New York Dolls - Cause I SEZ So

The seventies birthed a new level of insanity in the world of music and pop culture. One band, however, can safely stake their claim in outlining the blueprints for two bold new fronts; Glam Rock and Punk. They blitzed the stage with their chaos concentrate and defied convention (something that required extreme measures as it was, given the time period) by obliterating their instruments with smart, simple, blazing guitar lines while decked in woman's drag and a hearty variety of Revlon product. Even David Bowie, the Rock & Roll chameleon, was spotted at their shows with pen and paper, taking notes. Morrissey and members of R.E.M. are also cited as major devotees. They aren't as widely recognized but the New York Dolls made an unmistakable footprint in the direction of our great musical monument, fashioning the simplicity and ferocity of a new age and giving form to a musical style that would become a staple in the minds of fiery restless youth.

Yet, as is true with most influential groups, their reign of terror was short lived. They disbanded in 1975 and the spoils of their legacy have been riddled with an element of tragedy in the decades to follow. Soon after Johnny Thunders split, he ignited a mightily successful solo career in the Punk Rock arena. Being a dope fiend however, his trashy lifestyle soon caught up with him and a little over a decade after he found his limelight he was found dead in his hotel room under very suspicious circumstances. It remains a favorite topic among musical conspiracy theorists but we won't dive into that mess. Jerry Nolan lived no longer than a few months after Thunders, succumbing to bacterial meningitis and bacterial pneumonia. What's worse, Arthur "Killer" Kane passed away in 2004 by accelerated Leukemia, just 22 days after the first New York Dolls reunion concert.

So with their legendary status aside and only two of the original band members still intact, how might a rebirthed comeback fare in today's music world? We've seen a fair amount of classic rockers come crawling out of retirement and a good deal of them have been less than satisfying. Just think of a hunched and decrepit Robert Plant doing his best to croak and wail for tens of thousands of fans completely aside from the fact that his once-thunderous, God-like voice has long since left him and you'll grasp the idea. A healthy artist's music is progressive, never static. Just as musical taste evolves and builds upon itself, so does an artist's inspiration and outlet. On that basis, I'm not convinced that thirty to forty years down the road, these legendary Classic Rockers are in the same old place they started. Sure, give the people what they want, but do it with some grace and dignity! Certain anomalies exist, of course. AC/DC's charm is that they will always and forever stick to their raunchy formula and the world loves them for it. They're as certain as death and taxes.

So, in this year of 2009, a time riddled with Indie folk bands that don't really speak much to folk at all, worldwide economic turmoil and just three and a half years away from the Mayan prophesied apocalypse we're given 'Cause I Sez So,' a brand new album from the New York Dolls. How on earth do we handle this? I made a grave error in my approach. First thing I did was listen to their debut album to refresh myself. I got all hyped up and giddy about it, then dived headlong into this thing and oh, how it hurt. Thirty-four years in hibernation and they're trying to pick up right where they left off and it doesn't work at all. On a Rock & Roll scale, it's nearly first class in concept when juxtaposed to most retro-rockers today. The instruments are crunchy and alive, Johansen's got a nice raspy howl but my problem was in their approach. The first track is a cringer, it says it all in the title 'Cause I Sez So.' They're pulling this attitude that seems utterly forced and pretty hilarious, chucking hokey slang all over us and mucking up the songs. If not for the lyrical tripe these songs would have some great potential as album openers, but ultimately, after quite a few plays it's still just painful to sit through.

The album continues like this four songs in, but with the first few jangly acoustic notes of 'My World' my ears perked up. None of the songs before seemed nearly as engaging. This second wave of songs are injected with cherry red blood and played with a stranglehold, it’s like the ship changes direction entirely. 'This is Ridiculous' could claim to be Screamin' Jay Hawkin's illegitimate baby child in a generation gone wrong with the punchy guitar and Johansen's bluesy snarl. He taps into his licit anger for us (the misplaced attitude now pulled off very well) and bridges a connection with this fractious lyrical frankness that the Blues Gods of the golden age were renowned for. Further down the line the ladies flirt with Spanish guitar and some fine whistling in a lamenting 'Temptation to Exist,' followed by a straight up Country Rock tune that, to my surprise, works beautifully with the ingredients on hand. They've tapped into their seasoned potential at last. 'Making Rain' and 'Temptation To Exist' are sung with more conviction and sincerity than anything precedent since they’re embracing themes more pertinent today. All the same, they give us a re-working of 'Trash' from their debut with a slick Reggae groove, reminding us that they are still ultimately the masters of their domain. And onward the album twists and turns with some generous surprises that make it worthwhile in the end. Perhaps the biggest surprise of all is the closer, ‘Exorcism of Despair,’ which comes and goes quicker than any other track but with that it taps into the fury of great Punk Rock and leaves us hungering for more.

