Album Reviews

David J “Crocodile Tears & the Velvet Cosh” (1985)

David J played bass, wrote songs, and occasionally sang for both Bauhaus and Love and Rockets. He also worked briefly with Jazz Butcher. Since most of his early solo work was recorded more than twenty years ago for the long-defunct Glass label, it is no surprise that it tends to be both unknown and underestimated.

Unlike his uneven debut, “Etiquette of Violence”, which sounded a lot like the final Bauhaus album, “Crocodile Tears and the Velvet Cosh” is a back-to-basics, acoustic set with thoughtful lyrics and graceful songs that fit together cohesively. Particular selections reminds me of the tracks he would contribute to Love and Rockets’ “Earth Sun Moon” a few years later, but–believe it or not–this material is even stronger. Bottom line: if you own just one album by David J, this should be it. —Thomas

Shelleyan Orphan “Helleborine” (1987)

Shelleyan Orphan are one of those peculiar little groups that show up once in a while, make some stunning music, and then disappear. They have no peers, so trying to describe who they sound like is impossible. They are etherial, and never more so than on their first album “Helleborine,” a stunning mix of orchestral sweetness and lyrical mastery. Long before their demise into songs with titles like “Dead Cat,” the Orphans were writing songs like “Epitaph Ivy and Woe,” juxtaposing the generally sweet and upbeat timbre of the music with the often graphic lyrics describing a cemetery and a charnel house. On “Anatomy of Love,” vocalist Caroline Crawley asks the same questions that anyone that is in love asks: “Does it still move you? Does it still make you feel that?” “Cavalry of Cloud,” with it’s gorgeous introduction, will give you chills. “Helleborine,” the album’s only instrumental track, is another example of the artistic beauty the Orphans had a complete mastery of. This was their supreme moment, and when they began their fall, they would fall far. —Eric

Electric Light Orchestra “Time” (1981)

Time is a concept album, a story of a guy who is taken from 1981 and dumped in 2095 by time travelers. Despite driving “the latest hover car” and having a robotic replica of his 1981 sweetheart, he yearns for his life back in the early 80s (don’t we all?) and begs to be taken back. It was a radical departure from Lynne, it really shouldn’t work, yet it’s a fantastic album. The story is short and well versed, the melodies are as crisp and catchy as any of Lynne’s 70s output and the production is superb. It also boasts some of ELO’s greatest singles, including the brilliant Hold On Tight. —Mogs

Black Sabbath “Black Sabbath” (1970)

Hearing Black Sabbath for the first time was like dusting off and cracking open some ancient tome of infernal knowledge, with a nefarious collection of witches, warlocks, and Lucifer himself lurking around the corners of songs like “N.I.B.,” “The Wizard,” the chilling paralysis of “Behind the Wall of Sleep,” eerie acoustic drift “Sleeping Village,” and of course “Black Sabbath,” it’s diabolus in musica riff cracking open the egg on this thing called heavy metal. Hiding behind that hazy, creepy cover shot was a suite like arrangement of songs almost entirely devoted to exploring supernatural fears, rife with horror-themed imagery and the threat of unseen evil, delivered with a crushing blow rendered in stark, black and white production. Though the album drifts in it’s second act, with the extended workout on Retaliation’s “Warning” and a primitive Crow cover, “Evil Woman,” appearing on UK issues, US audiences were treated to the superior, stoned rumblings of “Wicked World.” Castle’s 1996 CD contains both tracks, though missing in action on this and subsequent Sabbath reissues are subtitles like “Wasp,” “Bassically” and “A Bit of Finger,” originally appended to the US release to pull in more publishing royalties to the band, but just adding another layer of enigma for those of us already lost in the forest, with nowhere to run as the figure in black drew closer. —Ben

Arthur Blythe “Lenox Avenue Breakdown” (1978)

