albums

Rip It Up, Issue 214, 1 June 1995, Page 29

albums

PAVEMENT Wowee Zowee (Fellaheen)

Track one, ‘We Dance’, takes you on a sad and beautiful slide into Pavement’s latest collection of weirdy bits. When Stephen Mafkmus croons: ‘Pick out some Brazillian nuts for your engagement,’ all the reasons you love Pavement come rushing back. If Olivia NewtonJohn fronted up and asked them: ‘Have you ever been mellow?,’ they would answer in the affirmative, then do something, well, nutty — if sometimes a little less literally. Take ‘Brinx Job’, if you will (they did). Malkmus unleashes the weird vocal treatments on this enthusaistic tale of a robbery getaway. ‘Rattled By the Rush’ (the most immediately catchy tune) is a tale of a nerve wracking call to the altar, which teams a honkin’ harmonica with the lead guitar. There’s punky pop in ‘Serpentine Pad’. ‘Motion Suggests’ is a relatively simple tune, with a strange intro that sounds like it fell off a cartoon soundtrack. Then they bundle the whole hootin’ kaboodle

together on compact packages that go real diverse distances, like ‘Best Friend’s Arm’ or ‘AT & T’. Even the lovely plinkety plunk of ‘Grave Architecture’ escalates into a short frenzied abandon. Featuring less sing-alongs and more sound-

scapes, Wowee Zowee won’t clamber all over you in the puppy-like manner Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain did. Nevertheless, if you give it a chance to work its sly tricks on you, it's bound to start licking your ears in no time. BRONWYN TRUDGEON

ISHIHAD Killjoy (Wildside)

Many records are accorded the description ‘long-awaited’, far less truly deserve it, but an album released by Wellington’s Shihad is one of the most worthy. After their monstrous 1993 debut. Churn, music fans partial to a slice of heaviness can release held breaths now that Killjoy has arrived — but more of the same it is not. While at times Killjoy shares with Churn the overpowering and brutal twin guitar attacks of Jon Toogood and Phil Knight, particularly on ‘The Call’ and the first two singles, 'You Again’ and ‘Bitter’, more striking is the- sense of warmth and lack of restraint. Where Churn was brilliantly cold and insular, but blatantly so, Killjoy feels like pure rock 'n' roll, a record made up as they went along, the pieces falling magically into place. Shihad both batter and soothe over nine epic songs. They place the relentless industrial riffs of ‘The Call’ and ‘Envy’ next to 'Debs Night Out', a simple but breathtakingly effective slow burner, then follow up with ‘Bitter’, a barrelling celebration of all things 4/4. Songs duck and dive unexpectedly on melodies and riffs, and the guitars push a song to the point where more might be too much, then pull back suddenly, revealing another twist in direction. Most attention is usually poured on the front line, but this album proves Shihad’s rhythm

section is up with the best anywhere. Many a great guitarist has withered due to a lame rhythm section, and many a lame front line has been carried by a sharp back line, but this foursome are almost other wordly in their compatibility. This is most evident on Killjoy’s finest moment, ‘Gimme Gimme’, a five-minute, earth shattering blow to the head, that wraps a shouted vocal over what must be one of the most powerful and infectious basslines ever recorded. While Killjoy won’t crush you into submission the way Chum played at 11 could, its mixture of melodic dynamics and periods of intense noise still make it an album full of scary good times. JOHN RUSSELL

ELASTICA Elastica (Geffen)

This eponymously titled debut album lives up to the British press raves that have been showered on this nearly all female (drummer Justin Welch is the odd man out) four-piece from London. Near flawless influences like Wire, Buzzcocks, the Clash and Blondie ricochet around most of the tracks, with even kinetic memories of the Revillos being resurrected on the likes of ‘Annie’. The killer track has to be ‘Waking Up’, with its aching pure pop melody,

driven by the dual guitars of Justine Frischmann and Donna Matthews. The jabbing, prodding, ultimately infectious single ‘Connection’ is just one of sixteen reasons why Elastica have managed to live up to the advanced hype. GEORGE KAY

iFUGAZI Red Medicine (Dischord) Yeah, this is a long review, but that’s because I truly believe this to be a great record by one of the few creative, musically relevant and genuinely brilliant rock bands around. Forget the (suddenly fashionable again) DIY independant punk ethos stuff that surrounds Fugazi, just listen to the damn record. It’s four guys taking what they have to the very limit, and sometimes a little further.

