Record Reviews
Archived
Doug Powell
Ballad Of The Tin Men
Mercury
What is with this cat? He’s trying to be Elton John/Billy Joel/Howard Jones/Ben Folds. In other words, he’s a piano man. Maybe it was the lessons, but I don’t have much love for piano men. I found the voice irritating and the music tepid. The strings don’t help. I’m wondering why Tammy Rogers contributed her considerable talent with a fiddle to Ballad Of The Tin Men. The target market is the Celine Dion/Mariah Carey adults. That doesn’t include me. See ya, Doug. —Egg Queen
Doo Rag
What We Do
Dependability
There is lo-fi, then there is Doo Rag. Doo Rag is a two-piece band combining the noise of Teengenerate with the folk of Hasil Adkins. In spite of their advanced ages, they never progressed beyond the creative urges of a three-year-old set loose in a kitchen filled with pots, pans and a toy ukulele. Thermos Malling and Bob Log III go beyond primitive. Their music reminds me of the old folk number we used to sing around the campfire after the third keg was empty. Play “Got My Boots On Backwards” in the back room of Junior Kimbrough’s juke joint with the Shaggs and a drunken Kindergarten class as the backing band. This is incredible, amazing, astounding music that is similar to fingers scratching a chalkboard in time to an old 78 rpm record played at 16 rpm while geniuses buck dance on a milked hardwood floor to the vocal accompaniment of an idiot savant reciting the last 30 years of number one charting singles. They recorded the entire experience using the first tape deck Sears Roebuck sold through mail order. —Wa
George Clinton/The P-Funk Allstars
The Awesome Power of A Fully-Operational Mothership
Sony
The boss said, “Keep it short, say it sucks or it doesn’t.” Not quite my idea of a review, but here goes. This has everything from slow-motion, hypno-funk to more sped-up Cypress Hill tempo raps. Jazz funk anyone? This is an exceptionally cool and swinging disc from the acknowledged king. Old school from the old school. I have no idea when it comes out or who is in the band because it is only a disk in a black sleeve. By the way, it doesn’t. —Egg Queen
The Jackmormons
Butte, Mont. 1879
Holladay Records
Sorry, fuckers. This CD is local. I don’t expect to see this review printed in SLUG. If it appears, then there are angels in the outfield. First up, the Jackmormons. Everyone comes to music with preconceived notions. I came to the Jackmormons with an entire stack. Hippie bands are out of control. The greatest hippie band of all time was Moby Grape; I don’t see many of the current crop flipping the bird at the “man” on their CDs. At least the Jackmormons, or Jerry Joseph, flips it every time he sings “fuck.” Opening the CD is the hot “Speedwater,” the only song Joseph didn’t write. The accordion from Frank Ruffolo, the backing female chorus and the hillbilly flavor take the ditty out of the flower patch and into the smoke-filled, beer-stink of Burt’s. Do not fear, you won’t hear it on the radio because Joseph cannot help himself. He utters the “fuck” word. From that point on, things are customary. Joseph has the hoarse voice and some talent with the words his band ably backs, and they even kick out that little funk groove that is a constant of Salt Lake City music. Go back and listen to the opening of “Grateful,” then tell me how many times that groove has filled the Zephyr Club floor with bad dancing. “Chinese Balls,” “Back In The Hole” — read your own interpretations into the lyrics. This album was much, much better than expected. The Jackmormons rock! —Junior “T-Bone” Brown
Prong
Rude Awakening
Epic
Salt Lake City is the world capital for this music. They don’t make any of it here; they merely buy the hell out of it. Bleak lyrics, bleak images in the booklet, grinding heavy metal/industrial music for the children of repression. The fifth-highest teenage suicide rate in the nation: behind closed doors, the “Controller” plots more repression. “Confusion’s born here every day / spinning circles in my brain / No idea which way to go / roam around without a home / So fucking lost, invalidated / So brought down, emasculated / all the joy just disappeared / another bed full of tears.” A local teenager didn’t write the words; they come from “Unfortunately.” In case a concerned parent picks this magazine up and is curious about the grind coming from the bedroom, steal the disc, crank the fucker up and have a lyric reading session. Then duck down because little Johnny is armed with Rage, Korn, Marilyn Manson, NIN, Biohazard, Gravity Kills, Sister Machine Gun and more. He doesn’t like you. He does like his music. So do I. Watch for Prong to light up the SoundScan numbers from Salt Lake. —Gay Reaper
Phil Cody
The Sons Of Intemperance Offering
Interscope
