strings which send reverb into the brain, asking you to look inside, and look a little closer at how happiness is a choice; to make it, “just let go…” I can’t think of a better album to make some resolutions and do some beach-walking, soul-searching to. Come out to play, life is waiting, and The Heartless Bastards won’t stop until they get you “Out At Sea” again. — V. Bormann

Goldfish
Caught in the Loop
Black Mango; 2006

Remember in the early ’00s when wallpaper jet-set music was everywhere? When songs from groups like St. Germain, Air, and Supreme Beings of Leisure floated with you through life? From buying new throw pillows to chop-sticking in the hottest new restaurant, this is what played while you were busy being fabulous. That music hasn’t left, it’s just grown up, offering new ethereality for our ears. Take Goldfish, for example, and their first self-recorded album, Caught in the Loop. This album skyrocketed the Cape Town group from their tiny tip of Africa to Ibiza, Tokyo and venues all over the world. Their music provides all the right ingredients when you’re looking for the perfect art gallery/cocktail party/red wine-and-a-bath mood. From the infectious and worldly “The Real Deal” and the jazzy “Mbira Beat” to the sexy “Obey,” they’ve covered the bases of bass and brass. While they’ve released a new album in 2008, Perceptions of Pacha, it’s Caught in the Loop that’s responsible for the passion they continue to spread. This college-buddy twosome pulls out all the stops on Loop, providing an array of tunes that are both culturally stimulating and emotionally resonant, and each employs a mind-blurring mix of electronic and live instruments that suggests a much larger band. “Times May Change You” is so cool I’m surprised it’s not in a car commercial yet, “Dream” rings like part of a superb soundtrack, and “The Four Forty Five Blues” is street-side funk in ethnic eclectic. “Highflutin’” metronome’s into a Middle-Eastern influenced James Bond theme, just as “Last Tango in Paradise” sways in bittersweet memories fading into the sunset as a boat leaves the shore. Overall, Loop is background music in its highest state — it doesn’t ask much of you, but if you want to really pour yourself into it, you’ll get a lot back. “From Zanzibar With Love,” Goldfish is here to take you away to where you are. — V. Bormann

Keziah Jones
Nigerian Wood
Warner; 2008

Born near Lagos, Nigeria to a Yoruba chief, blues and funk phenomenon Keziah Jones got his start busking in the streets and subway stations of London and Paris. On the strength of first single “Rhythm is Love,” from debut Blufunk Is A Fact!, Jones rose quickly through the ever curious French music scene to earn fame throughout his adopted Europe. Though ’92’s Blufunk successfully distilled his artistic vision of raw blues melded with kinetic funk rhythms, later releases African Space Craft, Liquid Sunshine and Black Orpheus saw Jones employing elements of traditional African music and American soul. Nigerian Wood, his most recent release, finds Jones weaving in upbeat jazz fusion, reggae, and stuttering flamenco guitar picking on tracks like “My Kinda Girl,” “Blue Is The Mind,” and “Lagos vs. New York.” Using an ingenious percussive guitar technique which incorporates bass-like slapping and fret strumming, Jones drives an impeccably tight backing band through 12 determined and bum-wriggling tracks that must surely have Prince quaking in his purple boots. Though Nigerian Wood is available through several download purveyors, a hard-to-find (and rather expensive) import gets you 10 additional bonus tracks that could easily comprise a strong album in themselves. That said, Nigerian Wood is worth both the search and the money, and is guaranteed to have you clamoring for more. — T. Bennison

Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli
Swing From Paris
ASV; 1990

Although Django Reinhardt was famous for his mood swings and volatile temper, his unique guitar work remains beyond reproach and nearly impossible to copy. A fire cost him the use of two of his fingers on his left hand, forcing him to adapt his style to accommodate his handicap. Partner Stephane Grappelli was no doubt frustrated by Reinhardt’s fiery demeanor and his nearly confrontational rhythmic support. Clearly, however, Grappelli translated this frustration into musical magic — the unlikeliness of the pairing was central to its amazing success. Featuring a rhythm section of two acoustic guitars and a bass, the Quintet of the Hot Club of France provides urgent support for the two stars, leaving them free to produce expressive and exciting improvisations. A furious “I Got Rhythm” kicks off this set, and immediately, the listener gets a sense of the duo’s contrasting styles, with Grappelli swinging gracefully on violin while Reinhardt plays aggressively and often frenetically. Grappelli’s creative melodic interpretation and Reinhardt’s abrasive chords highlight “Sweet Georgia Brown,” while the pretty “Lambeth Walk” contrasts nicely with a hard-driving “Them There Eyes.” On the latter, the two play a game of one-upmanship — both offer heated solos as the intensity builds to a blistering crescendo, Grappelli’s violin soaring over Reinhardt’s jagged rhythm. Reinhardt’s ballad style often used sarcasm as a tool while Grappelli, in yet another contrast, usually treated these melodies with more respect. — M.Greilsamer

Wilco
Wilco (The Album)
Nonesuch; 2009

Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy is feeling pretty good these days, and he wants everyone to know about it on Wilco (The Album). But it’s very title suggests less of a re-introduction to a band that’s kept the rock flame burning in the wake of upstart punk revivalists, disposable, auto-tuned dreck, and a dwindling group of doddering stalwarts than a complete overhaul of their outlook and, by extension, their sound. Up till now, shadowy sadness and creeping melancholy have informed much of the Wilco sound, and while we all cheer for Tweedy’s new-found happiness (he recently kicked an addiction to painkillers), our support is delivered somewhat begrudgingly — especially after hearing many of these tunes. It’s all pretty innocuous stuff for the most part — a bit like the “C’mon and join in!” free-for-all of a Ringo Starr record — which is particularly distressing when you remember the depth of masterpieces like Summerteeth and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Standouts “You Never Know,” Bull Black Nova,” and “Sonny Feeling” are jaunty and genuine enough to dispel outright derision, yet by the time closer “Everlasting Everything” winds down, you get the feeling Wilco have put the commercial cart before the artistic horse. — T. Bennison

