Subscribe
Home Blog Page 1164

The Hunted

Uncut
-
0

William Friedkin's thriller casts Benicio Del Toro as a Special Forces killing machine running amok and Tommy Lee Jones as the man who trained him and now has to bring him in. Hokum, basically, but the knife fights are the best since David Carradine and James Remar went at each other with some gusto in The Long Riders.

William Friedkin’s thriller casts Benicio Del Toro as a Special Forces killing machine running amok and Tommy Lee Jones as the man who trained him and now has to bring him in. Hokum, basically, but the knife fights are the best since David Carradine and James Remar went at each other with some gusto in The Long Riders.

The Pink Panther Collection

Uncut
-
0

Six slightly funny films emerged from the Inspector Clouseau franchise through the '60s and '70s: they're not as hilarious as you recall. Peter Sellers is always looking for the humorous nugget, but pratfalls and silly accents do not make comedy gold. The Return Of... and ...Strikes Again are the high spots of the sextet. Nothing outshines Mancini's sexy theme tune.

Six slightly funny films emerged from the Inspector Clouseau franchise through the ’60s and ’70s: they’re not as hilarious as you recall. Peter Sellers is always looking for the humorous nugget, but pratfalls and silly accents do not make comedy gold. The Return Of… and …Strikes Again are the high spots of the sextet. Nothing outshines Mancini’s sexy theme tune.

Dire Straights

Uncut
-
0
Who'd have thought after the debacle of Velvet Goldmine that Todd Haynes' next film would be as clever, meaningful and powerfully resonant as this masterpiece of stylised social commentary? In the 1950s, the expatriate German director Douglas Sirk directed a series of Hollywood films that at the ti...

Who’d have thought after the debacle of Velvet Goldmine that Todd Haynes’ next film would be as clever, meaningful and powerfully resonant as this masterpiece of stylised social commentary?

In the 1950s, the expatriate German director Douglas Sirk directed a series of Hollywood films that at the time were sniffily known as “women’s pictures”, which only later were recognised as brilliantly crafted satires, as sharply observed as novels like Revolutionary Road, Richard Yates’ classic dissection of the Eisenhower years. Haynes here appropriates Sirk’s uniquely melodramatic template?the heightened emotions, the ravishing colour schemes, soaring music?and subverts the form further than Sirk would’ve dared. The result is a riveting expos

Hulk

Uncut
-
0

A film of two halves and dual tones, director Ang Lee extrapolates from Stan Lee's original Marvel comic book Hulk both the dark angst of scientist Bruce Banner and the fluorescent fury of the eponymous monster. So, depending on your taste, you'll either prefer the hi-tech CGI set-pieces, or the low-rent monochrome drama of Nick Nolte and Eric Bana hamming/Hamlet-ing it up as the id-unleashing father and son.

A film of two halves and dual tones, director Ang Lee extrapolates from Stan Lee’s original Marvel comic book Hulk both the dark angst of scientist Bruce Banner and the fluorescent fury of the eponymous monster. So, depending on your taste, you’ll either prefer the hi-tech CGI set-pieces, or the low-rent monochrome drama of Nick Nolte and Eric Bana hamming/Hamlet-ing it up as the id-unleashing father and son.

Bruce Almighty

Uncut
-
0

If Jim Carrey was suddenly declared God, what would he do? That's the premise, and only the easy, obvious routes are taken. But, as he did in Liar Liar, Carrey makes them funny even if you're determined he won't. Thus he enlarges Jennifer Aniston's breasts and you guffaw like a goon because the man is a comedy giant: you want him to fall on his ass, he does, you laugh again.

If Jim Carrey was suddenly declared God, what would he do? That’s the premise, and only the easy, obvious routes are taken. But, as he did in Liar Liar, Carrey makes them funny even if you’re determined he won’t. Thus he enlarges Jennifer Aniston’s breasts and you guffaw like a goon because the man is a comedy giant: you want him to fall on his ass, he does, you laugh again.

The Fifth Element—Special Edition

Uncut
-
0

Nothing dates faster than camp, and here The Fifth Element (aka David LaChappelle does Blade Runner), barely six years old, is already fraying around its fluorescent edges. The plot is nonsensical (Gary Oldman's Zorg aiding giant ball of evil etc), the model work is ropey, and the production design very Munchkinland. Thankfully, Bruce Willis' taciturn hero and Milla Jovovich's super-femme still hold firm at the heart.

Nothing dates faster than camp, and here The Fifth Element (aka David LaChappelle does Blade Runner), barely six years old, is already fraying around its fluorescent edges. The plot is nonsensical (Gary Oldman’s Zorg aiding giant ball of evil etc), the model work is ropey, and the production design very Munchkinland. Thankfully, Bruce Willis’ taciturn hero and Milla Jovovich’s super-femme still hold firm at the heart.

Terror Firma

Uncut
-
0

Almost 40 years after its initial award-winning release, Gillo Pontecorvo's The Battle Of Algiers is still searing with political urgency. Paying meticulous attention to the rules of neo-realism (street-shooting, non-professional actors etc), Pontecorvo films the 1954-62 Algerian Revolution as a punishing hand-held documentary. There are some minor characters here, including Nation Liberation Front leader Ali La Pointe (Brahim Haggiag) and icy French Lieutenant Colonel Mathieu (Jean Martin), but the movie's protagonists are the populace of Algiers?depicted as odious coffee-sipping French colonials (boooh!) or righteous Arab revolutionaries (hurrah!). Lauded, bizarrely, for his alleged 'objectivity,' Pontecorvo ingeniously deploys everything from an emotive Ennio Morricone score to repeated scenes of French brutality in order to highlight the plight of disenfranchised Arabs and to, gasp, politicise 'acts of terror.' A thrilling film, shocking and often unsubtle, it's also an eerily prescient snapshot of 21st-century global politics.

