SOUNDCHECK

Jay-Z


Kingdom Come (2 1/2 stars)

Here's the thing about Jay-Z: He was never as good as he thought he was (hip-hop's purported savior; nicknamed Jay-Hova), but he is better than we thought he was (tighter than Redman and Method Man, but not quite Tupac or the Notorious B.I.G.). Being good but not that good has prompted him to overestimate his position in the game.

Kingdom Come was supposed to return him to hip-hop's throne. Problem is, he never had the crown. Eminem has always been better, Nas taxed that ass in a head-up battle, Ludacris is more valuable to the Def Jam label and, for the past few years, 50 Cent has been the East Coast's top hip-hop export. Truth is, Jay-Z's musical catalog has steadily declined since his near-classic debut, Reasonable Doubt. On that album, he was an intelligent hoodlum. These days, he's content boasting about his loot, fame, Billboard prowess and cases filled with acronymed trophies (BET, MTV, etc.).

Kingdom Come struggles to be good. On "Do U Wanna Ride," Jigga aptly rides a minimalist Kanye West beat and deftly uses a John Legend chorus, rapping that he's "kingpin of the inkpen and monster of the double entendre." Serviceably flipping the twangy thwump of Rick James' "Superfreak," the title track features a reasonably inspired Jigga. And "30 Something"—where he justifies being a 30-plus-year-old rapper—is smirky without being narcissistic.

But dat about it for the good songs, folks. In dissing the comp on "Dig a Hole," he equates traitors to Judas double-crossing Jesus—the nerve. And "Minority Report," his two cents on Hurricane Katrina, is a year late.

Kingdom Come actually accomplishes an opposite of Jay-Z's objective: pushing him further down hip-hop's totem pole. Despite not being platinum-good, it'll probably top a million records sold. Which is a shame, because Jay-Z gets away with this vanity, I-put-just-enough-effort-into-it project for one reason and one reason only: He's president of Def Jam.

TOM WAITS

ORPHANS: BRAWLERS, BAWLERS & BASTARDS (4 stars)

Tom Waits isn't divulging the precise origins of the 56 compositions on this three-disc set, saying only that the trove of mostly unreleased rarities "survived the flood and were rescued from the branches of trees after the water's retreat." Tempting as it might be to decry the mysterious compilation's dearth of itemized detail, however, there are loads of reasons Orphans is the most anticipated release of the year for avant-music heads—and liner-note specificity simply isn't among them.

Castoffs from Waits are like table scraps at Buckingham Palace, and in lesser hands three heaping platefuls might have been an overindulgence. But the 56-year-old maestro—almost without equal when it comes to spinning a tale—does that here also, sorting a pile of odds and ends into a trio of loose-yet-perceptibly-linked, individually digestible musical programs.

Brawlers, which moseys through the freight-train blues of "Ain't Goin' Down to the Well," the growling can-I-get-a-witness testimony of "Lord I've Been Changed" and the disheveled stomp of Ramones cover "The Return of Jackie and Judy," feels like it's oozing from an old wooden radio in a tiny roadside dive in the Deep South moments before someone throws the first punch. Bawlers is a 19-song affirmation of the balladeer's ability to wring stunningly primal emotion from the most nonmellifluous of vocal instruments. And Bastards gathers up random driftwood, everything from the spoken-word "Army Ants" to quirky instrumental "Redrum" to a beatboxed stab at Daniel Johnston's "King Kong."

Taken in total, it's a helluva righteous racket, though few but the die-est of diehards will attempt the full undertaking in one sitting. Most will absorb Orphans one disc or even a few tracks at a time, reveling in its bohemian charm and yes, probably wondering just where and when their favorite cuts may have been conceived and recorded.

Rock Star Supernova


Rock Star Supernova (2 1/2 stars)

It's official: We have entered a new golden age of the shitty supergroup. And as if the supergroup weren't a contrived-enough concept already, now we get one that was put together on TV. Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, former Guns N' Roses guitarist Gilby Clarke and former Metallica bassist Jason Newsted are joined by singer Lukas Rossi, winner of the TV show with the same lame name as the band, for Rock Star Supernova, a patently false construction that no one believes will last past its one contractually mandated album and tour.

