By Kat Bein
By Shea Serrano
By S. Pajot
By Terrence McCoy
By Falyn Freyman
By Shea Serrano
By Jacob Katel
By Michael E. Miller
Since making his baby-grand entrance on the music scene a decade ago, Bruce Hornsby has released a handful of softly melodic albums, most notably The Way It Is, which he recorded with his group, the Range -- it earned them a 1986 Grammy Award as Best New Artist. Now, after honing his skills as a songwriter (with Don Henley on the song "The End of Innocence") and a musician (as touring keyboardist with the Grateful Dead), Hornsby has gone from Saturday-night jams to Sunday-afternoon jazz with his second solo venture, Hot House. And while his lack of range isn't a problem, his lack of inspiration is.
Hornsby's music has always been firmly anchored in his right-handed piano prowess, deftly stirring up any song with the flick of a finger or a progressive chord. Problem is, you can't build every song around this premise, and Hornsby seems to suffer from a nervous twitch. Cuts such as "The Changes" and "The Longest Night" are likable enough, just not terribly memorable. And even with guest turns by Pat Metheny (guitar), Bela Fleck (banjo), and the late Jerry Garcia (also guitar), the eleven tracks, all written by Hornsby, seem to blur into one long jazz workshop (must be the Dead influence). As a music professor of mine once told me, "There's a fine line between good jazz improvisation and Chinese water torture." Drip.
Where'd You Hide the Body
"You say you need a ray o'light/Had enough of my blinding insight," sings the narrator of "Rayolight," one of the least bleak cuts on James McMurtry's new album. Images of light and sight A or the lack thereof -- recur throughout the dozen songs on this collection, McMurtry's second since his critically acclaimed 1989 debut, Too Long in the Wasteland. Not that there's all that much to see. Though rich in precise detail, these songs don't so much deal with what's there as they address what has been lost, or what is being concealed. McMurtry's settings are desolate, his characters either alone or engaged in some sort of isolated conflict. Often that battle is with the past, "the blindness of youth" devoid of satellite dishes and central air but flush with Sunbeams and El Caminos, Joe Willie Namath scoring from seven yards out, and that fortunetelling 8-ball toy that sometimes answered your question with "Reply hazy, please try again."
All of which makes for a comfortable fit with Don Dixon's production, more varied and accessible than the rhythm-heavy signature of John Mellencamp that dominated McMurtry's first two albums. Pieces such as "Off and Running," "Rachel's Song," "Levelland," and "Lost in the Back Yard" come together well, the last of which contains the gifted songwriter's stunning representation of disorientation: "I woke up in a strange world/I can aptly describe/It's like the streets of a town where I lived/When I was too young to drive/It all looks so familiar/But I can't find my way/I must have got lost in the back yard/When I went out to play." But the title song is by far the album's strongest work, the demise of a relationship reduced to a murderous metaphor, the narrator having finally reached the juncture where the ugliness must be confronted. Not head-on, mind you, but obliquely -- as it inevitably is in life.
Occasionally, though, McMurtry's searing vision gets waylaid. "Iolanthe" leads off the record with a Southern Gothic mood enhanced by, of all things, a tuba. But in her struggle to overcome an upbringing by a pair of alcoholics, the song's heroine inspires pity, no more. And intimate details such as "I can tell your footsteps on the stairs/From three flights up/I know the jingling of your keys" can't save "Down Across the Delaware," whose aim is skewed by cliche.
With his nose adhering to the grindstone, maybe McMurtry failed to discern a tendency toward repetition that, with the added weight of his monotone, tends to accumulate until it becomes, well, monotonous; some of this Body's parts are virtually indistinguishable from others. To the point where "Rachel's Song" is merely a wintertime version of "Off and Running." And though it sounds real good in "Off and Running" when McMurtry sings, "I somehow must have missed it/I never knew I was blind/Repeat it real slow/So I'll get it this time," he is, in a way, hoisting himself by his own petard.
By Tom Finkel
For their debut album, Short Bus, Filter -- vocalist-songwriter Richard Patrick and computer programmer Brian Liesegang -- have put their pedigrees to good use (both have worked with nine inch nails in touring or production capacities). Beginning with the first single, the menacing and atmospheric "Hey Man, Nice Shot," the record rumbles with riffs reminiscent of various hard-rocking bands. For example, Jane's Addiction-style vocals on songs such as "So Cool" stand next to churning Ministry-like guitars on "Under," while "Dose," "Spent," and "Gerbil" carry bits and pieces lifted from everyone from Led Zeppelin to the Scorpions to White Zombie to Billy Idol. And yet despite this proclivity for tapping into some of heavy rock's cheap conventions, the whole remains satisfying for its sheer intensity and unrelenting fury. Patrick's vocals have that telephone-call-from Hell effect, at once distant, detached, and angry; the fact that he sounds about sixteen years old makes them all the more disturbing. However, amid all this highly structured chaos and marvelous noise, one interlude of restraint: A ballad called "Stuck in Here" is probably the most powerful song here, a woeful lamentation right up there with Nirvana's "All Apologies" and NIN's "Hurt." Lyrically, the band has yet to mature, still too concerned with rhyming than with creating vivid images. But overall Short Bus crashes and burns brilliantly without ever hitting any bumps.