Almost 40 years after its initial award-winning release, Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle Of Algiers is still searing with political urgency. Paying meticulous attention to the rules of neo-realism (street-shooting, non-professional actors etc), Pontecorvo films the 1954-62 Algerian Revolution as a punishing hand-held documentary. There are some minor characters here, including Nation Liberation Front leader Ali La Pointe (Brahim Haggiag) and icy French Lieutenant Colonel Mathieu (Jean Martin), but the movie’s protagonists are the populace of Algiers?depicted as odious coffee-sipping French colonials (boooh!) or righteous Arab revolutionaries (hurrah!). Lauded, bizarrely, for his alleged ‘objectivity,’ Pontecorvo ingeniously deploys everything from an emotive Ennio Morricone score to repeated scenes of French brutality in order to highlight the plight of disenfranchised Arabs and to, gasp, politicise ‘acts of terror.’ A thrilling film, shocking and often unsubtle, it’s also an eerily prescient snapshot of 21st-century global politics.

Shack – Shepherd’s Bush Empire, London

Uncut
-
0

There are few bands, it seems, as disaster-prone as Shack. Ravaged by narcotics, crippled by debt (the sleevenotes to their third album HMS Fable infamously thanked Cash Converters) and nearly torpedoed by missing master tapes and missed opportunities, this Liverpool outfit clearly monopolise the anti-Midas touch. Matters were not helped three years ago when London Records pulled the contractual plug as well. Miraculously, however, this is one armour denting that has proved hugely beneficial. London's expensively piloted HMS Fable (1999), while boasting a clutch of tremendous songs, over-egged Shack into clunky, bad Oasis territory. Frequent comparisons with Arthur Lee?Shack were briefly his backing band in the mid-'90s?seemed slightly fanciful. But all that's changed with their low-key fourth album, Here's Tom With The Weather. Reunited with Helen Caddick, who furnished their The Magical World Of The Strands with lush serenity, the Head bros have rediscovered their lulling qualities. It hasn't gone unnoticed, either. Every morsel from Here's Tom With The Weather is eagerly snapped up at tonight's Uncut-supported show. "As Long As I've Got You", that album's burbling opener, sets the hallucinatory tone. Redolent of Simon & Garfunkel wearing trainers, its bouncing lullaby immediately shows the Mersey new breed how to do cosmic scouse. Liverpool's maritime atmospherics can be heard from The Bunnymen to The La's to The Coral. But nobody quite captures that salt air melancholy as potently as Shack?and they demonstrate this perfectly on "The Girl With The Long Brown Hair". Shack are dewy-eyed romantics and, judging by tonight, so are their audience, who are as unobtrusive as the skeletal rustle and low-key intensity of much of the band's material. At the same time, Shack's grasp of pile-driving, Lovestyle crescendos can be surprisingly forceful. On "Meant To Be", the velocity of swashbuckling drums and mariachi trumpets is so frenetic it provokes booming applause mid-song. Still, it's not always so sublime. Despite a spooky Eastern motif, "Soldier Man" is a trudge and the barrel-chested anthemics of "Pull Together" are as incongruous as they are unconvincing. But these are minor criticisms. For the most part, Shack's hazy, psychedelic folk resounds with luminous splendour. Liberated from grand expectations and no longer hostage to misfortune, Shack's considerable talent can finally blossom. The hunched stroll into Cash Converters may soon be over.

There are few bands, it seems, as disaster-prone as Shack. Ravaged by narcotics, crippled by debt (the sleevenotes to their third album HMS Fable infamously thanked Cash Converters) and nearly torpedoed by missing master tapes and missed opportunities, this Liverpool outfit clearly monopolise the anti-Midas touch. Matters were not helped three years ago when London Records pulled the contractual plug as well. Miraculously, however, this is one armour denting that has proved hugely beneficial.

London’s expensively piloted HMS Fable (1999), while boasting a clutch of tremendous songs, over-egged Shack into clunky, bad Oasis territory. Frequent comparisons with Arthur Lee?Shack were briefly his backing band in the mid-’90s?seemed slightly fanciful. But all that’s changed with their low-key fourth album, Here’s Tom With The Weather. Reunited with Helen Caddick, who furnished their The Magical World Of The Strands with lush serenity, the Head bros have rediscovered their lulling qualities.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed, either. Every morsel from Here’s Tom With The Weather is eagerly snapped up at tonight’s Uncut-supported show. “As Long As I’ve Got You”, that album’s burbling opener, sets the hallucinatory tone. Redolent of Simon & Garfunkel wearing trainers, its bouncing lullaby immediately shows the Mersey new breed how to do cosmic scouse. Liverpool’s maritime atmospherics can be heard from The Bunnymen to The La’s to The Coral. But nobody quite captures that salt air melancholy as potently as Shack?and they demonstrate this perfectly on “The Girl With The Long Brown Hair”.

Shack are dewy-eyed romantics and, judging by tonight, so are their audience, who are as unobtrusive as the skeletal rustle and low-key intensity of much of the band’s material. At the same time, Shack’s grasp of pile-driving, Lovestyle crescendos can be surprisingly forceful. On “Meant To Be”, the velocity of swashbuckling drums and mariachi trumpets is so frenetic it provokes booming applause mid-song. Still, it’s not always so sublime. Despite a spooky Eastern motif, “Soldier Man” is a trudge and the barrel-chested anthemics of “Pull Together” are as incongruous as they are unconvincing.