The name says more than I can. He is indeed related to Buffalo Bill. What kind of music does the most famous Cody make? Think about it until the attention span drifts back to MTV. He’s just another singer-songwriter. Back into the dim past we go. Hints of The Band, country-rock from the ‘70s, not the ‘90s, and guys like John Hiatt are plain. If the disc wasn’t so enjoyable from start to finish, I’d predict that a formula was used to gain acceptance at AAA. I don’t think I’ve heard a more perfect example of music fitting a radio format. Cody grew up in Cleveland. The images his songs bring are more rural than urban: barefooted children playing in dusty streets, men drinking beer in their undershirts, porch swings on hot summer afternoons, pool games in the corner bar witnessed by women with hard mouths. These are songs for office workers trying to capture their blue-collar roots. It’s a hell of a lot better than the music AAA’s favorites actually make with their tired formulas. Phil Cody is at least honest. He threw it out, wait and see if the programmers and consumers pick it up. —Levon Robertson
Papas Fritas
Papas Fritas
Minty Fresh
Who remembers Veruca Salt? Raise your hands. They record for Minty Fresh. Papas Fritas was unleashed upon the world in an attempt to match that success. “Passion Play” is the tune they all want to hear. I should fall all over myself praising the band, because as Option Magazine said, “Passion Play stands out in a field crowded with retro punk and lo-fi fiends.” I’m sure Option’s “critic” is tired of indie pop as well. At least this week. It could be a mood. Boy-girl harmonies, jangly guitars, piano, “ba-ba-da,” “oh-oh-oh-ah-ah-ah” and lightly fried pop. Desperately in search of a term to describe the music, I’ll use “new wave.” A nifty, thrifty happy recording to jump around to like an “Abominable Snowman In The Supermarket.” —Michael “My Bell” Stoop
Nancy Boy
Nancy Boy
Sire Records
Don’t let the name of the band or cover scare you off. Things aren’t always as they seem. Nancy Boy has two famous rock star progenies in the band, and neither of them is named Bowie. If the revival tour of The Monkees is real, Jason’s dad will appear on a local stage soon. Leach’s dad has been rediscovered by Rick Rubin, and he is currently recording a new album. But don’t expect “Sunshine Superman” or “Pleasant Valley Sunday” from Nancy Boy. They captured the sound and the look of yet another revival. “Johnny Chrome & Silver” brings a reggae beat to glam rock. I’d like to see a few bleached blondes skankin’ in platform tennis shoes. Sting should have a listen. There’s a sensitive ballad complete with wavering-voiced vocals. What, don’t the girls like the eyeliner? Are you shy? “Sometimes” ends the filler portion of the disc. From there on out, the listener is invited into a world of music from the past. Listening to “Colors” gave me a total out-of-body, near-death experience. Please compare these lyrics to those quoted from the release by Bob Dylan’s son and tell me conspiracies don’t exist. “Colors, I see colors going light and dark.” Is it better and more authentic than Spacehog? Does Ian Hunter have any kids? Nancy Boy slayed me. —Marc Bolonga
Love Nut
Bastards Of Melody
Interscope
The title gives it away: more hook-filled rock. “She Won’t Do Me” is the angriest song presented. “Star,” showing the Beatles influence, is followed by “I’m A Loser,” another Beatles-influenced song. Lest anyone fail to catch on, Love Nut covers The Lemon Pipers’ “Green Tambourine.” Things go a little deeper than the Beatles and bubble gum. The rock is harder than either band. Call the harmonies Lennon/McCartney-esque. The boys of Love Nut have their way with the short pop song format and come up with winners. They’ve cast their hat into the growing pool of thousands tired of the Seattle sound that will not go away. It’s better to copy the past and attempt some growth than to copy a formula that is more tiring with each new band and each passing day. —Sid
Various Artists
Lounge Ax Defense & Relocation
Touch and Go
The CD has a song from all of the favorite bands who are currently signed to major labels or soon will be. Here’s a story: a teenaged girl approached a “clerk” in a local CD shop. She threw down the Epitaph and Offspring CDs and asked, “Which of these is better? Pointing at Smash, she said, “This one is probably trendier.” The “clerk” replied, “Yes, it is trendier.” She bought it. Is there a problem with the school system? One totally and completely unreleased song each from the likes of The Jesus Lizard, Sebadoh, Guided By Voices, Yo La Tengo, the Mekons, Superchunk, Archers Of Loaf, Seam, Tortoise, etc. fills the pits. This is the best benefit CD I’ve listened to since Home Alive. There is more noise, dissonance, lo-fi, sci-fi and sandpaper scratching than most can stand. Listen in the comfort of your own soundproof environment. Nail thrift shop mattresses and old couch cushions to the floors, ceilings, walls and windows of your living environment and crank it until a noise complaint results. The Bad Livers are outside any reference point any SLUG reader can deliver, except those without any branches on their family trees. All proceeds from the sale of the CD go to the Lounge Ax defense or relocation fund: a worthy cause. —Lizar Picar
Les Thugs
Strike
Sub Pop
Les Thugs played last month at the Bar & Grill. Due to the usual fiasco called work, I totally missed them live. They are the “oldest” punk rock band on the Sub Pop label. What that means is they haven’t jumped ship for more lucrative contacts elsewhere. They come from France, and they are called the best band in France. Name another French band.
