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K-19: The Widowmaker

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Kathryn Bigelow's Cross Of Iron, basically, with Harrison Ford's Soviet submariners the embattled equivalent of James Coburn's Wehrmacht platoon, both groups of men fighting for their lives in films that perhaps unsurprisingly failed to make a huge impression at the box office. Terrific in parts, with imperious turns from Ford and Liam Neeson, Bigelow handles the action stuff brilliantly though comes close to mawkishness in a tear-stained coda.

Kathryn Bigelow’s Cross Of Iron, basically, with Harrison Ford’s Soviet submariners the embattled equivalent of James Coburn’s Wehrmacht platoon, both groups of men fighting for their lives in films that perhaps unsurprisingly failed to make a huge impression at the box office. Terrific in parts, with imperious turns from Ford and Liam Neeson, Bigelow handles the action stuff brilliantly though comes close to mawkishness in a tear-stained coda.

Scarlet Diva

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Commendably lurid directorial debut from Asia Argento?international soft-porn horror princess and Vin Diesel's way-cool goth-vamp co-star in xXx. Dario's daughter not only writes and directs but also stars as a thinlyveiled version of herself, shagging and fighting her way through a sinister, male-dominated, sex-driven film business. Demented, narcissistic, monstrously self-indulgent?all the qualities, in fact, of the very best cult cinema.

Commendably lurid directorial debut from Asia Argento?international soft-porn horror princess and Vin Diesel’s way-cool goth-vamp co-star in xXx. Dario’s daughter not only writes and directs but also stars as a thinlyveiled version of herself, shagging and fighting her way through a sinister, male-dominated, sex-driven film business. Demented, narcissistic, monstrously self-indulgent?all the qualities, in fact, of the very best cult cinema.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

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George Stevens' Biblical epic is sometimes sluggish and often po-faced, but it's never less than fascinating. A political film-maker and a great chronicler of national identity (see Shane, Giant, A Place In The Sun), Stevens consistently swamps the New Testament in blatant Americana, letting Charlton Heston, John Wayne, and the massive crags and buttes of Utah boldly reinvent Jesus, and Israel, for the American century.

George Stevens’ Biblical epic is sometimes sluggish and often po-faced, but it’s never less than fascinating. A political film-maker and a great chronicler of national identity (see Shane, Giant, A Place In The Sun), Stevens consistently swamps the New Testament in blatant Americana, letting Charlton Heston, John Wayne, and the massive crags and buttes of Utah boldly reinvent Jesus, and Israel, for the American century.

Kristin Fundamentalism

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Throwing Muses THE ASTORIA, LONDON THURSDAY MARCH 20, 2003 Anyone who thinks Throwing Muses are a forgotten force would have been converted by the mob scenes tonight. Not to mention crushed. Sardines live in penthouse suites compared to this, and the venue's bouncers are, naturally, taking their stress out on us evil, irrelevant punters. Sometimes you just want to see one of the great bands of the last 20 years play a rare reunion gig without wannabe John Prescotts killing the mood. I mean, this isn't Linkin Park. Then again... The Muses are heavy shit tonight. Not just in their usual sense of deep and pained and meaningful, but in that they're rocking loudly, abrasively, sometimes sludgily, often ecstatically. With just the three of them up there, there's little in the way of spectacle, but plenty in the way of focused, undiluted, pinpoint power. They're still perhaps perceived by outsiders as angular, arthouse, poetry-reading girl rock, but the second half of their career was neo-metal, and tonight they've pretty much neglected to bother with that "neo" prefix. David Narcizo's drums and Bernard Georges' bass combine to sound like half a dozen musicians, and Kristin Hersh's output on both voice and guitar is matched for obsessive intricacy only by her customary head-bobbing (and weaving) motions. Staring out at us from, as ever, somewhere unfathomably deep within her soul, she's taking this seriously. Backstage she's all smiles and baby-rearing (her fourth, Bohdi, is in attendance), but that unaffected, uncompromising on-stage persona tells you why Muses fans tend to be devoted die-hards. Their zeal is partly responsible for this one-off comeback show. There are rumours it'll be the Muses' last UK gig, but afterwards the word is they might be persuaded to make festival appearances this year. This particular Frenzy Reunited came about after activity on the band's website?www.throwingmusic.com?reached a critical mass, long after the group disbanded for financial reasons in '97. Despite Hersh's family commitments and, of course, solo career (also, drummer Narcizo now runs a successful graphic design company), the trio were impressed by the fact that fans had initiated two huge conventions for the defunct band?in Boston and San Francisco?to be named The Gut Pageant. Instead of running a mile from these infatuated geeks, the band elected to play at the events. Their success led to the new, hastily recorded album, and shows like this. "We were all still in love with the songs, and with each other," Hersh has said. How far it'll go remains to be seen, but the guys stress they're just taking time out from their day jobs, and Hersh's new solo album, The Grotto, is of equal importance to her. The set draws on the later, post-Tanya Donelly material, taken chiefly from the last few of the eight albums. (Donelly contributes backing vocals on the new LP, but isn't here). "Furious" from Red Heaven opens, "Shark" from Limbo chases that. University sends envoys in the skewed shapes of "Start", "Hazing" and "Bright Yellow Gun". The bulk of the brouhaha comes from the ferociously full-blast, recently released eponymous opus, with "Civil Disobedience", "Pretty Or Not" and "Pandora's Box" among the highlights. Only at the end do we get the nostalgia some of us admit to craving, as "Two Step" from '91's The Real Ramona hovers and glows. As an encore, the multi-stranded "Mania" never fails to move mountain ranges, or to induce the most lyrically complex mass sing-along imaginable. It's as hot and crowded as it is inside our heads, as their songs invariably are. Everybody's Hersh sometimes. This isn't quite a eulogy, but the Muses were/are as rare and startling as a unicorn.

