SOUNDCHECK

Paris Hilton


PARIS (2 stars)

Sounds like Paris Hilton has been dumpster-diving outside Pink's and Gwen Stefani's studios, grabbing as many leftover hooks and bass lines as she can fit into her $6,000 handbag. Not-quite-super producer Scott Storch gives Paris' debut album a dose of hip-hop heft as well as the kind of poppy sheen usually reserved for Top 10 singles. But despite the presence of Storch (and Fat Joe and Jadakiss on the okay "Fighting Over Me"), you feel like you've already heard better versions of all these songs. "Stars Are Blind," with its reggae beat and Hilton doing her best Stefani impression, sounds like the seventh- or eighth-best No Doubt song. This'll probably still be a hit, though, because it's just catchy enough.

"I Want You" is a dance-floor come-on that sounds like a Pussycat Dolls B-side. This might not be a hit, because it's not that catchy. "Heartbeat" starts with "Forever Young"-like potential and then turns into Hillary Duff lite, if something that weightless is even possible. "Nothing in This World," on the other hand, is Kelly Clarkson lite, so it's another potential hit. The cover of "Do You Think I'm Sexy" is pretty lame, but that song always sucked, anyway.

SCRITTI POLITTI


WHITE BREAD, BLACK BEER (4 stars)

This is the same band that gave us "I've got a perfect way to make the girls go crazy." All of Scritti Politti's accomplishments fore and aft—the angular, scratchy post-punk, the collaborations with Miles Davis, Mos Def and the like—are largely unrecognized on this side of the Atlantic, lost in the glare of the second-sunniest dance-pop tune ever to grace American radio. (The top spot, maddeningly, is held by "MMMBop.")

But let's forget all that. Our days of thinking about Scritti Politti as a relic of the 1980s come to a glorious end with the release of White Bread, Black Beer, the most idiosyncratic record of the year and the least conventional pop record of the last five. Scritti's main driver, Green Gartside, recorded this record largely at his home in Wales, drawing liberally on his current listening—I'm guessing equal parts Sufjan Stevens, A Tribe Called Quest, DJ Dangermouse and Brian Wilson—to create an album of songs that are as uniquely constructed as they are impeccably produced.

Take "Dr. Abernathy," a lean, tough rocker that has its titular physician on the lookout "for methamphetamine, for volunteers." Green's soft, breathy tenor, so close to that of Michael Jackson, is multitracked into shimmering choirs that deceive you into thinking you're noshing on Wonder Bread; in fact, you're pounding down pints of Guinness. The sweetness renders the Christ-bashing of "After Six" ("Jesus, keep your love away from me") and the hip-hop call-outs of "The Boom Boom Bap" ("Wake up, Hollis Crew ... it's like that") seemingly innocuous; it's only after you've taken in the record a second time that you realize that it's gotten into your blood.

It's an easy record to love, but not an easy record to get to know. Even die-hard Scritti Politti fans—surely there must be some out there—will have to work a bit to succumb to Black Beer's quiet but unrelenting charms. Once you've done so, you can expect to spend many rewarding hours appreciating its perfect ways.

THE PANIC CHANNEL


(ONe) (2 stars)

Apparently Perry Farrell was the only thing keeping Jane's Addiction from being completely generic and boring, because the debut album from The Panic Channel, featuring three of Farrell's former Jane's bandmates, is exactly that, a dull and plodding album of subpar hard rock that's less distinctive than Nickelback.

Teaming with singer and former MTV VJ Steve Isaacs, guitarist Dave Navarro, drummer Stephen Perkins and bassist Chris Chaney (who was in the 2003 Jane's reunion lineup) have come up with an album of songs that would fit comfortably on hard-rock radio in 2006 or 1996 without standing out in any way. Navarro has always been more of a headbanger than an art-rocker, and here he does get to cut loose with some blazing guitar solos, most notably on the fast and heavy "Said You'd Be." But his riffs are wholly uninspired, and even the solos offer only a momentary distraction.

Slickly and blandly produced by mainstream hard-rock guru Josh Abraham (Staind, Linkin Park), the annoyingly titled (ONe) is a huge disappointment from musicians like Navarro and Perkins, who've turned in varied and interesting work in the past. With Isaacs, a competent but unremarkable vocalist, they've gone from pioneers to assembly-line followers.