The heart of it all is one of the finest rhythm sections ever. Canty and Lally lay down and maintain the most sinewy, popping, sanking lines ever, and its over this that Messrs Mac Kaye and Piccioto have the room to get wild, which they most certainly do. Red Medicine still has the three minute energy burst songs, with lan taking the outright angry moments and Guy handling the more melodic excursions (of which ‘Target’ is near perfect and features some very righteous lyrics). Around these some strange patterns are

woven. Songs are dragged out and rebuilt in some twisted varient of dub. The rhythms flow while the guitars sputter and spit, even descending into solid walls of feedback. It’s punk rock being deconstructed before your very ears, althought it’s nowhere near as pretentious sounding as I’ve just made it seem. Quite simply, you get a great little ditty, then moments later it gets gutted, turned inside out, or broken down.

Fugazi can do ‘Long Distance Runner’ (which is the bare bones of a song, with vocals doing the melodic work while guitars snap in and out like some strage effect) and ‘Combination Lock’ (which is a most grooving and sweet instrumental) without either seeming forced. Red Medicine may well seem like Fugazi’s most disparate and challenging album, but it’s also probably their best for those very reasons. No matter where they go with the music, it always maintains the simple power to really move the listener. The further they push the limits of a rock song, the further we are taken with them.

MATTHEW SWEET 100% Fun (BMG)

KIRK GEE

After having a large bout of heaviness and/or depression (musically), little Matthew (30) is just what you need to urn, ‘let the sunshine in, and face it with a grin’ and all that. Matthew has called his album 100% Fun — which is apparently pulled from one of the lines in Kurt’s suicide note (he was not having 100% fun). Yes, yes — anyway, this is a lovely, lovely album. I was enticed by the first single ‘Sick Of Myself’ — which is a simple song, yet charmingly catchy — and had to see what else there was.

The record has a very warm, fuzzy feeling (because of the way it has been recorded — it’s low-fi without being wacky 10-fi), reminiscent of listening to Beatles records when you were a kiddy (if you are over 20), or Lenny Kravitz records (if you are under 15). 100% Fun isn’t totally (naturally — this is a record), but it’s very settling and pretty, kind of like sticking your head in a pillow and hitting it hard — totally enjoyable, without any consequences. SHIRLEY CHARLES

VARIOUS Dope On Plastic (Flying In) VARIOUS 110 Below: A Trip to the cHip sHop (Flying In) VARIOUS Ninja Cuts (Flying In)

Wow. Woah. Wahey. I know everyone’s rebelling against the trip-hop pigeon hole, but this UK revolution, these ambi funkateers, these spliffed up sultans of smoove are gonna alter your mind. Like all your harvests at once, here are three of the best compilations around, thanks to those importing bewdies Flying In.

To start, there’s Dope on Plastic, a cartoon trying to smoke a CD on the cover, and babies with goatee beards inside. Hmm, yes, and apparently trip hoppers smoke the occasional joint. Apparently. Anyway, jazzy influences, slowed horn sections that sound like they’ve been in on the session (especially Woodshed's ‘Reefaman Cometh’). Men With Sticks open impressively with the hazy ‘Ode To A Blunt', APE’s ‘Cities’ has stingrays battling with Mexican acoustic guitar amongst giant sea anenomes. We close with some of Skylab’s aquatic ambi, ‘Seashell’, with the sample: ‘I put a seashell to my ear and it all comes back.’ Dope On Plastic is a sound piece of scene. A Trip to the cHip-sHop is a more varied look at hip-hop’s experimental mergers. Again, it’s mostly instrumental, apart from the folk-hop of Beck (‘ln a Cold Ass Fashion’) and the Ultramagnetic MCs. More patchy compared to Ninja and Dope, because as it tries to cover so many styles, it loses its own identity as a compilation. But the highs are very high, DJ Crush and UNKLE from Mo Wax are both ear openers. And ‘Motherfucken Ghost' by the Euro contingent The Mighty Bop is so late night that even the 24 hour clubs are asleep. But then, next to the dark taste of Ninja Cuts from Coldcut’s Ninja Tune label, everything shrivels by comparison. This compilation, (subtitled FunkJazztical Tricknology) lives beyond its boast to provide sounds with superior beat, style and composition. One load of Kruder and Dorfmeister’s 'Deep Shit’ and there’s no kicking the addiction. Beats that twist and crust and clarify and muddy. Vibes, ghostly clicks, a grand piano with a flat battery, it’s like black water rafting with enough THC to stun an elephant. And that’s just track two! There are plenty of sounds that’ll surprise you , like the amazing sample from Up, Bustle and Out’s ‘Y Ahora Tu’, of Baka Forrest tribesmen making beats with their cupped hands in a river. There’s plenty of DJ Food (‘Dark Lady’ bombs some serious bass). 9Plan9’s funky drum beats glide that shit along, and even Coldcut themselves provide some curvy mutant masterpieces. Your late night backgrounders have jumped

in your face. Take notice and be consumed. JOHN TAITE

TINDERSTICKS Tindersticks (This Way Up)