But these are minor criticisms. For the most part, Shack’s hazy, psychedelic folk resounds with luminous splendour. Liberated from grand expectations and no longer hostage to misfortune, Shack’s considerable talent can finally blossom. The hunched stroll into Cash Converters may soon be over.

Mayhem. Period

Uncut
-
0

The Cramps THE ASTORIA, LONDON Saturday September 27, 2003 A legendary band. A fantastic set ("Garbageman", "Human Fly", you name it). But let's cut to the chase here and talk about the last 10 minutes. Probably the most insane 10 minutes Uncut has ever witnessed at any gig, ever. The song is The Trashmen's "Surfin' Bird". Five seconds in and the mosh-pit is a slam-dancer's paradise of eyepoking chicken-elbows, but it's what happens on stage that matters. Lux Interior, still lanky, ghoulish and determined to "fuck this place up" after all these years, crawls like a dog on all fours towards his wife, Cramps guitarist "Poison Ivy" Rorschach. He writhes between her legs, unzips one of her boots and drapes it over his face. The song has already descended into a psychotic maelstrom of primeval rock'n'roll excess as Lux rises to his feet again and clambers beyond the confines of the stage, mounting one of the main PA stacks. It's here that he slithers his PVC trousers down. Then bares his arsehole. A blink of an eye and he's vaulted back down, swallowing the mic and gargling like a rabid hell-hound. He takes a manly slug from a bottle of red wine, then smashes it, taking a shard of glass and razoring away at his trousers until all that's left is bare legs and a modest makeshift latex jockstrap. He sidles back over to Ivy, grabs at her curly auburn locks and removes a hairpiece which he dons himself as the music swells louder, ever more ballistic. Next thing, Lux has climbed up the stage rear and tries to dismantle the luminous "Cramps" logo which starts to swing violently. He lobs his mic-stand, now bent in half like a hairpin, into the drum kit, taking half the cymbals with it. Then a hand slips down his crotch. First a fiddle. Followed by a tug. Then he's stood there for all the world to see. Trousers in ribbons. In a red curly wig. Wailing like a banshee. And yanking at his penis. And that's how it ended, bar the sound of a few thousand jaws clunking to the floor. Ladies and gentlemen, that was The Cramps. And that's entertainment!

The Cramps

THE ASTORIA, LONDON

Saturday September 27, 2003

A legendary band. A fantastic set (“Garbageman”, “Human Fly”, you name it). But let’s cut to the chase here and talk about the last 10 minutes. Probably the most insane 10 minutes Uncut has ever witnessed at any gig, ever.

The song is The Trashmen’s “Surfin’ Bird”. Five seconds in and the mosh-pit is a slam-dancer’s paradise of eyepoking chicken-elbows, but it’s what happens on stage that matters. Lux Interior, still lanky, ghoulish and determined to “fuck this place up” after all these years, crawls like a dog on all fours towards his wife, Cramps guitarist “Poison Ivy” Rorschach. He writhes between her legs, unzips one of her boots and drapes it over his face. The song has already descended into a psychotic maelstrom of primeval rock’n’roll excess as Lux rises to his feet again and clambers beyond the confines of the stage, mounting one of the main PA stacks. It’s here that he slithers his PVC trousers down. Then bares his arsehole.

A blink of an eye and he’s vaulted back down, swallowing the mic and gargling like a rabid hell-hound. He takes a manly slug from a bottle of red wine, then smashes it, taking a shard of glass and razoring away at his trousers until all that’s left is bare legs and a modest makeshift latex jockstrap. He sidles back over to Ivy, grabs at her curly auburn locks and removes a hairpiece which he dons himself as the music swells louder, ever more ballistic.

Next thing, Lux has climbed up the stage rear and tries to dismantle the luminous “Cramps” logo which starts to swing violently. He lobs his mic-stand, now bent in half like a hairpin, into the drum kit, taking half the cymbals with it. Then a hand slips down his crotch. First a fiddle. Followed by a tug. Then he’s stood there for all the world to see. Trousers in ribbons. In a red curly wig. Wailing like a banshee. And yanking at his penis.

And that’s how it ended, bar the sound of a few thousand jaws clunking to the floor. Ladies and gentlemen, that was The Cramps. And that’s entertainment!