PAJO


1968 (3 stars)

David Pajo has made so many unsignaled lane changes, it's less predictable when he puts his foot to the pedal and steamrolls straight ahead. From Slint to Zwan, from instrumental tweakery to the liberation of an unheard singing voice, from his Aerial M and Papa M aliases to last year's first release under his actual name, the Louisvillian has zigzagged across the musical map more often than Madonna.

It's somewhat unnerving, therefore, to spin 1968 and discover that "Pajo" disc No. 2 hardly differs in overall approach from its self-titled predecessor or, for that matter, from recent Papa M output such as 2001's Whatever Mortal and the six-EP tour diary that bridged 2003 and 2004. Pajo has crafted another fine folk-rock effort, its sound so old-world it practically plays like a collection of long-lost traditional covers.

The only perceptible shift is a slight one, toward darker lyrical subject matter. Creaking cuts "Prescription Blues," "Cyclone Eye" and "Who's That Knocking" ("What's that slidin' 'cross the floor, 'cross the floor?/It's my dead body on the floor") seep melancholy, portending an even bleaker next direction fans of Pajo the chameleon are sure to welcome, a just-announced metal outfit called Dead Child.

OLLABELLE

RIVERSIDE BATTLE SONGS (3 1/2 stars)

Relying heavily on sparse arrangements and luxurious harmonies, the second release from New York quintet Ollabelle leaves you wondering if it's fish or fowl, but not really caring either way. Hints of bluegrass, folk, country and blues are laced throughout the 14 songs, which can best be categorized as Southern gospel, but despite its diverse tangle of sounds and songwriting contributions from all five members, the end result is a cohesive package of back-to-basics roots music. Ollabelle's female vocalists—Australian Fiona McBain and Amy Helm, daughter of The Band's Levon Helm—do much of the heavy lifting here, taking the lead on cool-funky gems "Fall Back" and "See Line Woman" and the revival-tent soul of "Troubles of the World," while drenching the balance of the disc with luscious backing vocals.

Other highlights include "Riverside," a spooky reworking of the gospel standard; "High on a Mountain," another down-home traditional backed with fiddle, banjo and dobro; and the bouncy, organ-driven "Reach for Love."

The disc bogs down a bit at the end, as the last four or five songs suffer from an ethereal, Mazzy Star-on-moonshine quality that muddles the pacing. But it's not enough to deter you from going back to the beginning for another serving of this rich Manhattan gumbo.

MOTOR

KLUNK (2 stars)

ELECTRONIC The opener, "Black Powder," reminds me of Jessica Biel in Blade: Trinity, loading her iPod with songs to kill vampires by. Putting "Black Powder" on that mix would've upped her body count by 20 percent, easy. With its driving synth and brutally efficient drumming—and very few dumb laser-tag sound effects—this is music to focus your aggression and steel your nerves for dirty work. I like to play it on the freeway.

And that's it, people. Every point of both stars in the rating above is for "Black Powder." The rest is pretenious sound-making, redefined by the arrogance of Motormen Bryan Black and Dr. No as arty industrial groove-noise, and when it's not insulting, it's boring. Parts of "Sweatbox," "Stuka Stunt" "Botox" sound okay—set to a great beat, a faulty bilge pump is listenable for at least 30 seconds. But listenable implies a listener, and Klunk is all about the relationship between the boys and their noise. No other humans seem necessary.

The political guru on his namesake's music: Whenever I flip on the radio in the car and start singing along, my daughter, Maddy, immediately intervenes. "Dad," the 11-year-old says in her best admonishing tone, "no singing!" Maddy hates my singing voice. I don't know why. It could be that what a colleague once called my "strangled cat" tones don't sound any better when set to music.

But if Jon Ralston can't sing, what about John Ralston, whose debut CD, Needle Bed, has been nestled in my player for a couple of weeks? I listened to my namesake, and I cannot think of a better cure for joyfulness. The guy sounds like a depressing Beatle, with tracks such as "Gone Gone Gone" and "I Believe in Ghosts." This is not a happy fellow. And he mumbles, too. He might call it Dylanesque; I'd call it droning.

But maybe this was a lone Ralston opinion. So I played a track for Maddy. "Sounds like the blues to me," my daughter said tepidly. When I showed her the name, she first, hilariously, wondered, "Is that YOU, Dad?"

When I told her it wasn't and asked her which was the worst Ralston crooner, she did not hesitate. "He's still not below you, Dad."