By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Slickness is bad for practically every type of music, but for the blues it's fatal. The appeal of blues is rooted in its primitive origins, and once those are glossed over, the rudimentary notes lack the emotion that might have made them indelible. That's why much of modern blues, produced within an inch of its life in an effort to up its accessibility, is so lifeless. Swinging from the Rafters, a recent disc by Long John Hunter on the Alligator imprint, is a case in point. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with it; the playing is professional, the songs are competently structured, and Hunter's singing and guitar playing are up to industry standards. And yet the utter predictability of the disc makes it more suitable for the middle-aged tourists who visit Chicago's Rush Street in search of the exotic than for anyone hungry for the raw truth the blues is capable of delivering.
Those interested in the latter should turn to these four new releases on Delmark. The Arthur Crudup collection is the least of the batch, in large part because he's the most lightweight of these performers; he prefers to skitter along the surface of a song rather than dive into its heart. But his versions of his own "That's All Right, Mama" (made famous by Elvis Presley) and "Rock Me Mama," a previously unreleased effort, find him at his roughest and most evocative.
Samuel Maghett, a.k.a. Magic Sam, who was only 32 when he died in 1969, came to artistic maturity in a later era; as a result, the songs on Legacy have more rock and roll in their soul. But Sam's secret was his wildness, a quality that distinguishes his romp through John Lee Hooker's "I Feel So Good (Boogie Chillun)" and a dozen more exhilarating efforts.
For his part, pianist Roosevelt Sykes demonstrates the range of the blues, tossing a dollop of New Orleans into his boogies, strides, and rambles. But Feel Like Blowing My Horn certainly doesn't feel like musicology; there's nothing academic about Sykes's ecstatic wails on "Rock-a-Bye Birdie."
Piney Woods Blues captures Big Joe Williams in a relaxed mood; the material was taped in early 1958 at a record store and a private home. But his heartfelt nine-string guitar playing and guttural vocals manage to put a charge into even "Baby, Please Don't Go" and "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl," which have more mileage on them than Chuck Berry. Hell, "Big Joe Talking," which is just what its title says it is, displays more authenticity than half the blues CDs issued this decade. When it comes to the blues, the times, they are a-changin' -- and they're getting worse.
-- Michael Roberts
Tragic Animal Stories
Any college rocker worth his bachelor's degree will sooner or later head wide-eyed in search of postgrad sound adventures. Few, though, will be as well-equipped to handle a musical career beyond the gates as Eric Bachmann, maestro behind the one-person pop ensemble called Barry Black.
It shouldn't surprise us: Bachmann's main gig, Chapel Hill's Archers of Loaf, has always exhibited an aptitude for making music that transcends its indie-rock pedigree even while helping define the genre. Besides, Bachmann had the advantage of spending his college years in music school. While his brethren were chugging Pearl Jam, Bachmann sipped Stravinsky.
Bachmann's first steps outside the Archers' conventional four-man rock thing came in 1995 with Barry Black's self-titled debut, a patchwork of spare-time recordings with local North Carolina musicians (Ben Folds), producers (Caleb Southern), and random scenesters. Though too informal and unassuming to assert itself as anything but a lark, the recording was an unexpected gem of eccentric pop that revealed compositional talents Bachmann had only hinted at in his other band. Fortunately, Bachmann deemed his sideshow worthy of further exploration.
So we have Barry Black's followup, Tragic Animal Stories, a far more formal and self-conscious affair. Taking time to fully script and sculpt the arrangements, Bachmann cashes in on some of the skills he learned in orchestration class. With a blend of sounds both classical (strings, horns, woodwinds, piano) and modern (guitars, percussion, loops), he paints each of the ten tracks in a rich and distinct -- and playfully appropriate -- hue: Plodding tubas motivate "Dueling Elephants"; an ominous violin propels "When Sharks Smell Blood"; synth washes and distant whale-call vocals start "Tropical Fish Revival"; and so on. Even lumping in the fond references to Satie's piano figures, Cage's exotic percussion, Eno's static ambiance, and Beefheart's dissonant guitar, the pieces are consistently obliging to modern pop tastes. It's like listening to Peter and the Wolf done by the Brian Wilson Chamber Group.
-- Roni Sarig
With the wretched Wilson Phillips, Carnie and Wendy Wilson -- along with childhood chum Chynna Phillips -- cashed in on a fleeting pop moment. At the dawn of this decade, progeny rock managed to unite proud baby boomers (who vicariously felt they had raised these pampered superstar offspring) with confused teens, whose resistance had been lowered by too many Roxette videos. Along with the mannequin-pretty boys of Nelson, Wilson Phillips dented the airwaves with songs so generic they sounded as if they had been written by market researchers. The masses quickly came to their senses, however, and Wilson Phillips's second album died a quick death. Nowadays the fruit of superstar loins (e.g., Jakob Dylan) are expected to pay a few dues and maybe even write a decent song or two.