None of this is necessarily groundbreaking musical excavation by any means, but it's a worthy showcasing of artistic growth (two-thirds of it anyway). For me it begs the question, what was their intent with this album? I don't think they were looking to bring the New York Dolls back in the name of evening drag shows. They're all talented, ambitious musicians in their own right with fantastic chemistry and I think this album's a vehicle for bigger and better things to come. Their old punchy sound is well behind them as is made evident in the beginning of the album and they're clearly interested in exploring. A good deal of that weight is on us as fans of music; progressive music. The New York Dolls are a thing of the past no matter which way we look at it, what we're given instead is a name full of interesting frontiers. Let them explore. And in that respect, I recommend the same to anyone who thinks they know just how far they've strayed on this release. Take some time to listen to their original influences; the old timey Rhythm and Blues, American Girl Groups of the 50's and 60's, Tyrannosaurus Rex, early Rolling Stones. See just how far of a jump these guys were to begin with and you can start to appreciate their need to progress today.

Blind purchases

So imagine my curiosity when stumbling upon an album in Everyday Music that featured no text as an indicator for the music or even a price tag, just a volcanic eruption of color in a lyrical abstract painting. Intrigued, I took it home and gave it a spin with nothing to go on but a very open mind. What I was presented with is something I'm still mystified by as I sit here months later. Inducting the first track is a choir of crawling, cautious, rattling strings that lay the sonic terrain for a sax that swirls in and out, clucking and stumbling, whining and waning like a wounded animal searching for a place to die peacefully. The sax and strings flirt in revolutions while the drums steadily take more prominence, and onward they creep warily around each other until they reach the five minute mark and explode into violent bloody end; all players throwing their suppressions out the window and beating their instruments into oblivion. The instruments spoke volumes. And the story they were telling interjected me with bloodthirsty fascination. This is the freedom and experimental embrace that I love about Jazz.
I can't claim to be a Jazz aficionado. It's a class all its own and the ear has to acquire a taste for the unexpected. I will say that I've always found the generic, straight-up form of Jazz (saxophone, bass, basic drums) to be less than exciting. I'm more intrigued by the raw vicious experimental aspects and it seems to me that those vistas were the original draw of Jazz to begin with. The form had all but dropped from radar until innovators like Miles Davis and John Coltrane detonated the music scene and changed what everybody thought they knew. This gave air to innovations and genre bendings of all sort. Just listen to Alice Coltrane's numerous incantations, perhaps the best example being 'Journey in Satchidananda' for a true illustration in pushing the bar.
I later found the name of this mysterious group. 'Kammerflimmer Kollektief' and their album 'Incommunicado' continues much the same as the first track, very free and never predictable. Composed of just six tracks, some go as long as twelve minutes and other more bombastic numbers are as brief as forty five seconds ensuring the experience keeps you on your toes. The album flirts with vast walks of influence, fusing essence of avante-garde rock with some more modern renowned experimental lunatics like Marc Ribot and Bill Frisell, both which have a signature sound I've been able to detect yet constantly pull very pleasant surprises out of their hat to keep the creative juices flowing. Even Johnny Rotten's gotten his hands dirty with some neurotic concoctions in his Public Image Ltd. project, check out Flowers of Romance for a very free laced, tribal jazz experimentation. I highly recommend making a blind purchase, throw yourself into some section of your local music store you tend to avoid and take a chance. It's a big world and the sky's the limit.

Wild horses couldn't drag me away...