Shoot For The Stars

Uncut
-
0

Jane's Addiction COLUMBIAHALLE, BERLIN Tuesday October 7, 2003 The weather turns bad just as soon as our plane lands, sullen black clouds rolling out across gunmetal skies, and by the time Uncut reaches the Columbiahalle, it's raining something Biblical. We find the venue on the outskirts of town, halfway down a long boulevard lined with an endless parade of stern-looking federal buildings. The Columbiahalle appears to be little more than a glorified school hall, smiling staff wandering around selling pretzels out of huge wicker baskets. Someone thinks it's a good idea to turn the house lights up full between bands, which does a fine job of massacring the atmosphere. It isn't very rock'n'roll. As if in response to this, the support band, New York's The Star Spangles, kick up a ferocious racket, racing through their Ramones-inspired pop-punk with what sounds like a bad case of amphetamine psychosis, everything haring by at breakneck pace. Jane's Addiction are dressed sombrely, lot of blacks, khaki and muted yellows. We're half expecting Perry Farrell to be dressed to the nines, sporting some outlandish work of haute couture?instead he slinks on stage in a nondescript parka, the only flash of colour a purple scarf, swiftly dispensed with. It's been 13 years since Jane's last toured, nearly that long since the band collapsed, burned out by bad drugs, fractious internal relationships, arrests and nasty rumours concerning Farrell's health. It was a disappointing end to an unusual five-year run. The widescreen cosmic rock of 1988's Nothing's Shocking and 1990's Ritual De Lo Habitual, channelled through Farrell's glammed-up junkie poet chic and Dave Navarro's thundering guitar riffs, put them up there with Sonic Youth and the Pixies at the forefront of what some might call the alternative rock explosion. The first time I saw them live was in west London's Subterania in August 1990. The hottest day of the year, condensation pouring from the ceiling and a bare-chested, dreadlocked Farrell launching into lengthy, semi-coherent rants about George Bush, the CIA and the Gulf War like a bedraggled, half-mad prophet of doom. It was, you might guess, quite some show, and with their passing a little bit of colour seemed to leach from the world. Now, here we are with Jane's Addiction circa 2003, Farrell, Navarro and drummer Stephen Perkins joined by former session bassist Chris Chaney, out touring new album Strays, the first new material from the band since 1997's odds-and-sods compilation Kettle Whistle. While Strays was a fine comeback, Jane's have always worked best on stage?Navarro's terror storm of noise can strip the enamel from your teeth and Farrell's mesmerising presence, his unpredictable flights of freewheeling fancy, are best witnessed in the flesh. So they open with the psychedelic prick-tease of "Up The Beach" before slamming head first into the propulsive "Stop!". "True Nature" sounds like a thunderstorm, "Been Caught Stealing" struts and spits, alley-cat feral. "Three Days" is way out there, a little piece of the apocalypse, Navarro whipping up a hellstorm, Perkins' voodoo drumming tight while a stick-thin Farrell preens and sashays round the stage, a crazed poet warrior with an alien voice and eyes as big as oceans. New songs?the acoustic swoon of "Everybody's Friend", the greasy riffs of "Just Because"?sit snugly next to old classics. "Ted Just Admit It" is hideously oppressive, Navarro's guitar squealing like an animal being slaughtered, Farrell shrieking "sex is violent" over and over like the last lunatic left in Bedlam. And on it goes. What you remember, watching Jane's Addiction for the first time in well over a decade, is how quite unlike any other band they are. The flamboyant Farrell is unique, while it's incredible how the muscular Navarro can always manage to make it sound like he's playing 50 guitars and not just the one. The sense of timing, too, is superb?songs careering along, suddenly slamming to a standstill, a pause, then off again at full throttle. After a thundering version of "Coming Down The Mountain", they close with a heartbreaking take on "Jane Says", Perkins' bongos light as a summer breeze, Navarro's rolling acoustic chords and Farrell leading the crowd through a mournful chorus of "I'm gonna kick tomorrow!". A pleasure to have them back.

Jane’s Addiction

COLUMBIAHALLE, BERLIN

Tuesday October 7, 2003

The weather turns bad just as soon as our plane lands, sullen black clouds rolling out across gunmetal skies, and by the time Uncut reaches the Columbiahalle, it’s raining something Biblical. We find the venue on the outskirts of town, halfway down a long boulevard lined with an endless parade of stern-looking federal buildings. The Columbiahalle appears to be little more than a glorified school hall, smiling staff wandering around selling pretzels out of huge wicker baskets. Someone thinks it’s a good idea to turn the house lights up full between bands, which does a fine job of massacring the atmosphere. It isn’t very rock’n’roll.

As if in response to this, the support band, New York’s The Star Spangles, kick up a ferocious racket, racing through their Ramones-inspired pop-punk with what sounds like a bad case of amphetamine psychosis, everything haring by at breakneck pace.

Jane’s Addiction are dressed sombrely, lot of blacks, khaki and muted yellows. We’re half expecting Perry Farrell to be dressed to the nines, sporting some outlandish work of haute couture?instead he slinks on stage in a nondescript parka, the only flash of colour a purple scarf, swiftly dispensed with.

It’s been 13 years since Jane’s last toured, nearly that long since the band collapsed, burned out by bad drugs, fractious internal relationships, arrests and nasty rumours concerning Farrell’s health. It was a disappointing end to an unusual five-year run. The widescreen cosmic rock of 1988’s Nothing’s Shocking and 1990’s Ritual De Lo Habitual, channelled through Farrell’s glammed-up junkie poet chic and Dave Navarro’s thundering guitar riffs, put them up there with Sonic Youth and the Pixies at the forefront of what some might call the alternative rock explosion. The first time I saw them live was in west London’s Subterania in August 1990. The hottest day of the year, condensation pouring from the ceiling and a bare-chested, dreadlocked Farrell launching into lengthy, semi-coherent rants about George Bush, the CIA and the Gulf War like a bedraggled, half-mad prophet of doom. It was, you might guess, quite some show, and with their passing a little bit of colour seemed to leach from the world.