Son Volt
American Central Dust
Rounder; 2009

When Jay Farrar parted ways with Uncle Tupelo after a falling out with co-founder Jeff Tweedy, he embarked on what is widely seen as a darker, more roots-oriented parallel career. Tweedy began Wilco shortly after the split with much of Tupelo’s remaining members while Farrar formed Son Volt with Tupelo drummer Mike Heidorn, through which the two would set off to explore the rich traditional territory they felt Tweedy had abandoned. Son Volt’s debut release, 1995’s stirring, critically-acclaimed Trace, featured brothers Jim and Dave Boquist’s countrified instrumentation — fiddle, banjo, lap steel guitar — and follow-up Straightaways brought in Eric Heywood’s evocative mandolin and pedal steel to seal the deal. After 1998’s rock-infused Wide Swing Tremolo, Farrar put Son Volt on indefinite hiatus to pursue an ill-fated solo career. Following on the heels of two ruminative outings by a revamped Son Volt — Okemah and the Melody of Riot (2005) and The Search (2007) — Farrar has released what could be his band’s finest, most focused recording to date in American Central Dust. That it’s been released around the same time as Wilco (The Album) could be due to either accident or design, but it offers a unique chance to view Dust starkly against his ex-partner’s decidedly more colorful creation and the divergent paths they’ve trod. Whether heard in this light or considered solely on its own, American Central Dust proves that Farrar deserves his reputation as one of the nation’s most treasured musical chroniclers. — T. Bennison

Teenage Head
Teenage Head
Sonic Unyon; 1979

Teenage Head formed in 1975 in Hamilton, Ontario when band members Frankie Venom, Gord Lewis, Steve Mahon, and Nick Stipanitz were students in high school. Teenage Head, their debut album, appeared a year after the release of their first single. While 1980’s Frantic City is widely regarded as the band’s breakthrough statement, Teenage Head still retains the powerful sonic onslaught that made them the most popular and influential Canadian band of the early ’80s punk rock era. From powerful start to finish, this debut revives your own feelings of teenage rebellion and passion with songs like “Ain’t Got No Sense” and “Get Off My Back.” It finds the quartet on the precarious cusp of punk, which existed between the decline of ’70s rock n’ roll-influenced punk (MC5; The Stooges) and the rawer, no-holds-barred street version that ushered in the 1980s. Featuring foot-tapping tunes with a slight rockabilly influence, Teenage Head captures the unharnessed energy of a band that sparked riots at their shows and caused Canadian officials to ban rock concerts for several years. — R. Deiseroth

Grant Green
Idle Moments
Blue Note; 1963

Green is mostly remembered as a soul-jazz guitarist, having graced many early organ-trio dates and later on, electric jazz-funk. But Idle Moments shows he was quite capable of compelling straight-ahead post bop. The album owns a mellow, toned-down, after-hours ambience, thanks in large part to the presence of vibist Bobby Hutcherson. The seductive, painfully slow title track contains some of Green’s most lyrical and thoughtful work. The softer sounds of the guitar and vibes are contrasted by Joe Henderson’s fiery tenor blowing. On this album, one of his first recordings, Henderson smolders through the material, soaring above the rhythm section and providing considerable heat. All soloists swing hard on “Jean de Fleur,” but the standout track is the cover of John Lewis’ “Django.” The band again evokes a somber mood while loping through the winding tune, gracefully sliding from fierce blues-based riffing to wonderfully melodic passages. The bluesy “Nomad” concludes matters in blowing-session fashion. The CD version also includes alternate (even longer) takes of “Jean de Fleur” and “Django.” — M. Greilsamer

Elvis Costello

The glaring issue with Elvis Costello isn’t so much what he can’t do, but what he can do well. Throughout a prolific (and profligate) career which has seen him tackle a number of different genres — jazz, classical, cabaret — and succeed at only a few, Costello has never shied away from a challenge, and the latter half of his discography has seen him cultivate a role as cerebral composer rather than straight-ahead AOR musician. So it’s with some disappointment that Sacred, Profane and Sugarcane offers little of Costello’s discerning ear. Its nearest relative, 1986’s excellent King of America, has more of the loose soulfulness he’s trying to conjure and none of the artifice he has. Coming across as a half-baked collection of tunes that might lead better lives elsewhere with a bit more honing (there are a few from The Delivery Man, three from a planned opera based on the life of Hans Christian Andersen, and some obligatory T-Bone Burnett co-writes), Sacred also squeezes in an uninspired cover of a second-rate Bing Crosby song and a slew of aimless tracks cribbed from “Country and Western Music for Dummies.” What’s more, the enlistment of Loretta Lynn and Emmylou Harris seems like an uninspired bid for credibility. Both overwrought and wan, Sacred, Profane and Sugarcane only succeeds in reminding one of Costello’s increasingly squandered potential. — T. Bennison