I've been listening to a lot of 60's work lately and quite frankly, there's absolutely nothing like it. The 60's were a brave, radical period across the globe. Free thinkers grew tired of the restrictive norm, threw their inhibitions out the window and lived the way they saw fit and this latitudinarian aura gave birth to a revolution in artistic expression; something we take horribly for granted in this age of infinite accessibility. Music being the most expressive art form we have (at least today) it evolved and took on a life of its own. There was nothing that could stop it and god damn it must have been empowering. Songs like Mr. Tambourine Man served as an anthem for the searchers and wanderers, a sort of reassurance that they were not alone. FM stereos cranked to high served as their SOS beacon as they prowled the roads looking for their herd. The southern fried country boys were soon fraternizing with the rock and rollers of the north in light of crossbred artists like The Byrds and The Flying Burrito Brothers, creating a brotherhood of understanding few of us can really understand very well today.

This isn't to say that all is lost for us looking back. Not by a long shot. It's just become apparent to me that the excitement has gone. The thrill of finding an artist has lost its luster with the explosion of MySpace and file sharing programs and with that, the artists have lost the ambition to dig deeper themselves and work to really pour themselves into their music. We have some groups digging beneath that current of course. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is a good example. Their album ‘Howl’ went completely against the grain of their previous efforts and threw their fan base off entirely. It wasn’t a revolutionary work, more of a step back, way back, circa 1930’s back porch gospel and blues. And once the people found it they ate it up. With this, I think we’ve noticed a big re-ignition in our lust for rootsy Americana with bands like Fleet Foxes and O’death and while their hearts are in the right place, they’re still falling victim to trendy over production. It seems a cycle to me in the past two decades or so, digging through the past and reworking what we already know and love. I’m just anxiously awaiting another breakthrough. A massive one.

The Acorn - Glory Hope Mountain

For the past three weeks I've been afloat. Beguiled by a certain piece of music that cannot be ignored. It's hard to imagine, the pains of creating a piece of music that pulses with soul, enchantment and life without coming off as too indulgant. I don't sense those stresses in The Acorn's first full length album "Glory Hope Mountain". Rather, I envision the band members with closed, searching eyes and a slight grin as they let their music search them out and flow through their fingers in sweet, earthy acoustic rhythms. This Canadian indie folk group has perhaps succeeded in this album so overwhelmingly simply because they were in love with the concept and search for their subject's story. A focus that's hard to achieve, but can most definitely be found with inner peace and acceptance. Glory Hope Mountain is a concept album, telling the story of band member Rolf Klausener's Honduras-born mother, Gloria Esperanza Montoya (the title being a rough translation of her name).
The arrangements aren't needlessly complicated. Each track is constructed from the ground up with honeyed strings and exotic percussion, the real treat being Rolf Klausener's gentle and hopelessly magnetic narrative. If you're not on your toes at times, you'll find your mind wandering freely into a euphoric spell. As the album progresses we're offered some real surprises that plant beautiful little seeds in your subconscious. Slight electronic lines and melodies throughout, layered and delivered in such a way that suggests we're being welcomed into a nostalgic hope chest of Rolf's. Little compositions helping to convey that nameless feeling which encouraged this collection of music in the first place.
Find this album where you can and listen to it when nothing is to interrupt you and background noise is minimal. Nothing is to be taken from the first journey through, it's an experience that if appreciated with eyes closed and your mind at ease, you will feel the air beneath your feet.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - American X