Throwing Muses

THE ASTORIA, LONDON

THURSDAY MARCH 20, 2003

Anyone who thinks Throwing Muses are a forgotten force would have been converted by the mob scenes tonight. Not to mention crushed. Sardines live in penthouse suites compared to this, and the venue’s bouncers are, naturally, taking their stress out on us evil, irrelevant punters. Sometimes you just want to see one of the great bands of the last 20 years play a rare reunion gig without wannabe John Prescotts killing the mood. I mean, this isn’t Linkin Park.

Then again… The Muses are heavy shit tonight. Not just in their usual sense of deep and pained and meaningful, but in that they’re rocking loudly, abrasively, sometimes sludgily, often ecstatically. With just the three of them up there, there’s little in the way of spectacle, but plenty in the way of focused, undiluted, pinpoint power. They’re still perhaps perceived by outsiders as angular, arthouse, poetry-reading girl rock, but the second half of their career was neo-metal, and tonight they’ve pretty much neglected to bother with that “neo” prefix. David Narcizo’s drums and Bernard Georges’ bass combine to sound like half a dozen musicians, and Kristin Hersh’s output on both voice and guitar is matched for obsessive intricacy only by her customary head-bobbing (and weaving) motions. Staring out at us from, as ever, somewhere unfathomably deep within her soul, she’s taking this seriously.

Backstage she’s all smiles and baby-rearing (her fourth, Bohdi, is in attendance), but that unaffected, uncompromising on-stage persona tells you why Muses fans tend to be devoted die-hards. Their zeal is partly responsible for this one-off comeback show. There are rumours it’ll be the Muses’ last UK gig, but afterwards the word is they might be persuaded to make festival appearances this year.

This particular Frenzy Reunited came about after activity on the band’s website?www.throwingmusic.com?reached a critical mass, long after the group disbanded for financial reasons in ’97. Despite Hersh’s family commitments and, of course, solo career (also, drummer Narcizo now runs a successful graphic design company), the trio were impressed by the fact that fans had initiated two huge conventions for the defunct band?in Boston and San Francisco?to be named The Gut Pageant. Instead of running a mile from these infatuated geeks, the band elected to play at the events. Their success led to the new, hastily recorded album, and shows like this. “We were all still in love with the songs, and with each other,” Hersh has said. How far it’ll go remains to be seen, but the guys stress they’re just taking time out from their day jobs, and Hersh’s new solo album, The Grotto, is of equal importance to her.

The set draws on the later, post-Tanya Donelly material, taken chiefly from the last few of the eight albums. (Donelly contributes backing vocals on the new LP, but isn’t here). “Furious” from Red Heaven opens, “Shark” from Limbo chases that. University sends envoys in the skewed shapes of “Start”, “Hazing” and “Bright Yellow Gun”. The bulk of the brouhaha comes from the ferociously full-blast, recently released eponymous opus, with “Civil Disobedience”, “Pretty Or Not” and “Pandora’s Box” among the highlights. Only at the end do we get the nostalgia some of us admit to craving, as “Two Step” from ’91’s The Real Ramona hovers and glows. As an encore, the multi-stranded “Mania” never fails to move mountain ranges, or to induce the most lyrically complex mass sing-along imaginable.