Terry Hall & Mushtaq
The Hour Of Two Lights
Astralwerks/Honest Jon’s; 2003

With its dextrous mash-up of of occidental beats and traditional oriental instrumentation, The Hour of Two Lights, while largely overlooked due to its lack of flashy marketability, is a groundbreaking album years ahead of its time. Just the thing you’d expect, then, from Terry Hall, someone whose career has favored curious theory over empty image. During his time fronting The Specials, Hall forever changed the course of rock music in the late ’70s, unearthing ska for new generations of listeners. His work with Fun Boy Three and The Colourfield was just as adventurous, and this visionary 2003 collaboration with Bangladeshi/Iranian DJ Mushtaq — and a host of musicians from Algeria, Poland, Egypt and Syria — is no less daring. And though Damon Albarn’s similarly intentioned Gorillaz predates Hour by two years, it’s obvious from these tracks that Hall handed Albarn a detailed blueprint for that project’s sound. Arabic and Middle Eastern influence is at the fore here, yet songs like “A Tale of Woe” and “Ten Eleven” trace a verdant family tree over the Carpathians to the gypsy music of Romania and the Balkans. The result could have easily been an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink muddle, but turns out to be a finely focused hybrid of differing styles that, in Hall and Mushtaq’s hands, sheds brilliant light on the startling similarities they share. — T. Bennison

The Cynics
Get Our Way
Get Hip Recordings; 1994

The Pittsburgh-based Cynics are a four-piece with influences based in the roots of counterculture rock and roll. They are not the “the latest thing,” meaning that teenagers will probably not be finding any sympathy for their raging hormones in the band or scanning MTV for them in search of hip fashion figures. Their music does, however, represent three or four generations of rebellion and passion through great music. 1994’s Get Our Way shows their appreciation of ’60s rock and roll. The track list is diverse in style, from classic, melodic ’60s radio tunes to garage fuzz and feedback-infused jams. They drift from dreamy beat-driven tunes to songs based around acid rock-powered guitar journeys. This album gets you feeling nostalgic for the seemingly lost songs of yesteryear, where energy, passion and fast organs rained supreme. Similar artists? Try The Seeds, Radio Birdman, and the Saints. — W. Deiseroth

R.E.M.
Automatic For The People
Warner Bros.; 1992

Several members of R.E.M. have commented since the release of Automatic For The People that it’s the band’s least cohesive record, and that due to internal fractures following the global breakthrough of Out Of Time, each had done their respective parts without the normal four-man input. It set the stage for a tense, yet hauntingly evocative recording. Automatic For The People, originally slated to be a punk-rock record, is awash in a sadness that is subtly indelible. With Peter Buck still fiddling with his mandolin from the Out Of Time sessions, Mike Mills using the keyboards more actively, and Bill Berry stepping up on bass more often than before, it’s not surprising that Michael Stipe was writing and singing with such melancholy. The ominous death march intro to “Drive,” the wistful guitar chord on “Man On The Moon,” and the soft reeds on “Find The River” all point to a quieter moment in the R.E.M. timeline. Conceivably, Automatic was also the result of growing up with Reaganomics, television, middle class, and the lack of a social identity in the shadow of the ’60’s flower-child parent. This kind of stirring, emotional statement places R.E.M. a long way away from that Athens garage band who recorded the minimalist Murmur. Automatic For The People doesn’t just prove that R.E.M. have stood the test of time, it proves to be one of R.E.M.’s finest moments. — P. Stefanos

At this point in his career, Bob Dylan could record an album of ABBA covers and it still might be worth buying. Even if it weren’t, there’d still be legions of fans who’d uncover some buried strain of genius from it. Such is the nature of Dylan. He’s that rare kind of musician who inspires unquestioning devotion and almost always begs considered study. However, the question Together Through Life raises is whether that esteem is purely residual. As good as his last two albums (Time Out of Mind and Love and Theft) were, Together feels sort of tossed off and less of a proper album than an exercise in self-congratulation. Apparently, Dylan wants us to know that this is the kind of music he’s been really into lately — obscure tunes from the Chess Records era, ’50s blues, some tex-mex, and Edith Piaf…you know, just to keep us on our toes. If the mere presence of longtime Grateful Dead lyricist Robert Hunter on the album seems uninspired, the fact that he co-wrote 9 of the 10 tracks’ lyrics smacks of outright laziness. That another (the pointless “My Wife’s Home Town”) is basically a cranky clone of Willie Dixon’s “I Just Want To Make Love To You” seems intentionally hurtful. Is Dylan taking the piss here? Together Through Life makes you wonder whether he hasn’t been since 1962. — T. Bennison

The Flying Burrito Brothers
Hot Burritos! Anthology: 1969-1972
A&M; 2000

The Flying Burrito Brothers didn’t find much of an audience while they were around, but since they broke up they’ve attained iconic status. This two-CD collection rounds up all of the band’s first three albums plus the best of their rest. The Gilded Palace of Sin, their first bow, is a brilliant mix of smooth singing and writing by founders Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman with “Sneeky” Pete Kleinow’s loud, distorted pedal steel guitar. Parsons stuck around for one more album, Burrito Deluxe, which includes the definitive performance of his party pals’ “Wild Horses.” Commercial pressures left their mark on the album, but the writing still scans everything that was great about American songcraft in the middle of the 20th century through a pair of cowboy shades. The anthology’s second disc proves that even after Parsons left the Brothers still had plenty of life left, especially on a gorgeous remake of the Byrds’ “Tried So Hard.” — B. Meyer

The Jayhawks
Hollywood Town Hall
Def American; 1992

Hollywood Town Hall, the Jayhawks’ third album, was a defining moment in the wake of the early ’90s “alt-country” movement, when for about five minutes people thought it would replace grunge as the next big thing. For those who noticed, their lives were forever enhanced — Hollywood Town Hall is as magic as music gets. The Jayhawks possess a rare ability to tap into profound self-realization and expose deeply textured emotions. In “Crowded in the Wings,” it’s the pain of discovering too late that the person next to you is the love of your life. When vocalist Mark Olson cries, “I would lay my life down for you, nothing seems real now that you’re gone/Been crowded in the wings then its you I find.” “Two Angels” is beyond solemn — “This lifetime’s easy/Way back home there’s a funeral” — yet so sensual. Eerily romantic with sincere harmonies throughout, Hollywood Town Hall reveals thoughts of hope, hearts-on-sleeves, and the deepest possible yearning. Life is full of mysteries; The Jayhawks find solace in accepting that we will never ascertain all of the answers. — J. Lux