The boys in black leather return once more. With them they bring a small collection of songs that didn't make the final cut of their latest release, Baby 81 which was their most accessible album to date. What does a return to form mean for them? Non-conformity. While Baby 81 was a very good dose of rock and roll at its sharpest, it didn't showcase the best of their abilities, but merely hinted at them. Their post-apocalyptic doom laden guitar static was sacrificed for innovative bluesy hooks and their writing took a more tongue-in-cheek play-on-word approach with songs like Took Out A Loan and Lien on Your Dreams. They're all very good, especially live, but it all leaves you somewhat unfulfilled near the end, longing for something more organic and oh so much more deadly.
Well low and behold, the boys haven't lost their rebel spirit, they've just kept it on the downlow. Right from the beginning we're introduced to an earth shattering drum groove similar to something you'd hear on a chaotic dancefloor and definitely offbase with anything they've put out before. The song consists of just three solid lines; "I ain't ever seen the likes of you before, I'll be your ever-loving cure," and "You're my ever-loving cure." The sole purpose is to inspire you to move, find that lover of yours. Make good on the guitar's sludgy groove and grind together; heal one another. It's the end-all of love songs and it doesn't need an insurmountable amount of verses to convey that. Just a notion.
Coming off that high we're placed in a subtle soundscape, one which would seem impossible to find on a driven album like Baby 81. But it's familiar and trusted territory when considering their first two albums. Vision, 20 Hours and Last Chance for Love (the latter being a contemplative instrumental that brings the album to a close) are all songs that brings back their atmospheric tendencies and it's good to hear, you can almost sense their sigh of relief and tension easing up as they let their instruments elude sonic restraints and speak to us in wonderful foreign tongues while Robert frees us from our own minds with this unplugged lyrical ability.
"This life is pure fiction, no more reality! Your body's your affliction, your soul cannot release!" he bellows with a wild conviction I've never heard Robert touch upon in any previous song. The Show Is About To Begin is one of two centerpieces on this collection. An iron clad titan thundering into the arena with guitar riffage I'd have to say wouldn't be possible without Josh Hommes' contribution to the genre of rock and roll. Pure sonic doom colored blood red. As NME put it, "It's music to slaughter Highway 69 hitchhikers to." It's a damn shame this piece wasn't included on the initial release of Baby 81, it might have given songs such as 666 Conducer some much needed company and catapulted the album into the position of greatness it deserved. Oh well.
Along with this heavyweight comes another song I'm wild about. Whenever You're Ready. Starting with a murky gutter wading guitar line and the repeated mantra "I'm ready for you, all ready for you. Come and get me darlin', you know I'm gonna getcha darlin'" it marches along with a military drum beat that's like a punch in the neck of inaction. With this comes Peter Hayes, overt fan of the beat poetry movement of the 50's and 60's, opening up to us with a piece of spoken word that plays like an ode to determination and patience and god damn it's exciting to hear such creativity and innovation flow so freely in music like this. "Although he had no "need" he had great want and could not. His mouth frozen from grief, he saw his breath climb out eager to carry on without him. He knew he'd have to wait and he knew what for." His words so plainly spoken evoke images of a journeyman climbing a sun burnt mountain of impossible scale, ever reaching for this love, ideal; something to transcend his existence, one step closer to completion. And yet, it slips his grasp. Another day. He'll be ready.
As the song draws to a whisper, it's plain to hear that these guys have a vision to offer and want nothing more than for us to share it. I'd say they were partially immersed into the wrong generation, yet another part of me likes to think they're saving us from the mediocrity we've been cursed with in today's music conglomerate. They're on a journey of realization like everybody else in this world and I encourage them to expand their vision outward, as far as it can possibly reach because they've generated quite the fanbase to hold it upward in ways the business absolutely cannot and will not.

Musical Discoveries

Dead Moon - In The Graveyard: now THIS is garage. Just good grunge-laced garage rock and roll, very raw and imperfect, sentimental and balls nailed to the floor all at once. This is the stuff dangerous summer nights and memorable makeout sessions were made of in the late eighties, early nineties years of the northwest.
I was turned onto these fellas by Andrew Loomis on the night of the Green River reunion show. He's the ex-drummer whom was kicked out two years beforehand. hahah ah well. So I kept my eyes open and low and behold, their album came into work today. I like!

Morphine: Bootleg Detroit at St. Andrew's Hall March 7, 1994: Morphine was simply badass. No other word to describe it. Sandman's uber onstage cool was art in itself, like that of whacky alternative country grand dad Howe Gelb, he lived in another dimension entirely; his words whether in song, onstage banters, or simply speaking to the audience oozed dramatic poetics. This with their completely unconventional rock band outfit substituting guitar for a full time bass and saxophone just made for a fresh experience few would dare to tread. This particular show is no exception to their remarkable existence.