Tindersticks second album, perversely titled the same as their first, presents a languid facade smacking of cognac and smoking jackets in a low-lit room. Look closer, though, and you realise that all is not quite as it should be. There’s a disturbing decadence moving gently below Tindersticks mannered surface — a decadence inexorably drawn up like a sheet of blotter paper soaking up red wine... or blood. The effect is captivating and utterly unnerving — like being force fed Peter Greenaway movies after ingesting huge amounts of Valium. The vibrancy of the hues and the vividness of the images are almost unbearably intense in their melancholy, conjuring up much more than a mere listening experience has the right to conjure up. But then, Tindersticks are much more than your average band, operating in spheres far removed from the notion of any so-called scene. Put simply, Tindersticks sounds like no other album you’ll hear this year. It’s impossible to ignore if for nothing other than the experience of listening to a band delicately treading the line between unbearable and unbelievable. The question is, which side of the coin faces up for you? MARTIN BELL

MOTORHEAD Bastards (XYZ)

The motto here would be: ‘lf it ain’t broke, don't fix it.’ The mighty Lemmy Kilminster has been producing the finest greaser rock imaginable from the Rockin’ Vicars through Hawkwind, and on into the reign of Motorhead. Bastards is proof that, if he tries, he can still cut it. With a newly beefed up Wurzel and a couple of new boys, when Lemmy busts right out with that classic solid raunch — ‘Burner’ or ‘Death or Glory’ — it’s just plain power. The trouble is, sometimes things get derailed. A ballad about child molestation that’s as ham fisted as you’d imagine, or ‘Born to Raise Hell’, which sounds like it was written in the studio. I guess Lemmy's psychic radar kicked in and he realised the film this was intended for would suck and he’d wind up playing with lumpen opportunists like Ugly Kid Joe. Certainly not a perfect album, but enough that I can happily say, I still believe in Motorhead. KIRK GEE VARIOUS Alternative Nation 95 (Mushroom) VARIOUS Higher Learning (Sony) Alternative Nation is some new concert weekend in Australia. It happened over Easter, apparently. This is a cash in compilation of some of the bands that played — as blatantly

money spinning as the Voodoo Lounge live video. And who cares about an Australian concert?

But hang on — put that hatchet away. As a stand-alone compilation, it's all alternative gui-tar-obics (well, apart from the dismal Das FX, but you’d.be advised to skip that track). Faith No More, Bodycount and Primus have all provided some good tracks from their latest albums. There’s Ween’s ‘Can’t Put My Finger On It’ and Supergroove's ‘You Freak Me’ (with the vocal mix so low you’d think it was an instrumental), and some metal bizzo from unknowns (well, I'd never heard of them) Peyote and Nitocris. It’s all pretty average fare, that at least leaves you feeling like you didn’t miss much at the gig. Hopefully John Singleton's movie Higher Learning will be as back on track as this soundtrack. Forget Janet and her Poetic Jaundice. Higher Learning opens with this film’s star, Ice Cube, with the spesh, smoovie title track. It’s weird hearing him rap about varsity though. There’s more rap gymnastics from Outcast’s ‘Phobia’, but there are broad musical flavourings going on here (compared to say, the Boys in the Hood soundtrack). The Brand New Heavies get some acid jazz going on, Me Shelle’s sultry soul is as sexy as licking chocolate sauce off a perfect body. And then there’s Rage Against the Machine and Liz Phair! But the spotlight is stolen and smuggled all over the world by Tori Amos. Her bare, piano accompanied version of REM’s ‘Losing My Religion’ is what a cover version should be — completely different, with hidden strengths rising to the surface to inject a new life into the original idea. Higher Learning is a strong new music soundtrack that might even get you liking some sounds outside your usual preference. JOHN TAITE

I SUPERGRASS I Should Coco . I SUPERGRASS I Should Coco (EMI) •Supergrass make me smile. Beyond the stats like they’re an Oxford three-piece, and lead singer Gaz is only 18, and boring trivia like that, there’s magic going on here. Magic, life, fun, youth. Right from the start, ‘l’d Like to Know’ pulls you into the hyped up party buzz they live in. Mad organ, rocked up guitars, mup-pet-like ‘la la la’ chorus’, and Gaz singing about wanting ‘to go where all the strange ones go’. . When they do punk, you can forget the bloody New Wave Of New Wavers, or the bland, processed yank bollocks. ‘Caught By The Fuzz’

is being busted with a joint by the baby buggering, brainless cop scum: ‘ln the back of the van, with my head in my hands / I wish I could’ve stayed at home tonight...’ guitars racing like a pulse, and pop that will hum around in your mind for weeks. They're not .a punk band. That's just a segment of their sound. There’s the helium vocals of ‘We’re Not Supposed To’, that hints at Ween as much as Syd Barrett. The gleeful ‘Alright’ sets it straight that the kids in the so called ‘Safe 90s’ are still fucking around, getting fucked up and rolling cars in fields. There’s rock ’n’ roll, with ‘Lose It’ (being released in the states on Sub Pop) and ‘Lenny’, there’s glam metal meets Madness, on 'Mansized Rooster’ and 10 zillion tonnes of fun on the rest of the album.