Dave Brubeck
Interchanges ‘54
Columbia; 1954

In 1954, popularity and controversy swirled around Dave Brubeck. On one hand, his appeal on college campuses brought him great notoriety, culminating with his appearance on Time magazine’s cover of November 8. Brubeck was the first jazz musician to receive that kind of national attention. On the other hand, many musicians and critics dismissed his cool-toned, cerebral work as decidedly non-jazz; many musicians were peeved, thinking that Brubeck had stolen the thunder of more deserving jazzmen. The recordings on this compilation — which include the full album Brubeck Time and four songs from the live set Jazz: Red, Hot and Cool — almost seem as if Brubeck and alter ego Paul Desmond had something to prove. Most of the songs are up-tempo, buoyant, and energetic, especially for the “cool” Brubeck. His quartet swings softly but firmly on a collection of standards and a few originals. At their best, Brubeck’s group had a drive and a pulse, even though they were often subtle, submerged, or implied. Desmond’s alto was the perfect foil for Brubeck’s serious, angry, and tense piano, which often owed more to classical music than to jazz. — M. Greilsamer

Ron Teixeira
Still The One
Self-Released; 2006

Local pianist Ron Teixeira was just 8 years old when he realized he wanted to play music. His father arranged an in-home piano demonstration in hopes of hooking Ron’s sister onto the the instrument, thereby increasing her chances of appearing on the “Lawrence Welk Show.” But once Ron heard the chugging of a boogie woogie rhythm played out on the keys, he knew the piano was for him.

Though largely self-taught, Teixeira, a Space Coast native, honed his skills at Berklee College of music and spent several years as a supporter for bands in NYC before returning home. Having performed with local legends the Groove Monsters in their heyday, he’s been playing music in the area off and on since he was 15 years old, but it wasn’t until he was chosen to lead the house band of Heidi’s Jazz Club in Cocoa Beach years ago that he picked up such a rabid following. With his trio, Teixeira leads the band through jazz standards from the ’40s and ’50s tunes by greats like Porter, Gershwin, Ellington, Rogers and Hammerstein, and Lerner and Lowe, as well as the “straight ahead” jazz of Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Coltrane, and Monk.

Marked by tasteful phrasing and light-hearted asides, his latest recording, Still The One, reminds us of why we like music in the first place. Teixeira’s virtuosic command of the keys conjures visions of a kind of one-man dream team of all our favorite jazz pianists. On it, you’ll hear the instinct of George Shearing and Monk’s uncanny ear for invention. You’ll also witness the boundless emotion of Keith Jarrett and the delicate touch of Oscar Peterson along with McCoy Tyner’s frenetic energy, and the eloquent lyricism of Bill Evans.

Recorded in 2004 in New York City and produced by accomplished jazz collaborator Paul Bagin, Still The One features Teixeira on piano, Jerry MacDonald on bass and drummer Skip Scott. Teixeira shines on a wonderfully jaunty version of A.C. Jobim’s “Triste” and Duke Ellington’s multi-hued “Prelude To A Kiss.” “Dolphin Dance” sees Teixeira and his band tackling the Herbie Hancock masterpiece with adventurous aplomb, extracting color after color from each glinting note. But the real treat here is the appearance of three Teixeira-penned originals, our favorite of which, the understated epic “Paula,” proves how lucky we are to have an artist of such generosity and ability playing on our shores.

The Ron Teixeira Trio plays every Friday night at Heidi’s Jazz Club (7 N. Orlando Ave.; Cocoa Beach; 783-4559) from 8:30 p.m. to 12:30 p.m. and Saturdays (5/2; 5/16; 5/23; 5/30) from 8:30 to 12:30 a.m. Teixeira performs solo at Moonstruck Wine Company (836 E. New Haven Ave.; Melbourne; 951-4555) every Thursday night from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m.

Doves
Kingdom of Rust
Astralwerks; 2009

If you haven’t heard of Doves, it’s certainly not for their lack of trying. The trio formed officially in 1998, but their roots extend as far back as the early ’80s, years which saw them (in several different guises) release a slew of now legendary demos and a ludicrously springy club hit, “Ain’t No Love (Ain’t No Use).” A studio fire in 1996 saw them abandon their dance-oriented ethos in favor of a more alternative direction, and as Doves, they released debut Lost Souls to critical acclaim in 2000. Each subsequent album has gone on to surpass its predecessor in esteem, and their latest, Kingdom of Rust, promises to age just as well. “Dramatic” would be the best way to describe their sound, but each song comes free of the pretension that inevitably mars the efforts of some of their more well-known peers. In many ways, Doves are the band blowhards Oasis wish they were, sycophants Coldplay think they are, and the one we wish the regal U2 would try to be, at least on occasion. “Kingdom of Rust,” “Jetstream,” “Winter Hill” — while all lean toward the maudlin and lachrymose, they eventually veer skyward for that fissure of rosy light glowing through the clouds. — T. Bennison