Lee Miles - Heathen Blux

Lee Miles has a band. No longer the lone ranger, he’s found a collective that taps into his inspiration and does it true justice. Being a passionately earthy fellow, this album is a purging of all things held dear and a violent assault against obstructers of the human spirit. It’s a true exercise in the broad expanse of our beloved Americana. The country western stomp of Johnny Cash and Bobby Bare, the crushing lyrical bite of Bob Dylan and the poetic sneer of alternative-country pioneer Howe Gelb. The songs are laden with a delicate undercurrent of electric guitar twang that crawls beneath the skin and brings the songs to a stark realization.
These are songs written for the people by a man who lives by the sweat of his brow and does so with a keen sense of observation and an acute realization of what is truly ours. Songs written for those who choose to exist beneath the tumultuous current, a place that allows us to exercise our personal freedoms as living beings on this earth with little resistance. “Ophelia, Ophelia you blackened my eye. You’ve given me wrong in a time of right and I thank you. I make little livings. I’m stealin’ and beggin’ just waitin’ for endings.” Here is understanding of the beauty, struggle, the moments of despair and all the glorious triumphs in between, welcoming hardship and pain with open arms not as a setback, but as an opportunity for self-check and realizing what little we have to lose with our mundane worries. It’s a hard concept to truly come to terms with, but as evident in Heathen Blux, living the nitty gritty simple and uncertain is a damned challenge but nothing on this earth will ever prove as rewarding.

nothing is true, everything is permitted

freedom is to be found only in the sensation of acting, of self (and thus world) creation, of the realization through practicing the old saying "nothing is true, everything is permitted." [example: the revolutionary finds freedom in the experience of totally transforming society, and thereby making himself - not just simply in the removal of restrictive forces.] to experience this, one must be capable of doing anything at anytime - remember the story of achilles and the tortoise: the tortoise asks achilles: "are you free, achilles?" and achilles responds: "of course i am free! i'm achilles, a god among men, and free men at that. i can do anything i want!" "so," queries the tortoise, "could you kill me?" "easily! i am achilles, the invulnerable" (not so, as it turned out, but anyway) "hero of greek myth and legend - and you are a tortoise." "so kill me," challenges the tortoise, matter-of-factly. "but you are my steadfast friend, my bosom companion, my comrade! i could never kill you!" protests achilles. "exactly," whispers the tortoise, suggestively, and achilles shudders. the moral is that in a situation where all meaning is already attributed, freedom is irrelevant, for all your possible actions are already determined. freedom is to be found only in the new spaces, in the brand new moments when fresh elements come into play and you have to re-create yourself from scratch. one must remain in practice if one is to be a revolutionary. one must constantly destroy and re-create the self, must push limits and break every rule and limitation. the problem with all this is that the exercise of total freedom is bound to conflict with your (or other's) desires. the answer to this, of course, is simply that we must create a world in which everything that is possible is also desirable - so that such a thing as "sin" will no longer be conceivable, and there will be no reason for guilt, no possibility of hypocrisy or conflict between desires. in the utopia, our revolution (MYTHICALLY SPEAKING, of course) will create everything, and anything will be possible - and good, for our hearts demand NOTHING less than total freedom. i shouldn't have to resist anything, any temptation; therefore i must make a world of temptation without shame - a world empty of fast women, top 40 pop music, organized religion, and fancy, elitist bourgeois restaurants, for example!

The Gutter Twins - Saturnalia

"oh mama, ain't no time to fall to pieces," words of caution, hope for strength. The first verse we're introduced to by a weathered voice, one of two contributors throughout the album; Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli. The running theme is quite similar to squeezing a stone to death for some trace of blood; while we can't possibly understand how there might be even a vestige of hope in this search that defies some of the most basic common sense, we somehow find promise in an inexplainable form. The search isn't a pretty one. In fact, it's quite a dirty affair and these two gentleman don't shy away from it in the least. What makes it a unique experience however is that we aren't deprived the aspect of these strange, beautiful, uplifting moments in between and it's quite welcome, for how can we appreciate the good or bad if we don't shine equal light upon both?
These boys are well into the middle of their lifetime and they're absolutely at the top of their musical form, delivering us a palatable varied album full of dark, borderline gothic rock mood pieces. Songs by men who aren't sure if they're entirely willing to sign their dirty selves over for redemption by the god almighty or what have you.