Now, here we are with Jane’s Addiction circa 2003, Farrell, Navarro and drummer Stephen Perkins joined by former session bassist Chris Chaney, out touring new album Strays, the first new material from the band since 1997’s odds-and-sods compilation Kettle Whistle. While Strays was a fine comeback, Jane’s have always worked best on stage?Navarro’s terror storm of noise can strip the enamel from your teeth and Farrell’s mesmerising presence, his unpredictable flights of freewheeling fancy, are best witnessed in the flesh. So they open with the psychedelic prick-tease of “Up The Beach” before slamming head first into the propulsive “Stop!”. “True Nature” sounds like a thunderstorm, “Been Caught Stealing” struts and spits, alley-cat feral. “Three Days” is way out there, a little piece of the apocalypse, Navarro whipping up a hellstorm, Perkins’ voodoo drumming tight while a stick-thin Farrell preens and sashays round the stage, a crazed poet warrior with an alien voice and eyes as big as oceans. New songs?the acoustic swoon of “Everybody’s Friend”, the greasy riffs of “Just Because”?sit snugly next to old classics. “Ted Just Admit It” is hideously oppressive, Navarro’s guitar squealing like an animal being slaughtered, Farrell shrieking “sex is violent” over and over like the last lunatic left in Bedlam. And on it goes.

What you remember, watching Jane’s Addiction for the first time in well over a decade, is how quite unlike any other band they are. The flamboyant Farrell is unique, while it’s incredible how the muscular Navarro can always manage to make it sound like he’s playing 50 guitars and not just the one. The sense of timing, too, is superb?songs careering along, suddenly slamming to a standstill, a pause, then off again at full throttle. After a thundering version of “Coming Down The Mountain”, they close with a heartbreaking take on “Jane Says”, Perkins’ bongos light as a summer breeze, Navarro’s rolling acoustic chords and Farrell leading the crowd through a mournful chorus of “I’m gonna kick tomorrow!”.

A pleasure to have them back.

Wilshire – New Universe

Uncut
-
0

Anyone who bought into The Thrills' debut will surely love Wilshire. Both are in thrall to the summery vibe of classic West Coast pop and both travelled to California to live out their musical dreams. Micah and Lori Wilshire and the five-piece that takes their name had less far to go than the Dubliners, making the trek from Tennessee. But both records share a love of jangling guitars, live drums and feel-the-melodic-sunshine melodies. There are differences, namely the female vocals and the smooth pop arrangements (particularly lovely are the achingly beautiful strings by Paul Buckmaster on "In Your Arms" and "Tonight"). Think of The Thrills trying to sound like Fleetwood Mac and you've got the idea.

Anyone who bought into The Thrills’ debut will surely love Wilshire. Both are in thrall to the summery vibe of classic West Coast pop and both travelled to California to live out their musical dreams. Micah and Lori Wilshire and the five-piece that takes their name had less far to go than the Dubliners, making the trek from Tennessee. But both records share a love of jangling guitars, live drums and feel-the-melodic-sunshine melodies. There are differences, namely the female vocals and the smooth pop arrangements (particularly lovely are the achingly beautiful strings by Paul Buckmaster on “In Your Arms” and “Tonight”). Think of The Thrills trying to sound like Fleetwood Mac and you’ve got the idea.

Chicks On Speed – 99 Cents

Uncut
-
0

Sometimes it's best to ignore the politico-art agenda and just crank up the volume. Berlin uber-hipsters Chicks On Speed first launched themselves as a 'fake band' at the Munich Art Academy in 1997, but are now clearly in it for real, as their third album attests. Guests Peaches (on "We Don't Play Guitars"), android-voiced rapper Miss Kittin ("Shick Shaving") and erstwhile Tom Tom Clubber Tina Weymouth (on a cover of their epochal "Wordy Rapping Hood") join the electro-rock party, which is most engaging on the krautrocking "Shooting From The Hip" and the disco-driven title track. "Sell-Out" and "Culture Vulture", however, sag under the weight of self-awareness, indicating that Chicks On Speed are best when playing it superficial rather than serious.

Sometimes it’s best to ignore the politico-art agenda and just crank up the volume. Berlin uber-hipsters Chicks On Speed first launched themselves as a ‘fake band’ at the Munich Art Academy in 1997, but are now clearly in it for real, as their third album attests. Guests Peaches (on “We Don’t Play Guitars”), android-voiced rapper Miss Kittin (“Shick Shaving”) and erstwhile Tom Tom Clubber Tina Weymouth (on a cover of their epochal “Wordy Rapping Hood”) join the electro-rock party, which is most engaging on the krautrocking “Shooting From The Hip” and the disco-driven title track. “Sell-Out” and “Culture Vulture”, however, sag under the weight of self-awareness, indicating that Chicks On Speed are best when playing it superficial rather than serious.

Uncut
-
0

Don't hate 'em for the hype: Brooklyn's Stellastarr* (you have to love that annoying asterisk... er, don't you?) have hewn a debut of cutting style and often purple passion. Their jagged stomps are a blatant cross between prime Pixies (right down to bassist Amanda Tannen's Kim Deal impressions on backing vocals) and Hot Hot Heat on a good night, but the motherlode's so cool that you let it blast by. "In The Walls" is compellingly sultry, then "Jenny", a storming she's-weird-but-irresistible rock moment, assaults both solar plexus and cerebellum. Straight outta art school, and wearing their quotations proudly, their stealthy, staccato rhythms stalk it like they talk it. Deviant, brainy re:teen angst, slightly arrogant, and they kick ass despite themselves. What's not to love?

Don’t hate ’em for the hype: Brooklyn’s Stellastarr* (you have to love that annoying asterisk… er, don’t you?) have hewn a debut of cutting style and often purple passion. Their jagged stomps are a blatant cross between prime Pixies (right down to bassist Amanda Tannen’s Kim Deal impressions on backing vocals) and Hot Hot Heat on a good night, but the motherlode’s so cool that you let it blast by.

