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We know you're busy. We are too. So, with that in mind we've trimmed Cook's Corner down from its usual horse-choking mountain of reviews to a more reasonable half dozen. Starting in January, this column will arrive every 2-3 weeks instead of monthly, but each installment will be a bit more bite-sized. We just want to help steer you through the veritable sea of new releases, reissues, and other flotsam the modern recording industry throws at you. With that, onto a most pleasant malaise courtesy of the Bay Area's Mushroom...
Pick of the litter:
Mushroom: Glazed Popems
Sunlight straining through morning fog, the thaw of daybreak following a night roaming contemplatively while the world sleeps. This is the sustained feeling on Mushroom's latest, and without question, greatest slab to date. This double-disc daydream is equal measures early '70s British acid-folk, lithium jazz, friendlier krautrock, and the smiling, dosed trippiness of the 1970 Zabriske Point soundtrack, which featured Jerry Garcia, Pink Floyd and John Fahey. Hidden amongst its byways are discombobulated funk from Brian Felix (OM Trio) mingling with the slurred brilliance of Ralph Carney, and Erik Pearson's snake guitar being charmed by Matt Cunitz's Mellotron strings. Split between a "London" disc and an "Oakland" disc it is a beautiful blue surge, The Mack sharing an opium pipe with Meddle-era David Gilmour. Some of it is hellaciously groovy and other parts come off as sincerely bucolic, pastoral, and scenic. The highlight of this latter mood is their tribute to both Zeppelin and a British folk legend entitled "(Hats Off To) Bert Jansch" which may be the loveliest thing to sneak into my subconscious this year. The delectable girly photography in the liner notes is Austin Powers' secret stash from the swinging '60s, as voluptuous and mind-altering as the music on Popems. Mushroom has discarded any preconceptions about what their "sound" is. Instead, they allowed things to flow freely, living up to the promise inherent in modern instrumental music, a playground that could be free of restrictions and bloom like this autumn field.
Runner-up:
Josephine Foster and the Supposed: All The Leaves Are Gone
Is this decades old or brand new? From what wooded hollow have Foster and her intense troubadours emerged? Even the cover art and photo on the back offer no definitive clues. A beautifully jagged voice begins the journey with a hero of sorrow, guitars like a flock of black birds peppering the clouds and lies all around us. Released on ever-reliable (and reliably adventurous) Locust Music, All The Leaves Are Gone is a direct relation to early Fairport Convention, Pentangle, and especially the heavier parts of Richard & Linda Thompson. That it's also inflected with the estrogen howl of P.J. Harvey, Meredith Monk, and other mascara-smeared prophetesses only helps put the happy chill up your back as you wander amongst the death knells, gray trains, and some of the most artfully penned odes to love in recent memory. Much of it is trance-inducing, a druidic incantation mustered by the telepathic dialog of Foster (vocals, classical guitar, tambourine), Rusty Peterson (drums), and Brian Goodman (electric guitar, bass, vocals). Their needle is threaded with strands from folk, punk, and classical, making this hum like the traditional music from a country you've never heard of. Foster's voice is a cracked diamond, bending light and facing down the heavy storming electricity spilled out by Goodman's inspired drunkard's wildness. Not all of this is harrowing. In fact, a good deal is sweeter than dew on a flower petal. It is this mix of intense emotions that ultimately makes this debut such a heady draught. When so little of what we listen to truly affects us, it's a boon to encounter something this stirring, original, and grounded in deep roots.
Stiff Little Fingers: Guitar And Drum
Not many punk acts that started in 1977 are still kickin' against the pricks today. Ireland's Stiff Little Fingers remain true to their roots, hard but catchy punk pop that still raises a fist against the right things. After lying dormant during most of the '80s, the Fingers reunited in the early '90s and have been steadily building on their back catalog. Where many punk acts had grandiose schemes of toppling this or that, STF have always seemed happiest just making good music infused with more heart than many of their peers. Guitar And Drum is their best since reuniting. The guitars are appropriately loud and peppered with some killer hooks. Their singing reeks of both resilience and a surprising tenderness, which does make a few cuts a bit maudlin. But the vast majority of this is uplifting, high-energy, well constructed, and quite satisfying. Their belief in the guitar and drum as a rallying point for one's life is a fine one. It's "meat-and-taters" rock that compels us with their conviction that each day is a chance to sing a good song to anyone who's willing to listen. While not the equal of their heyday albums Inflammable Material or Nobody's Heroes, this latest confirms there's plenty of life yet in these Fingers.