Deer Tick - War Elephant

What ever happened to the songwriter? Are they falling behind the curtain of the "band", a collective unwillingness to speak too loudly for fear of who's nerves you might scratch or an inflated ego taking over? Is it because we've lost the willingness to write with our voices and chosen to speak universally instead? Are we too concerned with leaving songs far and wide open so that EVERYONE might find something to relate to? What is left to wonder and marvel at when writing so commonly? I haven't an answer for any of these questions, but I have found an anomaly. A band of musicians by the name of Deer Tick. The voice behind the band laments in a brutally honest manner over the complicated times, helpless desires and revenant faults that make him all too human, but more than that, the band is a living and breathing thing that excites the senses. Each musician seems to play a lovingly creative hand, making it a detailed and pained but celebratory look at things. I don't think anyone can feel as empowered and alive as when listening to 'These Old Shoes' and placing our hearts in the hands of this simple but high flying tale of beautiful determination. Hailed as an other worldly return of country western fare, I think I will go well out of my way to see these boys play when the opportunity arises.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre - Thank God For Mental Illness

Many are sick of this 60's revivalist movement that's infiltrated the American music scene and with good reason. Most of it can only claim to be a half-hearted regurgitation of a very influential sound that has since evolved. Shouldn't this be considered a huge step backwards? In some regards, yes, because few have convinced us that they're worth their salt and done anything new with it. We wouldn't be so accepting of a new man in black rewriting Johnny Cash songs and claiming to be the 21st century jesus, would we? That said, we really can't neglect some exceptions..


Meet The Brian Jonestown Massacre, a band of musicians dogged at every turn. With more than 40 members having come and gone since its inception you would assume their sound would have to be a train wreck but Anton Newcombe, the brainchild of the entire outfit is an entirely different breed of musician. It's been said that if he could clone himself ten times over and exist as one solitary band he absolutely would. He has a vision, an idea, an ever churning factory of beautiful sound he absolutely can not compromise on. His ability to play over 80 musical instruments masterfully is a testament to that. This has, of course, created conflict and many see him as a despicable character, myself included. I've personally felt his wrath and it should be unforgivable on some people's counts, but it's so hard to neglect what he does so well.

Anton has been hailed as the true father of the revival, the man who doesn't just love this era of sound, he lives in it. Let's listen to the flood of impassioned harmonica on the track 'Ballad of Jim Jones' and the verse "I walked from New York and back from L.A. I lived on a mountain and once by the bay," we get the feeling we're listening to a man out of place and time. These words aren't meant to be entirely autobiographical but they do ring true and he embraces this freedom loving lifestyle. A man who makes good on the words that he writes, not having any true home, just his entourage, his travelling family. There are definitely those who call Anton the worst kind of plagiarist, I couldn't disagree more. He's laying out the tune of his soul and that's all that could be asked of any musician anywhere. Perhaps it's this chaotic form he embraces which hinders the band's ability to achieve any level of success but upon listening to any one of their albums it's apparent that any element of control or organization forced on them just might tip the scales and sour something brilliant.. What has fueled and maintained the band's existence for such a long period though is Anton's fresh ability to bring these sounds about in an updated form, forging two eras of influence seamlessly.

The band's proudest moment may perhaps be the recording of 'Thank God For Mental Illness,' an album that cost 19 dollars to make, "including cab fare." It's a work that is so raw and brimming with spontaneous mayhem and brilliance it captured me from the very first track. We're treated to inspiring and punchy 60s pop folk fare at its very best while crossed with the experimental tendencies of spacemen 3 and even traces of glam goodness along the lines of T. Rex. Not to mention the contemplative 30 minute plus track 'The Sound of Confusion' blending lo-fi recordings of city life with subtle drone rock to cap the fountain of Anton's endless inspiration, it's a strange way to end an album and took a bit of courage to dive into but I was strangely surprised with the end result. Is it for everybody? Absolutely not. Having discovered this album during a very long and ponderous greyhound bus ride, I can say with certainty that I wouldn't trade it for a thing.

Lee Miles - 1,000 Lions

Music can be like a temperamental flower waiting to blossom. It takes patience for the beautiful payoff. Most cannot appreciate this necessity and dismiss it. This is where Lee Miles comes. His gentle harmonies can be dismissed quite readily but if one could simply take a moment out of their busy life to listen and soak up the soulful rays that shine so brightly in an album like 1,000 Lions it can enrich the seemingly meaningless fleeting moments of our lives.