I Should Coco is one of 95s greats, from a band that make everyone else sound like a boring, restrained bunch of plodders. It's youth. It’s what keeps you from the suits and the mortgages. If you need a boost of that, you need some Supergrass. JOHN TAITE

MORPHINE Yes (Ryko)

A couple of years ago this Boston trio was the hip name to drop around cafes and wine bars. Here was a novel guitarless saxophone band, that didn’t threaten or challenge the senses. In Mark Sandman’s Muddy Waters-ish vocals and swinging R&B songs, they had a rootsiness that gave their second album, Cure For Pain, a durable context.

Yes isn’t so convincing, and it’s going to disappoint Morphine addicts. The first side (or first half dozen songs in CD-speak) has their customary catchy sax riffs, with ‘Radar’ taking the prizes. The band then try to up the temperature with the off-the-wall craziness of ‘Super Sex’, and extend their boundaries with the film noir atmoshperics of ‘The Jury'. Both fail. And although ‘Free Love’ is a heavy, hypnotic slice of sax drama, it can’t save an album that makes too many wrong moves. GEORGE KAY I SCOTT WALKER Tilt (Fontana)

Like most cult figures, Scott Walker has a small but fanatical following — devotees who’ve kept. his name alive through the largely barren periods of his career in the 70s and 80s. From the sublime and resonant pop dra-

mas with the Walker Brothers, to his seminal solo torch singing era of the later 60s, Scott Walker was widely tipped as having the pitch, phrasing and interpretative ability of a budding Sinatra. But Walker was a reclusive, reluctant singer, with a phobia about live performance, and a declining confidence that has left only Climate of Hunter as fresh evidence of his artistic existence over the last 10 years or so. The Walker flame was kept alive by campaigns like Julian Cope’s well publicised rantings about the former’s god-like genius. Now, 10 years in the making and three years after its anticipated release, Tilt has unobtrusively hit the streets. It shares certain similarities with Climate — right from Pete Walsh’s production to Walker’s predilection for sparse, abstract,

and what he calls ‘trance-lrke’ songs. Only on the excellent title track does a guitar squirm in anger or an arrangemnt threaten to get up tempo. The rest is strained and desolate, and although there’s consolation in the beautiful, chilling ‘Farmer in the City’, and in the strung out melancholy of ‘Manhattan’ and ‘Patriot’, Tilt is too stark to be totally embraced by non-Scott Walker aficionados. GEORGE KAY I ANNIE LENNOX Medusa (RCA)

Although one expects any rock-era remake to be viewed in the light of the original version, the first single from Annie Lennox’s collection

of covers has virtually escaped such scrutiny. That’s because the first ‘No More "I Love Yous’” remains almost unknown outside the UK. Not so, however, the originals of Medusa’s other nine tracks.

In almost every case Lennox’s version is more complex. Her vocal rendition may be reverent, but it also usually embedded in an arrangement which is considerably busier, and frequently more dramatic than the original. For instance, the Clash’s ‘Train In Vain’ builds to a call and response finale reminiscent of gospel music. The simple drums and piano plonk that once accompanied Neil Young’s ‘Don’t Let It Bring You Down’ have been replaced by huge sweeps of synth and a background chorale of multi-tracked Lennoxs. Even her revisit to the Blue Nile — her reading of ‘The Gift’ was a highlight on her last album — becomes overblown towards the end. A few of the song choices seem somewhat curious. At least two received well known remakes in the 1980 s. The Pretenders did ‘Thin Line Between Love and Hate’, although Lennox’s treatment has a great new prowling bassline. But then her version of ‘Take Me to the River’ is redundantly similar to Talking Heads’.

Perhaps a couple of the tracks are deliberately provocative. She’s de-ragged ‘Waiting In Vain’, which will doubtless disgust Marley fans. There’s also her inclusion of that chestnut/cliche ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’, which, in a relatively low key delivery, will either delight or repel. Where Lennox and her production team — the same as on Diva — have unquestionably succeeded is in giving the collection her identity. With its largely synthetic instrumentation and effects in support of her remarkable voice, Medusa unquestionably sounds like an Annie Lennox album. (One afterthought: all these songs were originally recorded by males. Didn’t the medusa of mythology turn any man to stone who got within her vision?) PETER THOMPSON

DURAN DURAN Thank You (EMI) ADAM ANT Wonderful (EMI)

Well, a bunch of old tossers hoping you’ll agree with their album titles. First on the chopping block - Simon Le Bon and his millionaire plaything (No) Thank You. Phew. If it was a comedy album it might’ve been a hit. But if you ever needed evidence that pop has not only eaten itself, it’s projectile vomited and sat on its colostomy bag, here it is. Duran Duran doing ‘9ll is a Joke’. Imagine how bad it could be — then multiply by 54,673. Bit of acoustic (“The kids are into some guy called Buck or something, Mr Le Bon” — “Can we rip him off and look cool, Mr Record company adviser?’’), Simon down a phone line, putting on an American accent, -complaining about the emergency services in black neighbourhoods. Hmmmmm.