Not just a great jazz album, but a great album, period. First of all, there’s the fact that this little masterpiece slipped out in the period in which Branford Marsalis seems to think that “jazz just kind of died” which is a nice little thing in itself. But as a record, there’s not just great tunes and great playing here, though they’re there in spades, but the way it’s constructed from the uplift of the leading cut “Down San Diego Way” down to the darker, troubling “Odessa” is a thing of note as well. Rare are the jazz guys who work hard at constructing an album as a total listening experience, so it always pleases me when it’s done well. But to go back to the beginning, and what makes this good jazz in the first place, is the playing and the tunes. Blythe has never sounded better on any record of his that I’ve heard – or anyone else’s record either. The brilliant and underrated James Newton is given loads of fine moments here, while James ‘Blood’ Ulmer is unusually restrained, playing mostly backgrounds and fills, soloing only on the closing track. Bob Stewart’s tuba gives a unique character to the ensemble, and his couple of solos are also fine. Rhythm is taken care of by the amazing Jack DeJohnette, who’s all over his kit, Guillermo Franco’s percussion complements Jack’s wild rhythms, and the amazing Cecil McBee’s bass provides the solid grounding that the whole group needs to make it fly. Simply a great album however you slice it. —Patrick

The Clash “The Clash” (1977)

It’s remarkable how well this music holds up for me. Decades after “punk” happened this is still relevant, exciting, and simply a joy to listen to. Must have something to do with the excellent songwriting throughout – it took years for it to sink in just how great a song “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” is because I was so enamored of the rush and roar of the rest of the record (plus the ace cover of “Police and Thieves”) and if that rush still holds strong, the songs that didn’t grab me initially have only gotten better over time. But really there are hardly any songs here that didn’t grab me by the throat right from the get-go – the spit out vocal and jagged guitar riff of “Clash City Rockers,” the great lyric on “I’m So Bored With the U.S.A.,” the amazing less-than-two-minutes of “White Riot,” their other ace cover (“I Fought the Law”) – this record just don’t let up. Every substitution from the U.K. version constitutes an improvement even if the two versions of “White Riot” are equally convincing. This is as good as that thing called “punk” ever gets, got, or will get. A masterpiece – and with a great, iconic cover to boot. —Patrick

Harry Nilsson “Pussy Cats” (1974)

I’ve always been maddened by Nilsson albums. They are so schizophrenic in musical and tonal approach that I’ve often found it hard to take them all that seriously. On Pussy Cats–famously produced by John Lennon–Nilsson manages to retain (for the most part) emotional consistency. It is a wistful, almost sad album, that wreaks of mental and physical exhaustion. Nilsson’s vocal cords were apparently injured during the sessions for the album, and the result isn’t all that apparent save for the unusual gruffness of his voice here. Years of hard partying with the likes of Keith Moon, Lennon, and Ringo Starr could not have helped matters either. Surprisingly, Lennon’s work as a producer has a distinctive character. Compared with his then-recent efforts, Walls and Bridges and Rock ‘n’ Roll, Pussy Cats bears a remarkable dedication of purpose. His arrangements really add depth to tracks like Jimmy Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross,” his own composition “Don’t Forget Me,” and his transcendent take on “Save the Last Dance for Me.” The relative dolorousness of these cuts is balanced out with upbeat takes on Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” the classic “Loop de Loop,” and Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock.” Not everything works on here (see “All My Life” and “Old Forgotten Soldier”). But this time, Nilsson’s more goofy tendencies (think “Coconut”) aren’t an anchor on the record. Though often derided as “the beginning of the end” of Nilsson’s years of peak productivity, Pussy Cats is a record in need of a critical revisitation. —Yerblues

Moby Grape “‘69” (1969)

“We have promised each other no more gimmicks, no more hypes, no egos, nothing ever again but the music…” So read the sleeve notes of Moby Grape’s third studio album (or fourth, if you count the listless, blues-noodling Wow leftovers of Grape Jam). Talk about a band with self-esteem issues!

Certainly, by the end of the ’60s the Grape did have a lot to be sorry for, and their bad luck of biblical proportions is now the stuff of legend. Their 1967 debut album, one of the best of the decade–or perhaps ever–was buried under an avalanche of one of the most idiotic major label marketing campaigns in the history of the recording industry. Its follow-up, Wow, eschewed their trademark punchy and concise triple guitar attack in favor of studio gimmickry and various period excesses (although it is still worth a listen). Along the way, they lost their driving creative force, Skip Spence, when, during one of Wow’s recording sessions, the increasingly drug-addled and unstable guitarist tried to kill drummer Don Stevenson with an axe. (Thankfully, he failed). It’s a wonder that Moby Grape was able to continue on at all, but in 1969 they returned to the studio, sans Spence, in an attempt to redeem themselves. Surprisingly, this last ditch effort birthed a minor masterpiece.