Mr. Miles has given us an album, a vision of the world as he sees it and it's not something to be taken lightly. Every piece is a wistful journey that invokes a portrait of life, each one subtle and different. The instruments are all played by Lee himself, and that is some dedication that I greatly admire. He has a keen ear for the visions, moods and emotions each instrument can unlock because each note seems to me like a perfect, logical improvement on the last creating a euphoric experience once each piece has delivered its message. Not excluded from these instruments would be his voice, a strong asset. He fuses the everlasting spirit of Nick Drake with such comanches of country western folk as Willie Nelson and Woody Guthrie. Gentle, peaceful and observant and yet, an essence of command, boldness and authority that can be summoned readily. There is no rush or panic, his voice so at peace, it only begs the question "what the hell was ever the rush?" The qualities that snatch the heart by its strings and carry it through the air so wistfully shine through in songs such as "Birmingham", the highs and lows that feel so absolutely right it makes you want to snatch a loved one and cling to them for love and life.

There is also something to be said about the songwriting. Consider the contrast between song titles "Wait For Thee" and "Encounter With A Crackwhore in Mid-September". It most definitely begs a second, if not third glance. It's in this poetic tongue-in-cheek wit that leads me to believe Lee isn't out to write beautiful yet inevitably dispensable songs. He has a voice that demands attention and his songwriting maintains it quite well, finding a strange balance between beautiful, light hearted melodies and surprisingly dark subject matter. It just brings to light a vision of life that could be remarkably enlightening. I find the ability to write a song a glorious gift; a privilege that most modern songwriters don't utilize to the best of their abilities. To manipulate emotions and expand minds with your unique vision of life is an exciting idea. Your soul can be soaked up by hundreds of thirsty listeners looking for an answer to some formless question they don't even know how to ask.

There is much reward to be unraveled in a work like this. It is the music that beautiful moments, long inspired daydreams and loving memories are made of. It just takes a spare moment to penetrate its soft shell. I've had this album for a number of weeks now and it having settled snugly into my subconscious, I still find a burning desire to pop it in from time to time. I don't believe it will be leaving my album circulation for quite some time. I can't think of a better spring companion.

The Dandy Warhols - Earth To The Dandy Warhols

What will space age stoners be listening to in the not too distant future? Hopefully something a little more intelligent than The Dandy Warhols. Yes, the mirror kissing hipsters are back from a hiatus thats given them lots of time to come up with quite a few nifty drug puns and work them into catchy drone rocking electronica infused riffs. Don't believe me? Just listen to the nausea-inducing 'Valerie-Yum' with its lovable and ridiculous chorus. If that doesn't do it for ya, Mr. Taylor-Taylor (yes, the man with two last names, bite your tongue) has been working his regurgitational muscles as far as he can without infringing on anyone's copyrights just for you and I. Give a listen to 'Wasp in The Lotus' for a genuine return to the ballsy shoegaze that peppered their beginnings. Chorus driven rockers like 'Mis' Amigos' and 'Talk Radio' are feverish enough to inspire anyone to move joyously and 'Love Song' offers a genuinely surprising guest appearance with the chop-elder Mark Knopfler offering his unique hand, even if panning out with modest end result.
There are still some numbers that flaunt so much arrogance it owes Taylor-Taylor a punch in the face. The funk-driven 'Welcome To The Third World' comes to mind, but most inexplicable to me is the 14 minute 'Musee D'Nougat' which consists of nothing more than light synth against a barely audible commentary on candy bars. The synth has a calming effect that could be appreciated under the right circumstances but it's far too drastic and strange a misstep for an album of such driven songs. On the flip side, I must make mention of the epically compact 'The Legend of The Last of The Outlaw Truckers AKA The Ballad of Sheriff Shorty.' Here is where their creativity has been hiding. Lyrics belted with an inferno of whiskey (and methamphetamine) soaked attitude, it's a joyous blitz of sheer style so obscenely entertaining I would tote it as a genuine highlight of their career. It's almost self-defeating, I would love to see more inspired pieces like it but this is where the Dandies will always remain nothing more than novelty. I've never heard such an unfocused band before and it leaves a horrible capper on their potential. Dare I ask that they grow up and get serious about their musical career? Or would that put a damper on their party and kill it entirely?
I don't quite understand what it is that makes their self-loving drug anthems not just okay, but actually enjoyable. Call them a guilty pleasure, it's a question that boggles me more with each release and honestly, their charm has definitely begun to wear thin. But alas, that doesn't make their effort a failure. It's par for the course, meet the Dandies. It's the band you love to hate and yet, absolutely can't stand loving. When you've decided you want a band you're less conflicted by, check out The Lovetones. With similar musical ambitions and great drive, they're doing very well for themselves and should not be missed.