Neil Young
Fork in the Road
Reprise; 2009

A lot has changed since the 1976 release of “Long May You Run,” Young’s elegy to his first car, a ‘48 Buick Roadmaster hearse. The songwriting legend has never attempted to hide his love of cars (automobiles figure into many of his tunes), and though he’s always been regarded as the quintessential hippy (barring his brief tenure as “the Godfather of Grunge”), his eager embracement of alternative energy still comes as something of a surprise. Not for him the mousy Volkswagen or the practical Toyota; at heart, Young is a guzzler fanatic: Chevy trucks, Ford Falcons, Cadillacs, Studebakers and the like. But then again, he’s always been something of an eccentric, so Fork in the Road’s appearance ultimately makes willfully wacky sense. Less of a traditional album than an extended op-ed piece for Mother Jones, the didactic Fork in the Road chronicles Young’s efforts to turn his beloved Lincoln Continental into a more energy efficient vehicle. Every Neil Young fan has had to reconcile the many clunkers in his discography with his more solid recordings, and the admirably intentioned Fork…, while containing some fleeting moments of musical brilliance, might go down in history as one of his clunkiest. It’s a pity songs with titles like “Hit the Road” and “Get Behind the Wheel” don’t deliver on the dangerous images they suggest. Even worse, “Fuel Line,” one of the album’s more wince-worthy moments, finds Young singing about “The awesome power of electricity/Stored for you in a giant battery/She don’t use much though, that’s smart for a car.” Really. — T. Bennison

Super Furry Animals
Dark Days/Light Years
Rough Trade; 2009

In an exciting, mind-blowing return to form after two fairly underwhelming albums (2005’s Love Kraft and 2007’s Hey Venus!), Super Furry Animals have come up with one of the most engrossing recordings of their lauded career. In many ways, Dark Days/Light Years sounds like the album the quintet have been threatening to write since 1997’s Radiator. No surprise, then, that elements of each of these songs were conceived 8 years prior when they routinely threw caution and accepted taste to the wind. While having half-renounced their everything-but-the-kitchen-sink aesthetic (all agreed to ban lap steel guitar and saxophone from the recording session), the grab-baggish Darks Days/Light Years still thrills with aural surprises. If you were to split the album in half, the Dark Days section plays like a krautrock orgy of battering beats and unrelenting washes of unhinged electronics. Things shift dramatically with the latter half’s preamble, the simply stunning “Cardiff in the Sun.” A heavenly 8-minute paean to their notoriously dingy hometown, the song bursts all too soon, but not before “The Very Best of Neil Diamond” buoys things back up with a funky, assertive groove and the mesmerizing pluck of an…erm…Persian saz. “White Socks/Flip Flops” should draw comparisons to songs by mock-rockers Ween, but one-ups them by hiding a kernel of empathy for its subject’s sad-sack existence. Likewise, the goofily poppy “Where Do You Wanna Go?” and Welsh companion piece “Lliwiau Llachar” intimate unbridled Beach Boy-fun, yet linger well after they’ve ended on the strength of sheer harmonic beauty. — T. Bennison

Chet Baker
It Could Happen To You
OJC; 1958
With his photogenic profile, slicked bouffant, and rebellious attitude, Chet Baker was marketed by the record industry as the James Dean of jazz. That this image overshadows his inimitably articulate trumpet playing and wistfully boyish vocals is one of the great injustices of music history. Though he refused to sign several Hollywood contracts, he played up to his matinee idol image for the rest of his troubled, drug-addled career. But before he made a string of lazy, commercially-aimed recordings sold on his dreamy image, he cut this album, probably one of his best. It Could Happen To You captures Baker on the cusp of his rapidly dissipating innocence through understated renditions of “How Long Has This Been Going On?,” “I’m Old Fashioned,” and a crushingly prophetic version of “Everything Happens to Me.” Tempered with pithy horn riffs and a solid backing band, each tune plays like a forgotten dream. — T. Bennison

U2
No Line On The Horizon
Interscope; 2009

Imagine for a moment that you’re Bono. You’re the shameless frontman for the biggest and most beloved band in the world; you hobnob with political and religious dignitaries; you’re a tireless activist and humanitarian; you own the equivalent of Malawi’s GDP in sunglasses, and you drive a Maserati Quattroporte that runs on ethanol. You and your band have put out some reasonably good albums over the past few years, but your last one, 2004’s How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb, while generally well-received, pushed grandiosity to its aggravating limits. It’s 2009, and you and your mates have decided that a change is in order. It’s time to put out a grounded classic like Joshua Tree or The Unforgettable Fire. And it’s also time to experiment; to find a new direction. It’s time to get stalwarts Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno back behind the console. It’s time to wake the masses from encroaching disinterest. And what do you come up with? No Line On The Horizon is what; 54 minutes of highly-polished music to disappear up your own arse to. While never the most subtle of lyricists, Bono here is way too high in the mix, making us privy to some of the most hackneyed platitudes and rhyme schemes of his career. Conversely, The Edge, U2’s other sonic touchstone, is so buried as to cast doubt on his actual participation in the recording session. When he does appear, it’s comforting — even thrilling — to hear his tell-tale chime. But before he’s allowed to flesh out a familiar hook, he’s sunk back under the mire of Eno and Lanois’ busy twiddlings. Out of what sounds like apparent frustration, he begs for attention with some chunky, anomalous riffs cribbed from Jimmy Page and only succeeds in tossing songs like “Get On Your Boots” and “Stand Up Comedy” an empty, Aerosmith-like swagger. What you get, then, is a record not unlike Bono’s ethanol-fueled Maserati: stylish, sleek, prestigious and expensive, but sadly bereft of balls. — T. Bennison