’69 has no business being as good as it is, but against all odds it’s a triumph, a record that reminds us of what made Moby Grape so great in the first place. “Ooh Mama Ooh”, showcases the band’s playful side and inimitable harmonies, with a surprising twist: Its doo-wop choruses reflect the 50s nostalgia beginning to permeate the pop-culture subconscious at the time. “Trucking Man” rocks equally as hard as “Omaha” or any of the other uptempo tracks on their debut. But perhaps ’69’s greatest strength is its ballads. “Ain’t that a Shame” and “I’m Not Willing” prove Moby Grape to be masterful early adopters of country rock, these songs’ very presence alone placing ’69 in the canon alongside Sweetheart of the Rodeo and The Gilded Palace of Sin. Conspicuous in his absence throughout most of this is Spence, but the album’s final track,”Seeing”, gives him the last word. With parts of the track recorded shortly before his admittance to a mental hospital, his fragile and damaged vocals, coupled with roaring guitars, comprise one of the era’s most darkly psychedelic epics.

One would think that after this return to form that great things lay ahead, but for Moby Grape, twas ever thus. Bassist Bob Mosely was the next to lose his mind, shocking his bandmates by cutting his hair and joining the Marines. Now down to a trio, Moby Grape returned to the studio in 1970 to record Truly Fine Citizen, another album that should have been a lot worse than it was considering the circumstances. But despite some inspired moments, as a whole it showed the mojo beginning to fade. It lacked the shine and fleeting optimism of what came before, thus cementing ‘69’s place in history as the last moment of true genius for a band who should have had many more. —Richard P

Brand X “Moroccan Roll” (1977)

Any band or artist that was blessed with Phil Collins presence on the drums in the 70’s would instantly improve their sound. Brand X, of course, was no exception. In fact, If I had to choose one band to prove the greatness of Phil Collins behind the drum kit, it would be Brand X. As much as I love Genesis, it’s here that he seems most confident to create whatever he feels like and to develop a style with no restrictions. In Genesis he was brilliant on the drums, but he was always conscious of the boundaries imposed by Peter Gabriel and Tony Banks compositions. In Brand X he sounds like there’s nothing he can’t do. The other guys are brilliant as well, but it’s Phil Collins that makes them sound so tight.

The music is unmistakingly late 70’s funk-prog-fusion with a jazzy flavor. This is fusion that never becomes tiring and self-absorbed. It’s music for people who love to get lost in a sound filled with intricate patterns and cool atmospheres created by musicians in perfect control of their own vision and who know how to explore new boundaries without losing their sense of fun on the way! —Som

Eyeless in Gaza “ Pale Hands I Loved So Well” (1982)

Eyeless In Gaza created one of the best ambient albums of the time with “Pale Hands I Loved So Well”, though it wouldn’t do it justice to call it just an ambient album. Their instrumental vignettes were plunged in a spiritual fervor, and had the quality of fragile bitterwseet contemplations or of metaphysical longing.

“Tall And White Nettles” combines gentle guitar strumming, found sounds and eerie female vocals to great effect. The chamber music of “Blue Distance” is built around mysterious organ-drones, piano ripples, and imperceptible chanting. The mystical dance “Sheer Cliffs”, which is half-gypsy and half-Indian, is truly a magical moment. “Falling Leaf/ Fading Flower” is a concerto for brass wails and gentle tones, part free-jazz and part electronic-experiment. “Lies Of Love” is another numinous dance, eventually expanding in a mist of metallic percussion, longing voices and Middle-Eastern brass. Beautiful. “To Ellen” is possibly the most transcendental moment here; a spectral hymn of haunted organs and sublime vocals by a siren. “Pale Saints” is a fusion of free-jazz and musique concrete. “Letters To She” is an ecclesiastical chant combined with subsonic drones and unsettling electronic effects, culminating in hysterical celestial voices and orchestral ultrasonic frequencies, before finally settling for a pensive tone. This is the soundtrack to man’s reincarnation as pure energy in outer space. In comparison, “Light Sliding” sounds timid and shy, though still deployed like a philosophical reminiscence. Then “Big Clipper Ship” is yet another stunning eclectic moment, partly kosmische, partly European-folk, partly chamber, partly ethereal, partly exotica percussion, partly militant march, and played in their usual recondite way. A fantastic ending to a fantastic album. —Ily