But wait, there’s more. Ha ha ha. There are Led Zeppelin covers, Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello — ouch. The only thing worth more than a chortle is Bob Dylan’s ‘Lay Lady Lay’, just because Bob covers are always better than Bob originals (‘Writes great songs but sounds like constipated orangutan that’s been liberally beaten around the head,’ it said on his singing teacher’s report). Onwards. Adam Ant — the ultimate sell out punk. Mind you, this album is like the comeback of the century. Not comeback as in everyone’s running around in warpaint going: “Our pop hero has returned.” Wonderful is a comeback in that it’s not the biggest, steamiest load of shite you’ve heard all year (like everything else he’s put out since the mid-80s). I’m as surprised with writing that compliment as you are to read it! As far as pop goes, Ant is like a walking museum piece that knows his history. Genius steals etc. The album opens with ‘Won’t Take That Talk’, pinches the intro from Floyd’s ‘Brain Damage’, the strum from Bowie’s ‘Starman’ at a slower pace and, wait, was that guitar jingle the edge from ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’? They’re all blended to make something originally Adam Ant of course, and it’s not that bad either, with Boz Boorer’s guitars brightening things up. It’s followed by the toe curling awfulness of ‘Beautiful Dream’, which sounds like the Thompson Twins. But before too long ‘1969 Again’ pops up, all Blur meets PIL with amusing lyrics (‘God makes us pay for our sins — that’s why he gave us the bingly bongly children’). Adam Ant has become the Elton John of the

90s. Both of their careers moved from outrage to MOR as they grew old with their audience, and meant nothing to the kids. JOHN TAITE I BANSHEE REEL An Orchestrated Litany Of Lies (Loaded Records) Banshee Reel have released an album at a time when, for a band to call themselves Celtic, is the immediate kiss of death. Celtic groups have taken over the mantel of the Top 40 covers band as something that gets the Philistines jumping, and leaves the serious music fan heading for the nearest exit. But Celtic, or Celtic influenced music, like everything, has its good and bad exponents. With An Orchestrated Litany of Lies, Banshee Reel have proved themselves nearer the former than the latter. While tending away from the good-time stomp of their live performances, the band makes up for it with well written songs, intelligent arranging and skillful playing. When Allan Clark sings, one first thinks of Spider Stacy, and there are other similarities to the second generation Pogues — the frequent forays into pop and the experiments into other folk styles. The Alan Norman written ‘ln Yer Dreams’ is a fast country hoe-down track which should be on the juke box of every provincial diner, and should be leapt around to by every farmboy who ever fancied himself as Billy the Kid. 'Blood On Your Hands’ has a Slavic rhythm, and lyrically expresses what appear to be the Banshee’s favourite topics: love, romance, blood and death. These themes reoccur in ‘Never Can Tell’ and ‘4O Miles Of Pain’. ‘4O Miles’ bombards the listener with a seamless array of images linked together over a solid Celtic beat. Julia Deans sings on ‘Honest to God’, a great pop track, enhanced by Gavin Duncan's fiddle playing. It is unfortunate the band don’t use her more on lead vocals. Perhaps the album would have been more complete without the reggae-flavoured ‘Burn Me’ or the reprise of ‘Lament’, which doesn’t seem to add much to the overall package. But with the inclusion of the dreamy ‘Horses’, everything else is forgiven. If there is one track on the album that should be listened to repeatedly, it’s this. It may not rock the foundations of popular culture. We may have heard it before. It may have been done a thousand times over. But then again, what hasn’t? DONALD REID I VARIOUS Tank Girl, Music From the Motion Picture Soundtrack (Elektra) Executive music co-ordinator Courtney LoveCobain has pulled together a diverse collection of tracks to blast and cajole Tank Girl through her adventures in the upcoming movie. Bjork's ‘Army of Me’, Devo’s ‘Girl You Want’, L7’s ‘Shove’ and Ice T’s ‘Big Gun’ strike me as inspired choices for the appocalypse’s coolest heroine to listen to. But I bet she wouldn’t listen to the kind of lame Belly track (‘Thief’) that's included. As for the Joan Jett and Paul Westerberg duet of ‘Let’s Do It’, I don’t think anyone listened to it before it was released. It sounds like two hoary old rockers revisiting the kind of singing rounds you get taught in primary school. Nasty. If you want to hear Bjork, buy Post. If you want to hear Portishead, buy Dummy. If you want to hear the Magnificent Bastards (who feature Scott Weilland of Stone Temple Pilots on vocals) more than once, you probably don’t deserve to be let loose in a record store. What I mean to say is, this is not one of those soundtracks that makes good continuous listening, although there are some great songs on it. BRONWYN TRUDGEON SHAMPOO We Are Shampoo (EMI) SALAD Drink Me (Island) Well I loved ‘Trouble’: ‘Better get home, quick march on the double,’ and all that. Never thought they’d come up with an album though. Shampoo, who sound like a teenage cross between the vocals of Bananarama and the punk pop guitar feel of Carter USM, are Carrie and Jacqui, the plastic fantastics. They live in some Never Never Land of pints and sweets, boys and toys, girly whirly cuteness and arrogant bitchiness. Songs like ‘Game Boy’, ‘Skinny White Thing’ and ‘Viva La Megababes’. Anthems like ‘Trouble’ and ‘Saddo’ (with its pissed in a disco chorus of: ‘You’re a loser,