It’s as hot and crowded as it is inside our heads, as their songs invariably are. Everybody’s Hersh sometimes. This isn’t quite a eulogy, but the Muses were/are as rare and startling as a unicorn.

Mael Bonding

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Sparks ROYAL FESTIVAL HALL, LONDON FRIDAY MARCH 21, 2003 If geeks had their own political party, they'd probably be able to organise their conferences around the same time and place as the next Sparks gig, thus ensuring a 100 per cent attendance. That's how London's Festival Hall feels tonight, anyway. Sparks fans make your average Trekkie look like Elvis?that's young Elvis, of course: although even old, fat, shit Elvis wouldn't look so bad beside a myopic thirty something in a lurid "Lights Out Ibiza" T-shirt. They're the geekiest of geeks, bless 'em, but this?Salvador Dali goes pop?is their rock'n'roll. It's only been six months since the brothers Mael were last here in this same venue. Back then, in October 2002, their latest album?Lil' Beethoven?wasn't yet in the shops, so their decision to premiere it in its entirety with an accompanying visual feast of slide projections and minor costume changes, was bold to say the least. Consequently, that performance had a nervous, audacious energy about it that tonight's virtual repeat can't quite match, even if it's a similarly wacky spectacle; Ron's entry with 10-foot arm extensions for "How Do I Get To Carnegie Hall?", Russell's leapfrogging between four different microphones during "My Baby's Taking Me Home", and those same vivid projections. Yet for all Lil' Beethoven's cleverness, it's the second half of the show?when Sparks play The Hits and the geeks get to dance their pants off?that counts. From the first throb of "The Number One Song In Heaven", bodies and bad hair-dos of all shapes and sizes are a-bouncing, hands clapping above their heads "Radio Ga-Ga"-style to every metronomic beat. You could almost forget Sparks were ever a 'rock' band since this, ducky, is pure 21st-century gay disco. Even the once sombre "Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth" gets a hi-energy megamix makeover. Ron is doing his old "don't look at me, I'm just a stuffed Hitler" routine of deadpan nonchalance. Russell is running on the spot like the happiest man on the planet. Just a pity it sounds horrible. The geeks don't care, though. They're going bananas anyway so?ach!?when in Rome, eh? Here comes the opening cartoon gunshot of their ever magnificent glam-operetta "This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us". And it's fantastic. Who but a real geek wouldn't be cool enough to be going bananas with them?

Sparks

ROYAL FESTIVAL HALL, LONDON

FRIDAY MARCH 21, 2003

If geeks had their own political party, they’d probably be able to organise their conferences around the same time and place as the next Sparks gig, thus ensuring a 100 per cent attendance. That’s how London’s Festival Hall feels tonight, anyway. Sparks fans make your average Trekkie look like Elvis?that’s young Elvis, of course: although even old, fat, shit Elvis wouldn’t look so bad beside a myopic thirty something in a lurid “Lights Out Ibiza” T-shirt. They’re the geekiest of geeks, bless ’em, but this?Salvador Dali goes pop?is their rock’n’roll.

It’s only been six months since the brothers Mael were last here in this same venue. Back then, in October 2002, their latest album?Lil’ Beethoven?wasn’t yet in the shops, so their decision to premiere it in its entirety with an accompanying visual feast of slide projections and minor costume changes, was bold to say the least. Consequently, that performance had a nervous, audacious energy about it that tonight’s virtual repeat can’t quite match, even if it’s a similarly wacky spectacle; Ron’s entry with 10-foot arm extensions for “How Do I Get To Carnegie Hall?”, Russell’s leapfrogging between four different microphones during “My Baby’s Taking Me Home”, and those same vivid projections.

Yet for all Lil’ Beethoven’s cleverness, it’s the second half of the show?when Sparks play The Hits and the geeks get to dance their pants off?that counts. From the first throb of “The Number One Song In Heaven”, bodies and bad hair-dos of all shapes and sizes are a-bouncing, hands clapping above their heads “Radio Ga-Ga”-style to every metronomic beat. You could almost forget Sparks were ever a ‘rock’ band since this, ducky, is pure 21st-century gay disco. Even the once sombre “Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth” gets a hi-energy megamix makeover. Ron is doing his old “don’t look at me, I’m just a stuffed Hitler” routine of deadpan nonchalance. Russell is running on the spot like the happiest man on the planet. Just a pity it sounds horrible.