Can “Soon Over Babaluma” (1974)

Even without Damo Suzuki, Can demonstrate their mastery of dense, funky jamming on Soon Over Babaluma.

The opener, “Dizzy Dizzy”, with surprisingly funny lyrics whispered by Michael Karoli, shows the band at their most confident and powerful, with the added violin work fitting in the mood remarkably well. “Come Sta, La Luna”, chant-sang by keyboardist Irmin Schmidt, has an almost mystical tone that reminds one of Roxy Music’s “Triptych”, yet the sparse, beautiful piano playing gives it a quite different type of “medieval” sounds from anything coming from England in the 1970s. Whilst the almost ambient atmospheres of these two tracks are a step beyond Future Days, the remaining three songs are less atmospheric and mostly instrumental. “Chain Reaction”, sang by Karoli, is really dense and hypnotic, yet is so danceable owing to Karoli’s understated and powerful guitar work, and the four-minute mid-song solo is about the most hypnotic thing any rock band has ever put to record. The final track, “Quantum Physics” is truly ambient and remarkably fluid: almost a relief from the fiery “Chain Reaction” with which it formed the original vinyl’s second side. “Splash”, though sounding rather like the Soft Machine, was a fiery, jazzy number that showed Can’s ability to make densely improvised music was at its peak.

Soon Over Babaluma may lack the explosive quality of the Suzuki-era albums, but its glacial, hypnotic beauty is remarkable. —laikehao

Gary Numan “Dance” (1981, Beggars Banquet)

Dance is the first of Gary’s albums to divide his fanbase. Several other Numan LPs had a similar effect, including the jazz-inspired Warriors and the cinematic and over-the-top Berserker. Dance is an album that’s easy to hate on first listen due to its radical differences from earlier efforts Telekon and The Pleasure Principle; however, that is its biggest merit in my eyes. If an artist can consciously change their style and still produce an excellent album, that artist is good. And Gary Numan proved that to me with Dance.

The album immediately rejects typical album track sequence, kicking off with a nine-minute minimalist masterpiece that feels a fraction of its length, Slowcar to China. Japan’s Mick Karn features heavily on this track, his liquid-like fretless bass flowing free and easy over the drum machine backing and airy synths. The best is yet to come though, as a quiet drum machine signals the beginning of Cry, the Clock Said, a sublime minimalist ballad that clocks around at ten minutes long. I would even go so far as to call this masterpiece Gary Numan’s best ballad, perhaps matched only by The Pleasure Principle’s Complex. It builds up atmosphere at a leisurely pace, introducing airy, twinkly synths that whisper over the beat. Gary finally begins to sing five minutes in. The song is ambient, atmospheric and beautiful. The lyrics here are some of Gary’s best. They’re extremely different from the machine/sci-fi themes of loneliness and isolation seen in Gary’s earlier work, and it’s a welcome change. They’re by no means jollier though, Gary still sounds miserable. He creates an effective image of black-and-white streets, cafes, prostitutes, rustling newspapers and devious women. This provokes some of his most romantic lyrical moments (Cry, the Clock Said), along with his most cynical, tongue-in-cheek and misogynistic (She’s Got Claws).

Dance, simply put, is an essential purchase, a brilliant piece of avant-garde experimentation. It might not be conventional, it might not be immediate, it might have been commercially less successful due to its experimental style, but it’s possibly the most indispensable of all of Gary’s album, the one that proved that he was not just a one trick pony. Truly exquisite. —Dylan