loser loser!’). It’s throwaway, but it’s fun and poppy, and you consistently get what you expect from this bratty young sex machine. As for Salad, well, they’ve got all the mid 80s indie components: the female singer, the average guitar, the odd fiddly keyboard. If I was in an unfair mood I’d say they sound like a pub band that thought too much of the Darling Buds and the Primitives, and who will soon be following the aforementioned into obscurity. Singer (and, as the press kit says like it meant something, ‘former model’), Marijne van der Vlugt, is Dutch and boring. There’s no sex, no power, no pain to her or her band, just boredom. Salad. They're crap. JOHN TAITE I CHRIS WHITLEY Din of Ecstacy (Columbia) Anyone familiar with Whitley’s debut, Living With the Law, may have some difficulty recognising their beloved blues-tinged singer/songwriter in the dark morass which is Din of Ecstasy.

Like Neil Youngs' Tonight's the Night, John Cale’s Music For A New Society and Lou Reed’s Take No Prisoners, it's an album of dazed, deliberate pain — sprung apparently from Whitley’s drug addiction (his version of Jesus and the Mary Chain’s junkie anthem ‘Some Candy Talking’ is suitably poignant) and divorce from his wife (the sleeve features extracts from love letters to her). Musically, it’s closer to Husker Du than Son House — dense, seething guitars, with the vocals buried in the mix, no lush soundscapes to sweeten things. It’s the sort of sound one suspects our own Straitjacket Fits attempted to capture for Blow. Only the acoustic ‘New Machine’ harks back to the Whitley of old. This time it’s a shaky, spidery update of Robert Johnson’s Terraplane Blues, where sex offers no salvation, just more problems ‘beneath the blanket where the world is’, as Whitley puts it. Never an easy album to listen to (self loathing’s funny that way), it is a record of raw torment, unlikely to trouble the Billboard Top 40, but one which, given time, will age with grace and a weird sort of dignity. GREG FLEMING

COLD WATER FLAT Cold Water Flat (Fort Apache/MCA)

Not so much power pop as buzz-saw pop, Cold Water Flat take their musical cues from the likes of 80s giants Husker Du. Lead singer/guitarist Paul Janovitz certainly has a touch of (Bob) Mould about his vocal chords, and likewise shares Mould’s ability to generate some wonderfully searing guitar lines. This is not to suggest plagiarism — it’s merely that the best moments on this remarkably assured debut album are worthy of such comparison. ‘Numb’ builds to the sort of guitar driven climax that re-invests a tired and over used word like ‘epic’ with some sort of relevance. ‘Virus Road’ and ‘Rescue Lights’, meanwhile, churn along memorably on a seething bed of fuzzed out guitars, topped with pristine melodies. Also included is the glorious ‘Magnetic North Pole’, the band’s contribution to Fort Apache’s recent introductory sampler This Is Fort Apache. Able to hold its head high amongst some very esteemed company on that compilation, Cold Water Flat here prove that ‘Magnetic North

Pole’ was no fluke, by producing a debut album full of bruised beauty and honest, ragged appeal. Play it loud. You won’t be disappointed. MARTIN BELL I ALLEGIANCE Destitution (Phonogram) Every month some guy from Brisbane writes a letter to HM Monthly that goes something like this: ‘Jeez I’m pissed Allegiance aren’t getting the attention they deserve. Mate, these guys are the best #%##%s metal band in the world and dinkim Aussies to boot. Blah, blah, koala buggery, blah. C’mon Aussies, get in behind these blokes and show the woofters that make up the rest of the planet that Aussies rock hardest.' At last, Bruce from Brisbane’s dream has come true, leaving wowsers everywhere aghast at just how darn heavy Allegiance are, and pondering how they got to be so darned fantastic. Perhaps at one time Allegiance played the circuits as visionaries like Bjorn Again, maybe calling themselves Beer ’n’ Telly ’n' Cars. Then possibly some genius figured they’d make more dosh as an original band, thus unleashing Destitution on us. Anyway, the stereo’s reeking of black jeans and white sneakers, but is that a foul or fragrant smell? What’s wrong with sounding (a lot) like Metallica and,, most importantly, if a woodchuck could chuck wood would he? Over to you Bruce... KEVIN LIST

