Dean Martin (3.5 stars)
Dino: The Essential Dean Martin
There are few groups so associated with Las Vegas as the Rat Pack: Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin and that other guy. Of them, it could certainly be argued that Dean Martin had the most tragic life. Straight man to Jerry Lewis and later chief deputy to the Chairman of the Board, Dean's life fell to pieces after the death of his son in 1987. I saw him sometime after that, sitting alone in the bar of the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset in LA. He looked broken and haunted, giant glasses magnifying eyes that held nothing but an abyss.
Far better to remember Dino as the baritone crooner—not the greatest by his own admission—making girls and women swoon as he played his slurred schtick to packed houses. You can do just that with Capitol Record's release of 30 of Martin's hits and signature songs from both Capitol's and Reprise Records' vaults.
While some fare better in the battle against time than others, there's plenty here to choose from, including "That's Amore," "Everybody Loves Somebody," "Volaré," "Just In Time" and "Ain't That a Kick in the Head." Other, less chart-topping numbers smack of being over-orchestrated, but are at least instructive of what the popular tastes were at the time.
The CD has 30 songs in total, for 80 minutes of swinging times, as well as liner notes written by his children and vintage photos.
Martin Stein
Donavon Frankenreiter (3 stars)
Donavon Frankenreiter
"The surfing keeps me alive and the music keeps me grounded," is the oft-repeated quote from Donavon Frankenreiter, professional wave-rider and now professional solo artist.
Part of the '90s SoCal band Sunchild, Donavon (it feels far too formal to call him "Frankenreiter") has teamed up with Ben Harper's David Leach and Dean Butterworth on percussion and drums, with Koool G. Murder of the Eels and G. Love doing guest spots, along with pal and producer Jack Johnson.
At the tender age of 13, Donavon was being sponsored by Billabong, paid to surf without having to enter competition. He moved to Hawaii and rented a house from Johson's parents, a fortuitous occurance as Johnson became a successful recording artist a couple of years later. When Johnson experienced commercial success, he started his own label, Brushfire Records, and signed Donavon.
The result is a full debut CD with the mellowest sounds this side of Big Sur. Exhibiting a pleasant discipline as opposed to some jam bands, Donavon keeps a consistent tone on all 13 tracks. Certainly the funkiest track is "What'cha Know About," on which G. Love lends his considerable harmonica and guitar talents, while "Free" harkens back to Donavon's adopted Hawaiian home with its opening ukeulele strumming.
It's all somewhat timeless material, and wouldn't sound at all out of place if it was coming out of a transistor radio stuck in some 1969 sand. But then, what else would you expect from a guy who named his son Hendrix?
Martin Stein
Pedro the Lion (2 stars)
Achilles Heel
There is, the music savants at Esquire tell us in the June edition, a revival of sorts going on in alt-rock radio. Among the acts the magazine tells us are benefitting from this trend is not Pedro the Lion. The Secret Machines? Check, and no surprise—they're great. The Honorary Title, whoever the hell they are? Totally noted. Even Las Vegas' own The Killers rate an approving name-check ("a superb blaze of synthesizers and guitars"). Pedro the Lion—not so mentioned.
A listen to Achilles Heel tells you why. This is the music equivalent of Wednesday—right there in the nondescript middle of things, not convincingly downbeat enough for a Monday, not pop-energetic enough to feel like Friday. "Arizona," for example, has a certain whiny catchiness that's finally undercut by the mewling lyrics about rock, paper, scissors. "A Simple Plan" tries gamely to inject a little ringing-guitar life into the proceedings, but falls short. "Bands with Managers" sounds like a dozen forgettable songs you can dig out of the discount bin at Big B's. The entire disc is suffused with a sort of slacker aloofness—a puzzling unwillingness to really cut loose. If they're not willing to commit to the music, why should you?
Scott Dickensheets