Album Reviews

The British minimalist art/punk band Wire’s first three spare, angular albums, originally issued in 1977, 8 and 9 weren’t big sellers then and unfortunately the chances are they won’t be this time either, though I sure hope they do well enough to encourage 4 Men With Beards and other labels to reissue adventurous and worthwhile, if not the most popular music.

Recorded and released during one of the most tumultuous and disturbing periods in contemporary American history, Emergency Ward! is a grand, exasperated plea for peace and understanding by one of the great soul/jazz voices of the 20th century.

Decemberist leader Colin Meloy has crafted a charming, hour long folk/ rock opera based on an ancient Japanese fable dealing with greed, loyalty and betrayal. A poor man finds a wounded crane, which he rescues and returns to good health. Shortly after releasing it back to the wild, a mysterious woman arrives at his home. The two fall in love and get married. To make ends meet, she agrees to weave silk garments to sell at the local market. Her only condition for doing the work is that he never watches her doing it.

Head Shin James Mercer is one of those artists like James Taylor who arrived whole and utterly original, though you can occasionally hear Morrissey channeling through his high-pitched vocals and more significantly, his melodic constructs.

This obscure little 1967 instrumental gem rescued from the dustbins of antiquity by Sundazed featuring guitarist Earl Hooker backed by an anonymous group of musicians including a drummer, bassist, organist, sax player and perhaps a rhythm guitarist, or Hooker’s overdubbing himself, is nothing more than a series of funky jams that show off Hooker’s unique curlicue guitar twanging style.

Cynics tired of the RHCP’s act say they’re running on fumes. Yes, well then what accounts for the remarkable success of this album, packed with the band’s usual rap/rock/funk mix? That’s an easy question to answer. It’s reliably hard, funky, powerful, spare and big. It goes down easy but still engages.

Joni Mitchell’s “road weary,” intensely personal adult confessional, released in 1971, shattered forever what appeared to be her carefully cultivated “hippie chick” image at a time when her star had ridden it to unimaginable heights on an almost vertical trajectory.