By S. Pajot
By Laurie Charles
By Kat Bein
By S. Pajot
By Kat Bein
By S. Pajot
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Guilty: 30 Years of Randy Newman
Has there ever been an artist as politically incorrect as Randy Newman? Has there ever been a songwriter who risked so much of his reputation by singing in the voice of the unreliable narrator? Ever since 1968, when Reprise records issued Randy Newman Creates Something New Under the Sun, Newman has expanded the role of the confessional singer-songwriter. Whether he's spitting out his best Fats Domino licks at the piano or camouflaging brutal feelings with layers of sentimental Hollywood strings, Newman finds a way to give voice to the weirdos who inhabit his head. Insincere lovers whisper cliches, callous children threaten their parents, racists champion their right to speak the truth. It's all part of Randy's world.
Given that he's only recorded nine albums of studio material in the past thirty years, however, a four-disc retrospective may seem a tad overgenerous. And sure enough, the first two discs of Guilty collect most of the highlights. The third disc consists of the requisite studio outtakes, demos, and live tracks; the fourth spotlights Newman's foray into movie soundtracks.
Despite his claims to the contrary in his amusingly droll liner notes, Newman's best works are not the soundtracks he prizes, but, rather, the brilliant story-songs from which his reputation was built. The scathing atheist anthem, "God's Song (That's Why I Love Mankind)," the ironic bombast of "Rednecks," and the clever mean-streak of "I Want You to Hurt Like I Do" all make the case for Newman as a champion satirist. This box set also rescues Newman's early single, "Golden Gridiron Boy," the blazing "Gone Dead Train," and a series of early demos ("Vine Street," "Don't Ruin Our Happy Home") that are rare and essential to the Newman fanatic.
It's the best one can hope for, until someone bribes Newman with enough cash to get him to write his autobiography.
-- Rob O'Connor
With song titles and lyrics culled from the headlines of the Weekly World News, this collaboration between an iconoclastic, innocent noise monger and an indie world critic's darling is a disappointing mixed bag of noise and delicacy, deadpan lyrics, and impromptu music. Recorded in just two days (one each in 1994 and 1996), Strange only occasionally demonstrates the airy, Velvet Underground-type sonic droning that Hoboken, New Jersey's Yo La Tengo has perfected throughout their fourteen-year career.
The record is centered on Half Japanese leader Jad Fair's straightforward reading of his brother David's lyric non sequiturs: monkeys that bowl a perfect game; three-year-old high school valedictorians; and a piano with an extra 21 keys. Unfortunately the spontaneous nature of the collaboration and the fact that most of the 22 songs clock in under two minutes keep it from gelling into something that sounds like a fully formed record. Instead, Strange sounds like talented people goofing off.
When Fair is given a solid musical backdrop to play off (without the distracting noise of Half Japanese or the simpleness of his solo work), the bizarre stories are entertaining novelty sketches, but they never quite make it as developed songs. The ideas don't appear to be fleshed out; Fair's mostly spoken vocals are suited to the song topics, but they often seem dropped on top of the music as an afterthought. They are subpar for an adventurous band like Yo La Tengo, in part because they were basically unrehearsed jams and first takes. Once the humor of the stories wears off, there's little left to enjoy.
The rare highlights come when Yo La Tengo take center stage and Fair is reined in a bit. The jazzy, acoustic guitar and brushed drums of "Retired Grocer Constructs Tiny Mount Rushmore Entirely of Cheese," combined with Fair's clipped cadence, give the song a beatnik feel, a cohesiveness that's lacking elsewhere. "National Sports Association Hires Retired English Professor to Name New Wrestling Holds" has lazy beats and tremoloed guitar licks as good as Yo La's grooviest work. The rhythm section of bass player James McNew and drummer Georgia Hubley forms a solid base of simplicity on this slow burner and guitarist Ira Kaplan bounces off them, weaving and wagging his strings. "Car Gears Stuck in Reverse, Daring Driver Crosses Town Backwards" is compact and stuttering; McNew plays a high melody over tambourine accentuated drums, with Kaplan's guitar repeating the same chord for the entirety of the song. More tunes like these -- that is, finished tunes -- would have been welcome.
Buffalo Tom members Bill Janovitz (guitar/vocals), Chris Colbourn (bass/vocals), and Tom Maginnis (drums) cut their teeth in the late-Eighties Boston scene where bands such as The Pixies, Dinosaur Jr., Throwing Muses, and Sebadoh first flourished. The trio embraced the same paradoxes as their peers, matching understated lyrics with sonic majesty, and an intense spirit with a detached persona.
The band's 1991 hit "Taillights Fade," from the album Let Me Come Over, introduced Buffalo Tom to a national audience. As the band began to carve out a recording career for themselves, their sound became more diverse, opening a dark crevice between the complicated humanity of the Dylan/Springsteen tradition and the slacker rock of their East Coast youth. These conflicting influences yielded both the pristine pop of 1993's Big Red Letter Day and the straightforward rock of 1995's Sleepy-Eyed.
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