“Allez Les Filles!” is a bash and clang. “Summer” is a drone with clang and bash. “Strike” is moody and dark. Set the sustain, change chords every 30 seconds or so and recite the lyrics in a gothic monotone. Peter Murphy wishes he was still this good. In France, there are actual strikes. In America, it’s “I don’t want to get up, I close my eyes, the world is ugly.” All these bands today are arguing over what is punk and what isn’t punk. It reminds me of 1981 or something. Les Thugs doesn’t argue; they just play it. Atonal punk as in “Poison Head.” It lasts about three minutes. Please refer back to “Strike” when thinking of “Loving son.” Steve Albini recorded and mixed the album. Whatever he did was good, because as the disc moves through “Bella Canzon,” “Assez!” and “Waiting,” the spare, stark, harshness that made punk enjoyable from the beginning shines on through. If the world was less monopolistic, “Waiting” would sound like something for the radio. Les Thugs have a touch of the goth in them. The punk rock they play refreshingly enough owes nothing to Southern California or the Ramones. The disc goes in the stack along with everything I’ve heard from Sub Pop lately. —Simm Slot
The Push Stars
Meet Me At The Fair
Imago
Coming to you straight from the label famous for releasing the music of Hank Rollins and Great White are the Push Stars. The blurb on the CD is, “the most fully realized debut album since the Counting Crows’ first.” Nothing like the Counting Crows to raise the expectations of a SLUG hack. As with most professional music journalists, we are objective. You all know what this sounds like. There are bands holed up all over Salt Lake City, not to mention America, trying to duplicate this sound. I’ll place it firmly in the category of “college rock.” The elements are all in place. Chris Trapper is the vocalist/songwriter/guitarist. The band hails from Boston. Trapper has the voice, think Edwin McCain or Gin Blossoms. He has the talent with the words. His fellows, Ryan MacMillan (drums, percussion) and Dan McLoughlin (bass, keyboards), back him in semi-jam/mainstream fashion. The band will embark on a heavy touring schedule during the year. By this time next year, unless a backlash kicks in, they will be as famous as Darius. I guess I skipped too many classes and frat parties because the entire genre does nothing for me. College boys with bowl cuts, pony tails and Nordstrom/Gap/Banana Republic clothing are encouraged to check out the Push Stars. The other tribes can pass. —A K-Mart Shopper
Richard Davies
There’s Never Been A Crowd Like This
Flydaddy
Brian Wilson. The Beach Boys craftsman’s name is appearing more often today than it did in the 60s. Wilson, early Bee Gees, later Beatles and the Carpenters are all cited as influences for a style of music dubbed “ork-pop.” Forget the category. Davies is basically a singer-songwriter. His disc is filled out with lush production, a horn, a harmonica, piano, acoustic guitar, etc. It is the sweetest, prettiest little disc the ears can handle – the flip-side of lo-fi. A recent Billboard article went to great lengths: from the current state of radio to when dinosaurs walked the airwaves. It’s like Pearl Jam as Blue Öyster Cult. Can’t say that I disagree, but Richard Davies isn’t the answer. I’m certainly not looking forward to the return of “Massachusetts,” “I Started A Joke,” “We’ve Only Just Begun” or “Only Yesterday.” The hottest thing on There’s Never Been A Crowd Like This is the closer “Showtime,” complete with a red-hot Dixie-land trumpet solo. It’s an instrumental. —Jimmy
The Magnetic Fields
The House Of Tomorrow EP
Feel Good All Over
The disc is billed as five loop songs. All songs are published by Gay And Loud. One can’t help but hope the Magnetic Fields pick up the tempo and jump the deal after “Young And Insane.” Forget that noise, it ain’t going to happen. So it’s another dedication to David Bowie. This is after all the trend. Throw in the references to the 80s British pop that have Salt Lake City held in the jaws of vice and expect it to sell millions. Except as usual no one will catch on. Steve Merritt is held responsible. He was the force behind the critically acclaimed, consumer-ignored masterwork by the 6ths. The EP is actually a reissue from 1992. It is an ethereal piece of music that rocks along at Quaalude pace for an enjoyable 20 minutes or so. Go ahead and ignore it. —Christopher Baggins