“In The Walls” is compellingly sultry, then “Jenny”, a storming she’s-weird-but-irresistible rock moment, assaults both solar plexus and cerebellum. Straight outta art school, and wearing their quotations proudly, their stealthy, staccato rhythms stalk it like they talk it. Deviant, brainy re:teen angst, slightly arrogant, and they kick ass despite themselves. What’s not to love?

Little Annie & The Legally Jammin’

Uncut
-
0

Beginning her career as an alumnus of anarcho-punk institution Crass, Annie made her solo debut with the splintered, electro-torch songs of Jackamo in 1987. Seven years later (and a major deal come and gone with only a single to show for it in the interim), she made a fantastic, witty album of dub storytelling and heartwrenching ballads with Adrian Sherwood. A worldly-wise survivor of much more than just the usual addictions, she's managed to maintain her deadpan humour (think of her as a sexually liberated, post-punk Dorothy Parker) despite the personal shitstorm she's weathered in the last nine years. Here, over sparse, haunted glitch-dub her garnet-hued purr dispenses bittersweet reminiscence in languid, smoky melodies: sharp, sleek and deliciously wicked.

Beginning her career as an alumnus of anarcho-punk institution Crass, Annie made her solo debut with the splintered, electro-torch songs of Jackamo in 1987. Seven years later (and a major deal come and gone with only a single to show for it in the interim), she made a fantastic, witty album of dub storytelling and heartwrenching ballads with Adrian Sherwood. A worldly-wise survivor of much more than just the usual addictions, she’s managed to maintain her deadpan humour (think of her as a sexually liberated, post-punk Dorothy Parker) despite the personal shitstorm she’s weathered in the last nine years. Here, over sparse, haunted glitch-dub her garnet-hued purr dispenses bittersweet reminiscence in languid, smoky melodies: sharp, sleek and deliciously wicked.

Julie Delpy

Uncut
-
0

Records by singing actresses have a mixed pedigree?see Fifth Element star Milla Jovovich's two albums?and boutique European label Les Disques du Crepuscule have released more than most. The debut from French starlet Julie Delpy (Before Sunrise, the Three Colours trilogy, Godard's epochal Detective) looks mainly to America for its inspiration?notably Jeff Buckley and the more reflective side of Neil Young. For the most part this is fragile, late-night fare, although "She Don't Care" dares to rock out, and "Lame Love" serves up some tidy flute and banjo action. Delpy writes all the material here and is a competent vocalist, but for the most part the songs lack focus, and this, combined with an imperfect grasp of English, means that one track called "Something A Bit Vague" just about sums up the whole exercise.

Records by singing actresses have a mixed pedigree?see Fifth Element star Milla Jovovich’s two albums?and boutique European label Les Disques du Crepuscule have released more than most. The debut from French starlet Julie Delpy (Before Sunrise, the Three Colours trilogy, Godard’s epochal Detective) looks mainly to America for its inspiration?notably Jeff Buckley and the more reflective side of Neil Young. For the most part this is fragile, late-night fare, although “She Don’t Care” dares to rock out, and “Lame Love” serves up some tidy flute and banjo action. Delpy writes all the material here and is a competent vocalist, but for the most part the songs lack focus, and this, combined with an imperfect grasp of English, means that one track called “Something A Bit Vague” just about sums up the whole exercise.

The AM

Uncut
-
0

Since, remarkably, it's been six years since his friend Jeff Buckley drowned, you might rightly presume Tighe (who sings and writes the bulk of The AM's songs) has had some (for want of a less American word) issues to work out. Co-author of "So Real" (from Grace) and "Moodswing Whiskey" (from the live Mystery White Boy), here Tighe explores his Prince, Bolan and Television influences: terse, clipped funk and rattling glam/new wave/psychedelia that's sometimes (as on "Utopia") reminiscent of much-missed operatic art-punks Shudder To Think on a budget. An odd, involving record; a showcase trove of marvellously inventive guitar noise with moments of surprising intimacy: The AM deserves both a more spendy production/remix and a life beyond the shadow of its makers' history.

Since, remarkably, it’s been six years since his friend Jeff Buckley drowned, you might rightly presume Tighe (who sings and writes the bulk of The AM’s songs) has had some (for want of a less American word) issues to work out.

Co-author of “So Real” (from Grace) and “Moodswing Whiskey” (from the live Mystery White Boy), here Tighe explores his Prince, Bolan and Television influences: terse, clipped funk and rattling glam/new wave/psychedelia that’s sometimes (as on “Utopia”) reminiscent of much-missed operatic art-punks Shudder To Think on a budget. An odd, involving record; a showcase trove of marvellously inventive guitar noise with moments of surprising intimacy: The AM deserves both a more spendy production/remix and a life beyond the shadow of its makers’ history.

This Month In Americana

Uncut
-
0

Thirteen years on from TBOBR's last record (Sage Advice), leader Howe Gelb continues to spike "new fashion western with that old fashion hardcore". An outlet for the country pickings denied them within Giant Sand, Gelb and guitarist Rainer Ptacek formed Blacky Ranchette in 1983, along with drummer Tom Larkin. With the latter succumbing to brain cancer in '97, TBOBR seemed to have faded too. Gelb, however, had other plans. Still Lookin' Good To Me was recorded ad hoc in cars, studios, hallways. Yet despite boasting cameos from Lambchop's Kurt Wagner, Neko Case, Calexico, Jason (Grandaddy) Lytle, M. Ward, Richard Buckner and Chan (Cat Power) Marshall, this is quintessential Howe: loose, slippery, surreal, invariably beautiful. His philosophy?as gleaned from Gram Parsons?is to "make music you crave but isn't available in the shops", and this is another self-stitched patchwork of thrift-store sorts. Mumbling opener "The Train Singer's Song" is the tale of a man reborn after digging himself a shallow grave beneath the railroad ties, set to minimal percussion and sleepy guitar, while "Getting It Made" compounds Neko Case's reputation as the best country warbler since Patsy Cline, and "The Muss Of Paradise" is hilarious for the interruption of a Tennessee State Trooper, urging a guitar-toting Gelb and behind-the-wheel Kurt Wagner to move on. Joyful stuff, and lyrical proof that Gelb continues tripping way off the beatnik path.

