SOUNDCHECK: Norah Jones, Youth Group, Rickie Lee Jones, Ghost, Busdriver


Norah Jones


Not Too Late


(3 stars)

Much as I love her voice and have enjoyed a few songs along the way, sitting through an entire Norah Jones CD is not without its struggles. Problem isn't that she's too "mellow"—tranquility and stillness are laudable strengths—it's that she's too constricted by her good taste. Too often, her music feels like something you should respect rather than merely adore. On her best tracks, which aren't the jazzy-lounge numbers, but rather the acoustic folk ditties and the country weepers, there's a sense that underneath the veneer of tastefulness is a hippie chick in waiting. Personally, I wish she'd just smoke a j and release her already (and ditch the stand-up bassist while she's at it).

Not Too Late is a tentative detour from her previous work, a subtle expansion of the Norah Jones sound (expansions of sound aren't supposed to be so "subtle," but that's Norah for you). Kicked off by the hauntingly pretty "Wish I Could," there's a slightly foreboding quality to the music, and if you listen closely, you'll hear some nifty instrumental flourishes, like the spacey, treated guitars hovering above "Not My Friend," which suggests an interesting move towards a Spiritualized-style pop ambience. But these are baby steps at best, and she continues to lapse into classy-sounding shtick that is ponderous ("My Dear Country," a state of the union lament) and precious ("Sinkin' Soon," hokey cabaret nonsense).

It's a shame about Norah. She seems capable of so much better.



– Scott Woods



Youth Group

Casino Twilight Dogs


(4 stars)

It's definitely a winter album, this one. Sparse, simple, and always yearning for just a bit more light, the third effort by The O.C.-approved Youth Group is best appreciated on the warmer side of a window pane, framed photo in hand, as memories play back against the fogging glass.

Full of apologies, ghosts, daydreams, futile searching, wasted summers, ever-present rain and references to hanging by a thread, the album excels at building up and receding, from the delicate, tentatively deepening lament of "Daisychains" to the wistful harmonies and stoic string section that inevitably falls silent at the close of "Start Today Tomorrow." The indie-rock four piece's hit Alphaville remake, "Forever Young," meshes well with the overall theme of longing, though it's "Catching and Killing"—a stream-of-consciousness expression of rising detachment comparable to R.E.M. at its most bemused—that wonders where respite lies when frustrations reach their peak.

More subdued than 2005's Skeleton Jar, Twilight has a hesitant fear that pervades even when melodies remain defiantly upbeat: What if the sun never returns? And worse, what if that's how we'd prefer it?



– Julie Seabaugh



Rickie Lee Jones


Sermon on Exposition Boulevard


(3 1/2 stars)

Well into her third decade as a recording artist, Jones appears to be on a quest for roots-rock credibility with her first release for New West Records, the alt-country imprint that's home to Drive-By Truckers, Old 97's and Dwight Yoakam. Teaming with producer Rob Schnapf (Elliott Smith, The Vines, Beck), she's cranked out an opus that's equal parts earthy and dour, soul-searching and uplifting.

The subject matter is indeed grist for a sermon—the label's press release claims that "all 13 songs are inspired by the real words and ideas of one Jesus Christ." So she's got that going for her, which is nice.

But this is no gospel hoedown or tepid Christian schmaltzfest – Jones' gritty voice wraps itself around dark, moody arrangements to create a spiritual aesthetic that's more Joshua Tree than 700 Club. She comes across as a figure calling out from the shadows, from the plaintive opening track, "Nobody Knows My Name," to her whispery Steve Earlesque vocals on "Tried to be a Man."

The mood lightens a bit on the sunny "Circle in the Sand" and "Elvis Cadillac," but her eight-minute set closer, "I Was There," reminds you that at this point in her journey, she's got more questions than answers. And after all, isn't that the essence of spirituality?



– Patrick Donnelly



Ghost


In Stormy Nights


(2 1/2 stars)

A cover of a song by obscure late-'60s freak-rock warriors Cromagnon seems like the absolute last piece of music we could expect from any contemporary band, particularly a mainstay on a well-established indie label. Yet somehow, in the hands of Drag City veterans Ghost, the choice of this bit of oddball ephemera feels distressingly over-scripted.

Not that we'd have literally guessed the American underground's favorite Japanese's psych-folk export would include a rendition of the dense-yet-sorta-catchy "Caledonia" on latest disc In Stormy Nights. But somehow, Masaki Batoh's Tokyo-based collective has become unpredictable to the point of actually being much too predictable. Or put another way, Ghost has surprised us too often to surprise us anymore, a shame considering the ability to hit us with left-field thunderbolts has long been one of the group's principal strengths.

Sure, Ghost continues shape-shifting—they do it a handful of times on this album alone, going from Fairport-worshipping folk-rockers ("Grisaille") to stoned-out experimental wanderers (the 28-minute "Hemicyclic Anthelion") to heavy-psych space troopers ("Gareki No Toshi"). But the new moves grow old faster these days, perhaps a sign Batoh has become confined by his own capriciousness and, perish the thought, might be preparing to give up the Ghost himself.



– Spencer Patterson



Busdriver


Roadkill Overcoat


(4 stars)

Someone forgot to take his Ritalin. And his Seroquel. And a chill pill. That's what a first listen to Busdriver's Roadkill Overcoat leaves you thinking. Second and third spins through the 12-songer confirm that A) dude's off his meds or B) he doesn't give a damn about hip-hop's playbook, which says if thou are to make it big, thou must dumb down and thug-up thy music. Of which he does neither.

Lyrically, Busdriver sounds like the bastard child of horror-core vet Esham, nerdcore lyricist Rappy McRapperson, Gnarls Barkley and Borat; meaning that he's acerbic, whip-smart, a consummate wordsmith and not above saying something ridiculous. His off-his-rockerness is emboldened by a mishmash of disjointed beats that tap country, electronica, hyphy, pop and hip-hop.

And yet it somehow works. Bus raps at auctioneer's speed—don't bother trying to keep up—and sounds no worse than Twista. In covering disparate topics like Lou Reed, pet toys, niggas gangbanging on Sesame Street, dinosaur dung and violent surf rodents, he's a nerdy Ghostface. And the song titles—"Casting Agents and Cowgirls," "The Troglodyte Wins" and "(Bloody Paw on the) Kill Floor"—actually out-Gnarls Gnarls.

This guy doesn't need a meds or a doctor—unless it's Dr. Dre.



– Damon Hodge


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