VARIOUS ARTISTS Encomium: A Tribute to Led Zeppelin (Atlantic)

Led Zeppelin may have ceased to exist in 1980, but the legend continues forever. With Jimmy Page and Robert Plant reunited, andtouring their amazing No Quarter album, the time is ripe for a Zeppelin tribute. Surprisingly, most (but not all) of these cover versions are stylish, new interpretations of the classic tunes and an enjoyable listen, whether you're a Zephead or not.

4 Non Blondes perform ‘Misty Moutain Hop' quite powerfully. Blind Melon give their special touch to 'Out on the Tiles’. Robert Plant himself even appears, for a duet with Tori Amos on a lenghty reworking of ‘Down By the Seaside', from Physical Grafitti. Other contributors include Rollins Band, Helmet, Hootie and the Blowfish and Sheryl Crow, who does a laid back version of ‘D’Yer Mak’er'. An interesting, worthwhile collection that

salutes one of the greatest bands that ever was. GEOFF DUNN

POP WILL EAT ITSELF Two Fingers My Friends (Liberation)

GOING GLOBAL SERIES Voila (London)

I’m not sure this is the best of moves for the Poppies. Being re-mixed by a bunch of the biggies just makes their originals sound shoddy. Their short messy bile spews from Dos Dedos Mis Amigos have been expanded (Youth), injected with ethno (Transglobal Underground, Fun-da menatal), and Jah Wobble, JG Thirwell and the Orb all make monuments out of their tracks. It’s like turning fish and chips into a twelve course meal at the Ritz. So, their very metal noise pollution has lifted. Two Fingers isn’t just a re-mix album, it’s a blinding view of the potential that the Poppies could never reach. Voila gives some old world music classics a kicking. An offshoot of French label Barkley (who were the first to pick up WM artists like Mory Kante and Cheb Khaled in the 80s), the Going Global Series pools the talents of Justin ‘Lionrock’ Robertson, re-mixing ‘Voila Voila’, Hardfloor sqeezing another hit out of ‘Yeke Yeke’, and Sakan making ‘Time Fax’ a sweat machine. And then there’s more — a plethora of international sounds getting beaten into dance floor fodder. You know the world music review routine — musical melting pot/sonic nation uniting — there’s squillions of shite descriptions for mixing old and new, East and West. But at the end of the day, if it makes you jump around a bit and gives you a great soundtrack to get shitfaced to, it’s done its job. Voila does both. Shame about the boring CD cover. JOHN TAITE

MARIANNE FAITHFULL A Secret Life (Island)

It would be deceptively easy to get snide here. Faithfull delivers her first album of (mostly) original material in 12 years and it’s only 35 minutes long! Composer Angelo Badalamenti re-uses his best melody for three of the 10

tracks, albeit in different orchestrations. Considering Faithfull’s recently vaunted rep’ as a wordsmith — that autobiography may be rivetingly candid, but it’s not without pretensions — she only manages to take sole responsibility for half the lyrics. Other lyricists include Irish playwright Frank McGuinness (in whose work Fathfull has recently performed), English playwright Will Shakespeare (in whose work Faithfull once performed), and Italian poet Dante. But let's not get snide. A Secret Life has much to recommend it. Initial predictions may have been for an album combining the depressing ennui of Faithfull’s 1987 covers collection Strange Weather with the lush melancholy of Badalamenti’s Twin Peaks soundtrack. While there are certainly hints of this, overall the album transcends expectations. Darkness may be present, but the general mood is more one of artistic confidence. Faithfull’s voice is sounding richer, more vibrant and expressive than we’d ever thought it capable. Badalamenti’s music is frequently more interesting than his work for David Lynch and Julee Cruise. Such is the beauty of his ‘She’ theme, for instance, that I am happy to hear it reworked behind Faithfull intoning Prospero’s closing speech from Shakespeare’s The Tempest. What could easily have been tacky and cliched works a treat, which just about sums up the whole album really. PETER THOMSON I MANPUSSY Foreskin 500 (Priority Records) Von Schwinehunds’ cold, angular form filled the doorway. “Is 0800 a broken man yet?” His ferret faced subaltern raised a ferrety face. “Nein,” he said, and then, luckily, slipped into bad English. “Ve haf even tried ze Melody Rules... but he is just laffing at it.” Schwinehunds raised a cold eyebrow. “Most strange... time for ze Foreskin 500.” The ferrety one took a pack back. “Mein gott, inhuman, that is.” For the next hour, room 010 was a cacaphony of demented screams, as well as an occasional whimper from 0800. More’painful than 0800’s predicament was the ghastly sounds of Manpussy, a horrible concoction of the Amercian dream gone sour. It was the sound of Amercian males in rebellion; the sound of a thousand pierced dongs beating off in time-to the rhythm of the highway — the highway to hell! 0800 shifted queasily in his chair, as yet another wave of sequenced guitar broke upon