At least the members of the band seem to sort of be in on the joke, playing music as disposable and fake as the show that spawned it. This is pop-rock so slick that it might as well have been created by robots, and indeed no one in the band leaves any sort of personal stamp on the music. Newsted, who receives no writing credits and has already been replaced for the band's tour thanks to an injury, makes the smallest impression, but neither Clarke's gritty, blues-oriented songwriting skills (exhibited on his underrated solo albums) nor Lee's bombastic drumming talents are in evidence, either.

With the army of "additional musicians" credited, it's hard to tell how much each band member actually contributed, anyway, and the person whose presence is most clearly felt is producer Butch Walker, who co-wrote all but one of the songs and imparts the catchy, glam feel of his solo work on songs like the cheeky, fun "Leave the Lights On." Rossi, who's a capable but uninteresting vocalist, even ends up sounding like Walker on several tracks. Any apparent flash of inspiration, though, is likely the product of studio trickery.

Damien Rice

9 (2 1/2 stars)

Irish warbler Damien Rice waited four years to release the follow-up to his buzz-garnering debut, O, a Starbucks-friendly blend of shimmering, orchestral arrangements, spare vocals and earnest, confessional lyrics. On 9, Rice's fans will find plenty of the same fare to chew on, with a few twists to keep things interesting for a new audience.

Rice's longtime collaborator, vocalist Lisa Hannigan, carries the elegiac "9 Crimes," which opens the disc with a whisper that signals a reprise of Rice's elegant navel-gazing of old. But the tempo picks up on "Elephant," with a thundering rock interlude cleaving through the gauzy strings.

Subtlety is wholly abandoned on "Rootless Tree," which would be the most radio-friendly number if not for the numerous shouts of "fuck you" in the chorus. The toe-tapping "Coconut Skins," with its bouncy acoustic guitar and Hannigan's lithe harmonies, likely will catch the ears of TV producers searching for soundtrack fodder, while Rice's distorted wailing over a wall of guitars on "Me, My Yoke & I" should tickle the fancy of even the wonkiest listener.

All in all, 9 is a step forward for Rice, but not a total departure from the coffee shop.

BRAND NEW

THE DEVIL AND GOD ARE RAGING INSIDE ME (2 stars)

Brand New have long been running neck-and-neck with sometime rivals Taking Back Sunday for the title of Long Island's elder statesboys of emo. While 2001's Your Favorite Weapon featured catchy, albeit run-of-the-mill romantic laments and death wishes to double-crossing friends, 2003's Deja Entendu shocked the hell out of their peers with mature, churning rhythms and layer upon layer of harmonized, shout-along choruses.

Seemingly petrified by writer's block, frontman Jesse Lacey and Co. have now taken the tamest parts of Entendu and toned them down (they've even done away with the lengthy, self-referential titles the likes of Panic! At the Disco have cribbed in their three-year absence). "Sowing Season" and "Luca" play like Radiohead lite, all alienation and angst, while "Limousine (MS Rebridge)" and "You Won't Know" remain murky and without purpose. This could be the point, of course, as the foursome struggle with maintaining relevance and quarter-life crises; the growing pains just don't make for engaging tunes.

"I can't shake this little feeling/I never say anything right," Lacey wails in "Degausser." Such statements may deflect accusations of pretentiousness, but they result in an album of passive listening at its most bland.

El Perro Del Mar

El Perro Del Mar (3 stars)

If you think "Candy" and "Party" sound like the titles of happy songs, you've never heard Swedish songwriter Sarah Assbring, who calls her solo project El Perro Del Mar. That's Spanish for "the dog of the sea," which doesn't seem to make much sense, but let's cut Assbring some slack and let that go, because her real name probably did her no favors during childhood, and this sweet lady's clearly delicate and close to her breaking point. These songs are like what you'd get if you mated Saturday Looks Good to Me with a really depressed Jewel. Phil Spector-like flourishes are everywhere, but the heart of this music comes from a sad folk singer who might be losing her mind but is just incapable of screaming.

"Candy" seems to be about being so lonely and pathetic that the highlight of your life is buying yourself sweets on the weekend. "Party" is a plea more than an invitation, as Assbring sings "I just want to be a part of you" with the kind of longing that would make even Stephin Merritt choke on his lemonade and pay attention. And listen to "Dog" if you want to hear about how seeing a helpless animal can make you feel so lost you don't even know how to feel anymore. (Please, for the love of God, do not let Sarah Assbring know about cuteoverload.com.)

But because El Perro Del Mar isn't a wailer like Alanis or even Emily Haines, she can only mess with your mind so much. This gal will have your sympathy in about five seconds, but she'll never make you afraid.