Thirteen years on from TBOBR’s last record (Sage Advice), leader Howe Gelb continues to spike “new fashion western with that old fashion hardcore”. An outlet for the country pickings denied them within Giant Sand, Gelb and guitarist Rainer Ptacek formed Blacky Ranchette in 1983, along with drummer Tom Larkin. With the latter succumbing to brain cancer in ’97, TBOBR seemed to have faded too. Gelb, however, had other plans. Still Lookin’ Good To Me was recorded ad hoc in cars, studios, hallways. Yet despite boasting cameos from Lambchop’s Kurt Wagner, Neko Case, Calexico, Jason (Grandaddy) Lytle, M. Ward, Richard Buckner and Chan (Cat Power) Marshall, this is quintessential Howe: loose, slippery, surreal, invariably beautiful. His philosophy?as gleaned from Gram Parsons?is to “make music you crave but isn’t available in the shops”, and this is another self-stitched patchwork of thrift-store sorts. Mumbling opener “The Train Singer’s Song” is the tale of a man reborn after digging himself a shallow grave beneath the railroad ties, set to minimal percussion and sleepy guitar, while “Getting It Made” compounds Neko Case’s reputation as the best country warbler since Patsy Cline, and “The Muss Of Paradise” is hilarious for the interruption of a Tennessee State Trooper, urging a guitar-toting Gelb and behind-the-wheel Kurt Wagner to move on. Joyful stuff, and lyrical proof that Gelb continues tripping way off the beatnik path.

Paula Frazer – A Place Where I Know

Uncut
-
0

The gothic country of Frazer's '90s band Tarnation shared much with 16 Horsepower and The Handsome Family?a Georgia-raised pastor's daughter, the South inspired Frazer's poetry. While we await the follow-up to 2001's Indoor Universe, these four-track rarities provide ample nourishment. Some of these songs appeared on Gentle Creatures ('95) and Mirador ('97), but not this nakedly beautiful. Frazer's voice has a metallic-folk edge which, allied to mariachi guitar, floods "An Awful Shade Of Blue" and "The Hand" with harsh desert light. Yet when the Morricone sun fades, she peals with the white-soul hum of Laura Nyro.

The gothic country of Frazer’s ’90s band Tarnation shared much with 16 Horsepower and The Handsome Family?a Georgia-raised pastor’s daughter, the South inspired Frazer’s poetry. While we await the follow-up to 2001’s Indoor Universe, these four-track rarities provide ample nourishment. Some of these songs appeared on Gentle Creatures (’95) and Mirador (’97), but not this nakedly beautiful. Frazer’s voice has a metallic-folk edge which, allied to mariachi guitar, floods “An Awful Shade Of Blue” and “The Hand” with harsh desert light. Yet when the Morricone sun fades, she peals with the white-soul hum of Laura Nyro.

Divide And Rule

Uncut
-
0

The original story was that Andre Benjamin, aka Andre 3000, one half of OutKast, had recorded his own solo concept album, The Love Below, and that OutKast's other half, Antwan Patton, aka Big Boi, was so blown away by it that he determined to try and match it with his own solo album, Speakerboxxx. Other stories tell of increasing animosity in their efforts to follow up 2000's groundbreaking fusion of rap, psychedelia, P-Funk and drum'n'bass, Stankonia. What we have, then, are two solo albums yanked together for convenience under the OutKast brand by two factions whose relationship, if not actually on the rocks, is certainly strained. Hip hop's White Album, in other words. But is it? And are they any good? On one hand Big Boi's Speakerboxxx is a serviceable if average hip hop album bearing too great a debt to George Clinton. It's noticeable how the opening "Ghetto Musick", the only instance on either album where the two halves of OutKast work together, towers almost embarrassingly over the rest of the record. Even the song itself veers schizophrenically between Big Boi's Basement Jaxx-ish electroclash ("Cut me up! Don't let me down") and Andre's deeply sardonic exclamations of "Feeling good! Feeling great!" over a Patti LaBelle sample. Only in the album's later moments, like the Buggles-meets-Dick Dale of "Hip Hop Star" (featuring Jay-Z) and the doleful ballad "Reset", do things pick up. Andre 3000's The Love Below, on the other hand, has almost nothing to do with hip hop. It is an avant-soul concept album that comprises the most sublime pop music heard on record this year. The introduction finds Andre crooning tremulously over lush orchestration, which is suddenly derailed by post-Sonic Youth guitar squeals before mutating back into the Al Jarreau-meets-David Lynch lounge jazz of "Love Hater". Then Andre talks to God ("Damn, you're a girl") before slamming into the ecstatically neurotic Paisley Park funk of "Happy Valentine's Day", which in turn gives way to the fantastic "Spread"?The Magnetic Fields meet Was (Not Was). The album's most starkly beautiful track, the desperately gorgeous "Prototype", where Andre's bewildered acceptance of the possibility of love is soundtracked by Style Council guitars, is as poignant as Chic's "At Last I Am Free", soon followed by the awesome "Hey Ya!", which sees Andre going power pop with overtones of early-'80s electro; The Knack meet side one of The The's Soul Mining. From then on in, every tangent is explored: the hilarious Jeeves and Wooster skit which prefaces "Behold A Lady"; "Pink & Blue", which opens with an Aaliyah sample and threatens to turn into Throbbing Gristle's "United"; a moving tribute to Andre's mother, "She's Alive", which, with its minimalist piano and strained falsetto, is practically Radiohead; the hysterical duet with Kelis, "Dracula's Wedding" ("I wait my whole life to bite the right one"); the purring, stabbing "Vibrate"; and the concluding "A Life In The Day Of Benjamin Andre (Incomplete)", where he sends the whole album, and his life story, into a backwards loop. Whatever happens to OutKast next, these 78 minutes of wonder alone?sorry, Big Boi?prove Andre the genius and Antwan the artisan.