The Fireman
Electric Arguments
ATO Records/RED; 2008

Ever on the defensive against claims that he’s the least avant-garde ex-Beatle, Paul McCartney has strained to prove his artistic worth through a series of recent recordings that wear experimentation and difficulty on their tailored sleeves. Electric Arguments, the latest of these collaborations with producer Martin “Youth” Glover (ex-Killing Joke bassist and producer for The Verve, The Orb, Guns N’ Roses, and Primal Scream, among many others), isn’t nearly as electric or argumentative as its name implies, veering far from the forced obscurity of predecessors Rushes and Strawberries Oceans Ships Forest. It is, however, a lushly-backdropped bid to reestablish McCartney’s reputation as a true innovator, albeit a rather safe one. Together as The Fireman, Paul McCartney and Youth (whose names are supplied on the cover, just in case), have made (in a reported 24 hours) what is actually a very decent Paul McCartney album wading through a muddle of slumbery effects. In what sounds something like a remix album of tunes that were far better left alone, Electric Arguments sees Sir Paul trying to squeeze himself into some ill-fitting togs. They look good in the mirror to a man trying to revisit his glory days, but a walk down in the street in them is sure to elicit some jeers. Songs like “Two Magpies,” “Sing The Changes,” and “Traveling Light” are solid enough to bear light tweaking, but other great ideas (“Lover’s Dream”; “Is This Love?”) suffer under the weight of needless atmospherics. Listening to multi-layered closer “Don’t Stop Running” might have you wondering whether Youth’s recruitment was even necessary. If McCartney’s the great experimenter he says he’s always been, then why didn’t he just go it alone? — T. Bennison

Gal Costa
Gal Costa (Não Identificado)
Universal; 1969

It’s comforting to know that one of the most enduring Tropicália albums of all time comes not from any of its vaunted male pioneers, but from a woman who started out as one of the genre’s fringe dwellers. During the ’60s, Tropicália — a rough fusion of psychedelia, rock, bossa nova, and African folk — came to embody the aesthetic of a younger generation of Brazilian musicians and artists who sought to stretch the limits of traditional forms. Two of the movement’s main pioneers, Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil, helped Gal Costa get her start, but after the appearance of this eponymous album (popularly referred to as Não Identificado), she found herself holding the reins of the very genre they created. An undisputed classic, Não Identificado distilled all of Tropicália’s tenets into 40 minutes of unfettered joy that sounds just as startling and infectious as it must have back in 1969. Costa enlists the help of many of her peers (both Veloso and Gil appear along with Tom Zé), but ultimately succeeds on the strength of her unique delivery. This isn’t the kind of Brazilian music you’re used to hearing, and all the better for it. It’s a bit like Costa and Abraxas-era Santana crashing João Gilberto’s cocktail party — and eventually winning over the sophisticated company. — T. Bennison

Various Artists
The Indestructible Beat of Soweto
Shanachie, 1986

When the Buena Vista Social Club came out in 1999, it made a mere ripple compared to the splash this album sent up some 20 years ago. Where Buena Vista sparked worldwide interest in Cuban music and the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack created a similar fascination with neglected Americana, The Indestructible Beat of Soweto charted unexplored regions of World music, dragged the idea of global civil rights squinting into the sunlight, and made Ladysmith Black Mambazo an unlikely household name. Born out of the townships that were then still under the yoke of Apartheid, this compilation captures the vibrancy and youthful optimism of mbaqanga — a new urban musical style that kept the South African dance clubs jumping in the late ’70s and early ’80s. After lending their traditions overseas for the creation of R & B, Jazz and Blues, people like Moses Mchunu, Johnson Mkhalali, and Nelcy Sebide took them back, drove them forward with urgent percussion and frenetic guitar work, and took the music world by storm. — T. Bennison

Morrissey
Years of Refusal
Lost Highway; 2009

Misery certainly loves company. As much as fans have wanted poor, dear Morrissey to find fulfillment, their very ardor won’t allow it. What else, after all, is there to love about him but his magisterial loathing for everything that threatens to brighten his day? But one of the most misunderstood things about Morrissey (and a myth he wonderfully won’t lift a finger to dispel) is that his oft-invoked miserabilist credo supports the baser, dourer-than-thou tendencies of Gothic idols like Trent Reznor or Marilyn Manson. It does support plenty of moaning, but it was never done with such soothing compassion as on the recordings Morrissey made with The Smiths, and remarkably, on 8 solid solo albums after their dissolution. In his most focused and fervid recording since 1994’s Vauxhall and I, Years of Refusal is rife with the incisive wit and ferocious ire that’s made Moz one the most revered, copied and reviled musicians of our time. It’s a testament to his artistry that when he sings “Oh, something is squeezing my skull/Something I cannot describe/There is no hope in modern life” that he can still draw from youthful wrath (he’s 50) to make a statement about mental anguish that’s as pithy as it is resonant. The painful reckoning behind “That’s How People Grow Up” and the urgent “All You Need Is Me” show that Morrissey’s melancholy isn’t the self-suffocating variety his pupils have misread, but one that loosens its hold with each inward look, and as heard throughout the defiant Years of Refusal, every venomous spit outward. – T. Bennison

Young Dubliners
Saints and Sinners
429 Records; 2009

There’s really not much to distinguish the Young Dubliners from the glut of other Celtic Rock bands playing today. In fact, if you take away the perfunctory fiddling you get on new tracks like “Howaya Girls” and “Caroline,” there’s not much to even distinguish them from any of the other workmanlike rock bands of the mid-’90s…like, say, The Rembrandts. Or Crash Test Dummies. That you hear all of this on Saints and Sinners, their 8th album, is somewhat worrying. Since forming in 1988, much of their potential appeal has accrued a generic, inoffensive glaze, earning them supporting spots with the likes of Jonny Lang, Great Big Sea, and Collective Soul, and fans liken their live performances to those of Phish and the Dave Matthews Band. To be fair, founding members Keith Roberts and Paul O’Toole are native Dubliners, but the rest of the band’s American blood seems to dampen rather than kindle the passion struggling to emerge from songs like “Back Seat Driver” and “In The End.” What you get then — apart from token trad knees-up “Saoirse” — is some exceptionally indifferent music, its only Irishisms essentially plugged in like so many O’Doul’s neons. And while that at least indicates that the pub is open, it doesn’t necessarily promise a memorable night out. If you’re not in the mood for the bluster of Flogging Molly’s or the glass and vomit-strewn Pogues’ and simply want a tavern that offers a few rollicking singalongs, then meet me at the Waterboys’ just down the road. – T. Bennison