Mailbag Blues – Ronnie Biggs' Story (The 1974 Original Sessions)
Biggs is the master criminal behind the legendary Great Train Robbery, but what most of us didn't know was how he took a chunk of his ill-gotten gains and produced a musical version of his personal story. Ronnie told his story to a group of feisty, talented, young Brazilian and American musicians in Rio, and let them forge it into song. Until recently, this part of Biggs's colorful life has remained unheard, but the What Music label has finally brought this highly interesting artifact out into the light. And you know what, it's a doozy. Think Miles Davis's On The Corner passing a joint with Os Mutantes, David Axelrod, and John McLaughlin. Yes, Virginia, it is that good. How it remained locked away for all these years is a mystery, but that's part and parcel of Biggs's reputation. There's wildness and outlaw attitude to spare in this mingling of electric blues, jazz, and early '70s polyglot rock like Traffic. The music tells us a tale that words might muck up. Instead, we linger in varying tempos, moods, and sojourns outside the lines. American bassist Bruce Henri, one of the players on these sessions, writes in the liner notes, "To me, Ronnie symbolized a rupture from the restraining chains of military dictatorships, politics, police, short hair and suits, and the overpowering right wing." Sounds like JUST the sort of music people need again today.
Madeleine Peyroux: Careless Love
Already tapped by those who cater to the BMW and fancy cheese crowd as the next Norah Jones, Peyroux sings with the haunting, scratchy 78 feeling of early Billie Holiday, a voice delivered to the world by nature but not yet ravaged by booze and bad times. This long awaited follow-up to her excellent 1996 debut, Dreamland, is a step forward, hot jazz breeziness paired with sophisticated melancholy. The arrangements never intrude on the singer, who always remains firmly fixed in the spotlight. There's something fleshy and warm in the way Peyroux shuffles against Larry Golding's graceful piano or the way she sidesteps Dean Parks's guitars at just the right moment. She lets others shine for a few well placed moments on every track, but she's clearly the reason we're listening. That's not a dig at her players, who understand this and act accordingly. Being an accompanist is a skill not every musician possesses, but her ensemble excels at it. Peyroux only co-wrote one song here, focusing instead on great pieces from Hank Williams, Leonard Cohen, Dylan, W.C. Handy, and a particularly moving rendition of Elliott Smith's "Between The Bars" that begs for an entire record of Smith compositions interpreted by Peyroux. Without a doubt, Peyroux is one of the most satisfying and interesting singers to hit jazz in quite some time. If she can avoid being packaged and over-hyped then there's a long road ahead of her. For now, she's given us these carefully sculpted odes to love, good and bad, to linger in for a spell.
Vintage Stash Pick:
Wire: On The Box - 1979
A bracing, skinned-knee, raw 55-second opener slaps you awake. Wire, always razor sharp and edged in black ink, has never before officially shared its early live performances, but fans have long traded ratty bootlegs of this performance on German television's Rockpalast show. Finally available in a double-packed audio disc and DVD, this is a real blast and further testament that Wire are some of the gnarliest children to rise from punk's first bloom. Their rough, heavily English voices tear at the overflowing grab bag of ideas. Think Television broadcasting a hissy, snow-clouded Stranglers. It's compelling in the way black leather and scars can be. "Practice" roams the same sterile urban wasteland as early Killing Joke, presaging Joke's crazy end-of-decade urgency. That squirrel energy is apparent on the DVD, where Wire is all strutting confidence in the interview portion and all twitching heads and fast, intent hands in the live set. One is struck by the cleanliness of their constructs. They use exactly the number of notes and words needed to make a point, a lean buffet that always leaves just enough meat on the bone. Where Devo went sarcastic and semiotic, Wire let the ennui ooze in but share a similar pop sensibility in their surprisingly catchy choruses and crisscrossing vocals. A primo glimpse at the early days of a band that's still quite engaged with the modern dilemma, whatever it may be on any given day.
Up next, the 2004 Year In Review edition of Cook's Corner. Yeah, I know I just promised to make things more succinct but there's a proper recap to be done first. Then I'll be good, honest I will.
Dennis Cook
JamBase | California
Go See Live Music!
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