The original story was that Andre Benjamin, aka Andre 3000, one half of OutKast, had recorded his own solo concept album, The Love Below, and that OutKast’s other half, Antwan Patton, aka Big Boi, was so blown away by it that he determined to try and match it with his own solo album, Speakerboxxx. Other stories tell of increasing animosity in their efforts to follow up 2000’s groundbreaking fusion of rap, psychedelia, P-Funk and drum’n’bass, Stankonia. What we have, then, are two solo albums yanked together for convenience under the OutKast brand by two factions whose relationship, if not actually on the rocks, is certainly strained. Hip hop’s White Album, in other words. But is it? And are they any good?

On one hand Big Boi’s Speakerboxxx is a serviceable if average hip hop album bearing too great a debt to George Clinton. It’s noticeable how the opening “Ghetto Musick”, the only instance on either album where the two halves of OutKast work together, towers almost embarrassingly over the rest of the record. Even the song itself veers schizophrenically between Big Boi’s Basement Jaxx-ish electroclash (“Cut me up! Don’t let me down”) and Andre’s deeply sardonic exclamations of “Feeling good! Feeling great!” over a Patti LaBelle sample. Only in the album’s later moments, like the Buggles-meets-Dick Dale of “Hip Hop Star” (featuring Jay-Z) and the doleful ballad “Reset”, do things pick up.

Andre 3000’s The Love Below, on the other hand, has almost nothing to do with hip hop. It is an avant-soul concept album that comprises the most sublime pop music heard on record this year. The introduction finds Andre crooning tremulously over lush orchestration, which is suddenly derailed by post-Sonic Youth guitar squeals before mutating back into the Al Jarreau-meets-David Lynch lounge jazz of “Love Hater”. Then Andre talks to God (“Damn, you’re a girl”) before slamming into the ecstatically neurotic Paisley Park funk of “Happy Valentine’s Day”, which in turn gives way to the fantastic “Spread”?The Magnetic Fields meet Was (Not Was).

The album’s most starkly beautiful track, the desperately gorgeous “Prototype”, where Andre’s bewildered acceptance of the possibility of love is soundtracked by Style Council guitars, is as poignant as Chic’s “At Last I Am Free”, soon followed by the awesome “Hey Ya!”, which sees Andre going power pop with overtones of early-’80s electro; The Knack meet side one of The The’s Soul Mining.

From then on in, every tangent is explored: the hilarious Jeeves and Wooster skit which prefaces “Behold A Lady”; “Pink & Blue”, which opens with an Aaliyah sample and threatens to turn into Throbbing Gristle’s “United”; a moving tribute to Andre’s mother, “She’s Alive”, which, with its minimalist piano and strained falsetto, is practically Radiohead; the hysterical duet with Kelis, “Dracula’s Wedding” (“I wait my whole life to bite the right one”); the purring, stabbing “Vibrate”; and the concluding “A Life In The Day Of Benjamin Andre (Incomplete)”, where he sends the whole album, and his life story, into a backwards loop. Whatever happens to OutKast next, these 78 minutes of wonder alone?sorry, Big Boi?prove Andre the genius and Antwan the artisan.

Neil Cleary – Numbers Add Up

Uncut
-
0

Cleary's career has included drumming in psych-poppers The Essex Green, stints in The Pants and Famous Potatoes, mandolinist in contra-dance string bands and a 1997 release under the moniker Stupid Club (Made To Feel). Once resident of Austin, he now calls New York home, but sounds Tennessee in spirit. Confused? You should be, but Numbers Add Up sounds like the happy nesting of a restless muse. Tapping into a literate strain of country-folk, his mellow delivery is as easy to swallow as James Taylor's, but glows with lasting warmth. Buffeted by accordion and lap steel, the likes of "Hometown" and "Your Next Move" prove that simple is superior.

Cleary’s career has included drumming in psych-poppers The Essex Green, stints in The Pants and Famous Potatoes, mandolinist in contra-dance string bands and a 1997 release under the moniker Stupid Club (Made To Feel). Once resident of Austin, he now calls New York home, but sounds Tennessee in spirit. Confused? You should be, but Numbers Add Up sounds like the happy nesting of a restless muse. Tapping into a literate strain of country-folk, his mellow delivery is as easy to swallow as James Taylor’s, but glows with lasting warmth. Buffeted by accordion and lap steel, the likes of “Hometown” and “Your Next Move” prove that simple is superior.

1...1,1631,1641,165...1,271Page 1,164 of 1,271

SHOP UNCUT