Tyler Jakes - Rocking Hoarse Calypso

Son House has said that you can do anything with the blues, even so much as sing it in church. We probably wouldn't want to be singing Tyler Jakes' blues in church, however. His red right handed gospel is far too free at heart to be confined to such a place; in fact, it'd be an insult to the spirit of his music. "We gotta rise" he bellows repeatedly in the very first track of his album 'Rocking Hoarse Calypso'. It's his ode to life the only way he would think about living it and it's a beautiful thing to behold because listening, it's so hard to believe we'd accept anything less ourselves. Call it what you want; rock and roll, blues, gypsy folk punk, noise, revolution rock, transonic death. It just doesn't matter, it feels good though.

Tyler's got a full band this time around and you can feel it all beneath you so tape your glasses to the table. The full extension to Tyler's hand, his guitar takes center stage and I haven't heard as many glorious riffs and licks in a rock and roll album since Kurt was shredding…yes, every passing moment brings us further from that glorious time in history when rock and roll still reigned supreme. Tyler's still got his verbal pistol cocked though, even more so than his first official effort 'lo-fi Matter'. Pieces such as 'Death Valley Surf Safari' and the red eyed madman blitzkrieg of 'Ballad in Plain F' inspire such a clear flow of revolt into your veins its hard not to start throwing things and craving destruction in the name of personal freedom. Meanwhile tracks like the wanton and wicked '114^th Street Devil Woman' and the indelible slide guitar action on 'Pretty Up Our Love' remind us why the blues were the centerpiece of America's music explosion for such a long time; songs about those temptations that maintain our imperfections and yet keep life well worth living. The trophy of this album I must confess my undying love for would be the reworking of a track I heard on his original country western-esque demo titled 'I Can't Take Anymore'. Unlike anything I've ever heard before, these are the real gypsy blues if I ever heard them. Belted with such unbridled masochistic passion for more of this surrealistic torture, more life is lived in each verse of this song than in the entire life of some:

"I got old, tired and cold dancing with a chimney sweep,

Waiting outside for his Ukraine bride, I was counting pharmaceutical sheep.

The devil gonna come with a pen for a thumb, a saw tooth grin and a bottle of rum,

Sayin' 'sign on the line, behind the door there's a drive through shrine,'

And I can't take anymore."

The album's a work of love and pain, but doesn't once curl up and submit to any beatings from anybody. This dog bites back. Tyler's perspective is a refreshing one and I would strongly recommend both of his albums to simply broaden your musical palette and extend your peripheral vision of the world around you, but most of all, keep his name in the back of your mind because nobody can ever tell when or where he will pop up and wreak havoc.

American Princes - Other People

You know those albums that you've decidedly hated the first time around? You know, it just doesn't click. It's a mess of unfamiliar noise. Take it out, move onto something more familiar. Then bam, two or three days later you're kicking around thinking about that album with biting curiosity. Were you unfair? Only one way to find out. You pop it back in with a grimace and like a flood light that chokes your pupils to pin pricks, all of a sudden you're astounded by just how wrong you were. That is exactly the surprise I've been graced with listening to American Princes' fourth release, 'Other People'.

My initial reaction was that these boys have listened to too much David Bowie and given too little thought on what they have to offer over their influences. The trick with this album is that it takes time to soak in and appreciate the neatly packaged nuances that make their music a joy. Be it the ticking time bomb of sonic doom they keep strapped to their chests or the heart-on-your-sleeve choruses on tracks such as 'Real Love' and the melt in your mouth 'Watch As They Go'. These boys have done their homework to be sure. No, their sound is really nothing terribly new. It's mostly familiar territory and while we can't regard their assault as anything pioneering, they're terribly good at what they do and it'd be unfair to deny them the tune of their souls. Listen and you will find traces of nefarious alternative innovators like Boys Next Door and their bad boy swagger laced with the dramatic bare-it-all goodness of David Bowie and the shaky baritone of Robert Smith. Here is glam rock royalty rebirth in a post-apocalyptic society; our new romantic era. Presenting songs that will surely inspire pumping fists against neon lights unlike anything we've seen since 1987.