[Southern Rock]
The Black Crowes
Warpaint
** 1/2
A few weeks ago, Maxim magazine got in a bit of trouble for running a lukewarm review of Warpaint, The Black Crowes’ first album in seven years, by a writer who’d only actually heard one song from the album. The magazine subsequently apologized, and of course the Crowes had every right to be offended that someone would print a judgment of their album without hearing it. But having listened to Warpaint in its entirety a few times, I can say that Maxim’s ho-hum reaction was not all that far off: The seven-year hiatus has done little to shake the Crowes from the entirely familiar (if often satisfying) path they’ve been on since their 1990 debut.
Though Warpaint is billed as a reunion for the band, brothers Chris and Rich Robinson are really the only constants throughout the Crowes’ rocky history. The singer and guitarist are the core of the band, though, writing all the songs and defining the signature classic-rock sound with generous helpings of the blues and a tinge of country. Onboard for this outing is North Mississippi Allstars guitarist Luther Dickinson, whose slide work infuses the album with stronger blues and country influences. Mellower tunes like opener “Goodbye Daughters of the Revolution,” “Oh Josephine” and “Locust Street” benefit most from Dickinson’s excellent playing, and end up as the album’s highlights. The other bright spot is a cover of Reverend Charlie Jackson’s “God’s Got It,” a full-on blues-gospel number.
The Crowes’ time spent in the jam-band scene seems to have rubbed off on them in a negative way, though, as most of the songs on Warpaint meander aimlessly; only one breaks the six-minute mark, but many feel twice as long as they are. Warpaint’s relative mediocrity could have been extrapolated from the long hiatus, the numerous lineup changes and the similar lackluster quality of 2001’s Lions, and actually listening to the album only confirms it. –Josh Bell
[Indie Rock]
Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
Real Emotional Trash
** 1/2
It’s hard to believe Stephen Malkmus has been away from Pavement for almost as long (nine years) as he fronted the seminal ’90s indie-rock outfit (11 years). That’s probably because Malkmus has yet to release a solo disc that compares favorably with any of Pavement’s five albums, save perhaps 1999’s Terror Twilight.
Like that so-so swan song, all of Malkmus’ post-Pavement efforts feature stretches of solid writing, but far too little of another element just as vital to his former band’s greatness: soul. Too often regarded as ironic and detached, Pavement actually packed tons of emotion into its music, be it peril (“No Life Singed Her”), empowerment (“Fight This Generation”) or despair (“Stop Breathing”), to sample the catalog just a bit.
Latest Malkmus & The Jicks LP Real Emotional Trash, like its three predecessors, teams compositional unorthodoxy (see the title cut, which makes several sharp course-corrections over its 10-minute duration) with lyrical idiosyncrasy (see “Who was it that said the world is my oyster?/I feel like a nympho stuck in a cloister” in “Cold Son”). It also ups the guitar ante from previous solo work, allowing the underrated instrumentalist to stretch out on stonerish opener “Dragonfly Pie” and jaunty first single “Baltimore.”
Ultimately, though, no amount of musicianship can truly warm up Real Emotional Trash, leaving listeners yearning for a few Bob Nastanovich banshee yelps and continuing to ponder whether the other guys in Pavement were actually a lot more significant than we’ve been led to believe. –Spencer Patterson
[Alt-Rock]
The Matches
A Band in Hope
****
The 2006 Matches album Decomposer was a spastic revolution that chained rock, pop, punk and dance influences in the basement of a condemned cabaret hall, then flattened the whole thing with a tank packing art-school edge. It sold approximately zero copies.
On this equally impressive third effort, vocalist/guitarist/ringleader/resident dandy Shawn Harris comes out swinging with a collection that is rollicking, incredibly witty and completely original. It’s infinitely catchy while never playing it safe; highly theatrical yet pretension-free.
Hope genre-skips with glee, careening through an opening three-track salvo concerning after-hours exploits and inevitable sunbursts, continuing through the sweet acoustic minimalism of “Clouds Crash,” the noirish sexual slink of “From 24C,” the operatic, pitch-black and Queen-inspired “Darkness Rising” and the Elvis Costello homage “Future Tense.” There’s even a funk-march that promotes unity via upping decibel levels.
The related themes of destiny and determination resound on power-pop screed “Point Me Toward the Morning,” which itself harkens back to the album’s start. It’s a deliberately paced and powerful journey through life’s various shades, one that leaves little breathing room but raises one big question: How can a band this wildly inventive remain little more than a hidden gem on Epitaph’s roster? –Julie Seabaugh
[Team-Up]
The Gutter Twins
Saturnalia
***
The Gutter Twins’ CV is impressive: Sleaze-lounge kingpin Greg Dulli fronted the Afghan Whigs and Twilight Singers, while doom maven Mark Lanegan has been in Screaming Trees and Queens of the Stone Age. Saturnalia, the pair’s debut, is exactly what one would expect a collaboration between the two men to sound like: harrowing, seedy and darker than the blackest midnight.
Lanegan frequently rasps like the walking dead, matching both the album’s minor-key gothic-blues dirges and Dulli’s undead-lounge-singer emoting. The string-laced “Idle Hands” grinds and twirls like a Sisters of Mercy single in slo-mo, while the gaunt specter of Nick Cave’s bleak spirituality hangs over “The Stations.” “The Body” (which features vocal contributions from Martina Topley-Bird) even rips off U2’s Achtung Baby, specifically “So Cruel,” down to the cascading piano and velvety vocal melody/falsetto background combination.
The problem is that atmosphere and ambiance frequently trump strong song structure, making Saturnalia great wallpaper for a depressive episode, but not always very attention-grabbing. More songs like the haunting “God’s Children”—a surging piano-and-drums attack that’s reminiscent of Afghan Whigs—or Lanegan’s “Bête Noire,” a Rhodes-driven dingy soul number plucked straight from hell’s nightclub, would have helped Saturnalia own its bleakness, instead of being consumed by it. –Annie Zaleski
[Rap]
Fat Joe
The Elephant in the Room
***
You can accuse Fat Joe of not being as great a rapper as his deceased protégé, Big Pun, of not boosting up the other rappers in his Terror Squad group and even—now that he’s firmly enmeshed in the Florida crew that includes DJ Haled, Rick Ross and Lil Wayne—of sacrificing his street-wise sensibilities for an overly commercial, Southern vibe. But you can’t knock Joe’s effort, or his ability to stay relevant.
On The Elephant in the Room Joe effectively harnesses the powers of some of the best producers in hip-hop, from DJ Premier, who crafts the album’s standout track, “That White,” to Swizz Beatz, whose “Drop” is as club-ready as anything this side of Rihanna.
As for Joe himself, he’s still rapping about moving kilos, doing physical harm to his detractors and inspiring ladies to do things they might later regret. But if you liked Joe’s last few albums, you’ll like him now; he seems more comfortable than ever performing the type of simple, on-message lyricism he’s fashioned in recent years. Though some may pine for the “Joey Crack” of old, who spit dense, grimy ’hood stories and filmed videos with his Bronx homies instead of on speedboats in Miami, the new Joe seems quite content as he is. –Ben Westhoff