Mike Ness
Cheating At Solitaire
Time Bomb; 1999

Get your DA in order, slip on your beat-up Docs and let the lake pipes on the chopped Chevy rumble because we’re talking about Mike Ness, who’s been cool since before it was cool to be cool. Ness formed Social Distorion back in 1978 and has proudly flown the punk rock flag ever since, but with a subtle country influence, adding a bit of a rockabilly sound to the band’s recordings. In 1999, Ness launched a solo career that focused almost exclusively on bringing his fondness for old school country to the forefront while keeping the distortion to a minimum. Cheating At Solitaire is a compilation of tracks that shed a whole new light on Ness’ talent affording him more creativity within a slightly different genre. Here, he’s s accompanied by the likes of Brian Setzer (Stray Cats) and Springsteen (who knew he was a big Social D fan!) on several tracks. The second track, “Don’t Think Twice,” a vintage Dylan song, is infused with Ness’ personal flavor complete with standup bass and his trademark gritty vocals, giving this folky tune a more unique feel that lies somewhere between Johnny Cash and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Ness really endears himself to straw chewers everywhere with “Rest of Our Lives.” With its classic three-chord rhythm and slide guitar, it’s probably one of the more country-sounding tracks on the album, but as with all of Solitaire’s tunes, Ness gives it his cool touch of greasy hair, tattoos and sideburns. So if you thought you knew Mike Ness, check out Cheating At Solitaire. Just don’t forget your Brylcreem. – D. Colburn

Johnny Cash
Super Hits
Sony; 1994

Its 1977 and my dad’s drab green F150 is cruising through the rural countryside of northern New Hampshire. My brother and I are trading subtle punches on the bench seat. “Grab that tape and put it in,” says the old man, and I oblige. The 8-track spins up and I hear the familiar riff that starts Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” When I listen to Johnny, not only do I think about my dad (he actually looks a little like him), but I hear the simple guitar riffs, basic drum beats and modest lyrics that give a sense of what makes his music so penetrating, so inspiring and so influential to so many people. You see, Johnny was an ordinary guy; he drank, he smoked and cavorted, and then he made a living singing about it. In many ways he was “everyman” and a lot of people can relate to him. Listen to “Sunday Morning Coming Down” and tell me you haven’t been there. Now no discussion about Johnny Cash would be complete without mentioning “A Boy Named Sue.” Few people know that song was actually written by Shel Silverstein and while the lyrics are clever, its Johnny’s hearty performance that makes it the classic beloved by all. The great thing about Johnny’s music though, is that he can make it all sound so damn romantic and glamorous. Listen to “One Piece At A Time” and you can imagine this ordinary, blue-collar guy secretly building the car of his dreams. That’s kind of what music is all about though, isn’t it: escaping for a minute or two to lose yourself in someone else’s dreams. – D. Colburn

Femi Kuti
Day By Day
Downtown; 2008

From the outset, Femi Kuti has had some tight undies to fill. His father, the perennially skivvied Fela Kuti (or simply Fela), essentially invented Afrobeat and tackled all the big social and political issues facing his struggling country, often under the threat of incarceration or execution. He went on to become the unofficial spokesman for the entire African continent throughout a long career that saw the release of some 40 albums (8 alone in 1977) before his death in 1997. He was Nigeria’s Elvis, Dylan, Lennon and Marley all wrapped into one. Now Femi, for his part, has always been aware of his hereditary blessings (or limitations) since 1995’s eponymous debut. Cannily clearing his own path in favor of trying to outdo his father, he’s since released three albums of strong material before taking a 7-year hiatus after 2001’s Fight To Win. By rights, Day By Day, his latest release, should be a smashing return to frenetic form. But even more cannily, it’s a surprisingly understated and therefore more focused affair. The social commentary is still there (“Tension Grip Africa;” “You Better Ask Yourself”), but it’s tempered with a calm confidence that was lacking in his earlier material. His 13-piece backing band, Positive Force, drives these tunes through new territory (“Dem Funny;” “Let’s Make History”) while still paying distant homage to the brassy, urgent sound his father pioneered. Not a Fela for the new millennium then, but simply Femi Kuti, carving out his own sonic niche in a rapidly changing world. — T. Bennison

Thom Yorke
The Eraser Rmxs
XL; 2009

Comprised of nine remixes of tracks from 2006’s The Eraser, The Eraser Rmxs was released in Japan last year before appearing as a collection of three-track EPs, and before that, as individual MP3 files, downloaded, one assumes, by die-hard Radiohead fans who still had the wherewithal to wrest themselves away from In Rainbows. It’s that bit of confusing, if not surreptitious history that forms the background cowering behind this dense offering from Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke. And cower it does; the sheer surfeit of blips, clacks and menacing, destinationless loops is only matched by the long roster of dubstep producers and obscure laptop jockeys behind the console. Heard of Burial, anyone? Four Tet? Modselektor? Neither have I. Characterized by glum timbres, heavy bass and desert-spare percussion, dubstep has its roots in the UK’s electronica garage and 2-step genres, modes of which Yorke and Co. dabbled with, most notably, on Hail To The Thief. In Rainbows, by contrast, was a far more organic affair in keeping with its somewhat hopeful message. If The Eraser’s sound weren’t dystopian enough, Rmxs burns everything down and smiles at the wreckage. Stirring at times, at others simply befuddling, Rmxs proves Yorke still has demons in need of exorcising. — T. Bennison