his ears. By god, if he ever escaped from this jam, Al Jourgensen was going to pay — with his life. But first, he must escape. Luckily, throughout the ordeal he’d chanted an ancient tibetan mantra backwards, warding off the worst excesses of sub-industro-dis’Co-punk-biker-sludgecore™ guaranteed to turn the weakminded into leather cap wearing, pincushions of modern primitivism. Now, as the insidiously hummable trash tailed off with wimply, mumble ballad, he siezed his chance and, unbeknownst to the ferret, reversed the polarity of the neutron flow, turning the aural equivalent of mustard gas upon his captors. Because his tormentors lacked 0800’s buckets of spunk, they promptly wilted, and the free world belched loudly in relief. Next week 0800 visits the lair of Foreskin 500, to find Al Jourgensen’s behind everything, except Al’s been dead since 89 and is, in fact, the scruffiest one from White Zombie, who turns out to be Trent Reznor wearing a wig. Probably! KEVIN LIST

ORB Orbus Terrarum (Island)

YELLO Hands on Yello (Polygram)

What sets ambi apart? What makes The Orb so popular? Media attention? Yup — better the confuser you know. But there’s more: their samples (a radio play about slugs on ‘Slug Dub!’), amazing sounds (all of them), and the structures that don’t exist until you think about them. So much of their material sounds organic, like the songs always existed, clouded by silence, and the Orb just liberated them from the nothingness. After two old tracks, ‘Valley’ and ‘Plateau’ (last heard on Orb Live 93), we move into fresh realms of Dr Paterson and co. ‘Oxbow Lakes’ is pure drama — a typically plain piano solo drowns as it’s banished to the bottom of the ocean. There it transforms into a hungry Pacmonster of throbbing sound, building and building until the original notes return, ghostly, immaculate, slaying the beast they had become. Ambi defies any kind of real review (as I’m sure you’ve noticed). Symphonies of the electronic age, dazed and fuzed, background or foreground music, depending on how you’re standing. Means nothing. Says everything. The

Orb are back and certain stocks at the corner dairy are running low. Now, the idea of a Yello tribute album, put together by a bunch of today’s dance finest is a grand one. Who better to have an electronic make-over than the forefathers of electric weirdness. And dance’s remix has always-been held in highter esteem than pop’s cover version. More sound than sentiment I suppose. The only drawback with this compilation is that some of the artists involved were so totak ly in awe of the Swiss masters (read the sycophantic liner notes!) that they’ve tried to keep a lot of the original flavour — to the detriment of stamping their own distictive feel. Moby’s sexy slink on 'Lost Again’ oozes out with finesse — but it'd be nothing without re-using Boris’ original doomed atmos and Dieter’s original sleazy vocals. When the Orb and Jam and Spoon completely deconstruct ‘You Gotta Say Yes to Another Excess’, we’re getting exactly what the project promised. Plutone’s jungle stomp through ‘Oh Yeah’ gives the original a kicking, and Carl Cox’s transformation of ‘L’Hotel’ is a gas. A hit and miss compilation. Very Yello, really. JOHN TAITE ■ DRUGSTORE Drugstore (Go! Discs) The best way to experience Drugstore’s debut album is to curl into the foetal position in a darkened room and let it envelop you (drugs optional — no marks for subtlety in the bandname department). After 43 minutes of this you'll feel as if you’ve been in an isolation tank for a week. Drugstore’s Brazilian-born singer Isabel Monterio’s breathy, other worldly vocals imbue the songs with a characteristic languid and effortless quality, somewhat at odds with the often disturbing lyrics. Musically,- the essence of the songs is akin to the likes of Mazzy Star, the Cowboy Junkies, the Jesus and Mary Chain and Codeine. The overall effect of the album is of it existing in a parallel universe without reference points. Drugstore is at once evocative and timeless, with individual tracks rising to the consciousness of your memory, before slipping back into the seamless whole. It’s full of cerebral, selfish moodiness, but then, who hasn’t felt selfish or moody at times? As a downer companion, Drugstore is perversely cathartic and oddly uplifting — some weird shit, sure, but well worth trying. Me? I’m hooked — perhaps they should call their next album Pusher.

MARTIN BELL