Donavon Frankenreiter
Pass It Around
Lost Highway; 2008

I don’t know what it is, maybe the porn ’stache or the tattoos, but Donavon Frankenreiter just doesn’t look like he should be able to sing as beautifully ads he does. On his latest release, Pass It Around, he puts together some of the sweetest melodies my iPod has ever known. Now to be fair, I’m a big fan of the mellow-slack-acousti-rock genre, so my opinions are a bit tainted, but give a listen to the first and third tracks — “Life Love Happiness” and “Come With Me” respectively — and you’re sure to at least agree that the melodies are smooth and the feel-good lyrics drive home Frankenreiter’s live-for-the-moment philosophy. And who couldn’t use a little more of that? Although acoustic, introspective transcendentalism seems to be his forte, but that’s not all he’s about. He brings the album full circle by injecting some ’70s glitter funk into tracks like “Too Much Water” and pays homage to the likes of James Taylor and Glen Frey with “Hit The Ground Running” and “Someone’s Something.” So take that iTunes gift card you got for Christmas, pick up Pass It Around, and remind yourself of what’s really important in life. — D. Colburn

Chris Isaak
Baja Sessions
Reprise/WEA; 1996

Okay, so I’ve never surfed Baja — the furthest I ever made it was Trestles back in ’98 where I caught some form of dysentery — but if surfing Baja is anything like listening to Chris Isaak’s Baja Sessions, I wanna go! All the elements are there for a classic surf adventure: good music, beautiful girls and great waves. Isaak originals “Yellow Bird” and “Two Hearts” are perfect examples of just how sublime this album is; the way they blend tropical drum beats and slinky guitar slides with his unmistakably classy vocals sets the stage for one the most evocative albums in his discography. Also included are several covers of legendary artists like Roy Orbison (“Only The Lonely”) and Gene Autry (“South Of The Border Down Mexico Way”), which are re-interpreted with Isaak’s trademark tones and super-smooth guitar. It’s said he was inspired to record a collection of tracks that he felt captured the mood of surfing the desolate waves of the Baja peninsula after a particularly soul-inspiring surf session. Judging from Baja Sessions, surfing and traveling that rugged coastline would bring out the soul in all of us. — D. Colburn

Monkey

Journey To The West

XL Recordings/Beggar’s Group; 2008

A modern-tinged opera based on a 16th-century Chinese tale about a monkey and his pig sidekick who set out to find the secret of immortality sung entirely in Mandarin? It’s hard to imagine a project more fraught with hazards than “Monkey: Journey to the West.” And it’s even harder to think of a more capable musician than Damon Albarn to tackle the project , much less pull it off successfully. Albarn (Blur; Gorillaz; Mali Music; The Good, The Bad & The Queen), along with designer Jamie Hewlett and director Chen Shi-Zheng, brought the theatrical production to fruition last year and earned rave reviews for “Monkey’s” ambitious mix of classical opera, Western electronics, Eastern pentatonic scales, dance, acrobatics, martial arts, animation and film. Journey to the West, culled from the original score, condenses several key songs and incidental pieces into a 50-minute aural adventure that’s simply dazzling in its scope and ingenuity. — T. Bennison

Kid Rock

Rock N Roll Jesus

Atlantic; 2007

Music is an amazing thing. It affects each of us differently for so many different reasons; we may like it because it calms us down or gets us amped up. We may like it for its historical merit or lyrical content. Regardless of the reason, you can’t argue that good music simply moves us. With soulful tracks like “Amen” and “Blue Jeans and a Rosary” alongside the feel- good, Skynyrd-inspired “All Summer Long,” Rock N Roll Jesus reveals Kid Rock’s love of making music regardless of branding or genre rules. Have no fear though; he still stays true to his roots with gritty, mildly obscene raps like “So Hott” and “Sugar.” He’s come a long way since his first label release, including a period during which he was unsigned and forced to finance all his recordings on janitor wages, selling them out of the trunk of his car. But it’s love of music and creating passion among the audience that keep core musicians like Kid Rock breathing. We should return the favor and give them our full attention. — D. Colburn

Gipsy Kings

Cantos de Amor

Nonesuch; 1998

You guys probably don’t remember Tamarindo restaurant in downtown Cocoa Beach, but that was the first place I heard Gipsy Kings. My wife and I were dining there for Valentine’s Day in 1998 and their music really struck us — the Spanish-infused rumba rhythms, the nylon guitar solos, the haunting vocals — it all was very moving. The following week we found some of their music and became instant fans. The Gipsy King’s sound defies categorization in any particular genre I can think of, but the best way I can describe it is  mellow-funk-jazz salsa with a hint of flamenco. A great introductory album is Cantos De Amor, a fantastic sampling of their unique and captivating sound. The Kings’ music will open your ears and is sure to bring out your romantic side…even if you can’t understand what they’re saying. — D. Colburn

The Rolling Stones

Exile On Main Street

Rolling Stones Records; 1972

Every time the Stones trot out their newest piece of product, each seemingly more lackluster than the last, it becomes harder to believe that they were once what they now merely advertise themselves to be — The World’s Greatest Rock n’ Roll Band. This was never truer than in 1972, when they were the most dangerous, offensive, ugly, and inspired group of miscreants the music world had to offer. The swaggering attitude that comes across as effete posturing today was very real when the Stones set out to record the crowning jewel of a string of records that forever established them as auteurs of what was once considered a crass and artless medium.  Virtually every song on Exile is a classic, and like any great recording, it should be listened to in its entirety while in an ideal frame of mind. They may seem like doddering old codgers now, but once upon a time they rocked timeless. — D. Rosen