The geeks don’t care, though. They’re going bananas anyway so?ach!?when in Rome, eh? Here comes the opening cartoon gunshot of their ever magnificent glam-operetta “This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The Both Of Us”. And it’s fantastic. Who but a real geek wouldn’t be cool enough to be going bananas with them?

The Waco Brothers – The Borderline, London

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What it means to be in a rock band, or have a career, seems to have melted and fused into something older and freer for Jon Langford. The Welsh leader of original Leeds punks The Mekons lives in Chicago these days, and plays with The Waco Brothers, The Sadies and The Pine Valley Cosmonauts too. The Mekons' dissident ethos, defined by Greil Marcus as songs starting "from the premise that the singer is oppressed by everything that is empowered", suits the honky tonk blue-collar world he's adopted with his new bands, and which The Mekons moved into with 1985's raw-boned Fear And Whiskey. And, with all his different guises, Langford now seems to be in something more subversive, honest and hard to spoil than a rock act; a string of loosely linked musical activist cells so small that the empowered can't even find them, let alone crush them. The less po-faced reason for Langford's continued relevance is his stated desire for his most regular current outfit, The Waco Brothers, to be the most extreme hard country band in the world, with bars as their natural home. That's surely why the Borderline's basement is soon packed so full of fans (middle-aged men, mostly) that there's no room to do anything but stand. Stood in ranks, still and shadowy when the lights go down, they look like a frozen, forgotten punk army. And when The Waco Brothers follow turns from The Sadies and Mekon Sally Timms, the clouds of the real war in the Gulf soon inevitably rise to envelop us all. "Blink Of An Eye", from current Waco LP New Deal, is a rowdy, Poguesy strum, slashed by electric guitars, but its power tonight is in its chorus, evoking a president who's "just half a man, riding in some giant's hand", who will, they demand, be "gone, gone, gone, GONE, gone in the blink of an eye". Timms then returns, in the loose spirit of things, for the wistful "Seminole Wind", before "AFC Song" states the night's primal purpose?"Alcohol, freedom and a country song". Then a man whose vision of riot rock The Mekons renounced early on is fittingly invited to join us. Langford enquires, "What would Joe Strummer have said?"?about everything happening in the world now, you think?then launches joyously into "I Fought the Law". The song's spirit of unbowed, outgunned defeat suits the men on stage as they strum and strut their mix of rock'n'roll's old elements, of rockabilly's beat and country's steel twang, and swing their guitars at the ceiling, happy in their work. Beneath the bullshit corporations have heaped on it, this simple social pleasure is what the Wacos know rock'n'roll is for.

What it means to be in a rock band, or have a career, seems to have melted and fused into something older and freer for Jon Langford. The Welsh leader of original Leeds punks The Mekons lives in Chicago these days, and plays with The Waco Brothers, The Sadies and The Pine Valley Cosmonauts too. The Mekons’ dissident ethos, defined by Greil Marcus as songs starting “from the premise that the singer is oppressed by everything that is empowered”, suits the honky tonk blue-collar world he’s adopted with his new bands, and which The Mekons moved into with 1985’s raw-boned Fear And Whiskey. And, with all his different guises, Langford now seems to be in something more subversive, honest and hard to spoil than a rock act; a string of loosely linked musical activist cells so small that the empowered can’t even find them, let alone crush them.

The less po-faced reason for Langford’s continued relevance is his stated desire for his most regular current outfit, The Waco Brothers, to be the most extreme hard country band in the world, with bars as their natural home. That’s surely why the Borderline’s basement is soon packed so full of fans (middle-aged men, mostly) that there’s no room to do anything but stand. Stood in ranks, still and shadowy when the lights go down, they look like a frozen, forgotten punk army. And when The Waco Brothers follow turns from The Sadies and Mekon Sally Timms, the clouds of the real war in the Gulf soon inevitably rise to envelop us all. “Blink Of An Eye”, from current Waco LP New Deal, is a rowdy, Poguesy strum, slashed by electric guitars, but its power tonight is in its chorus, evoking a president who’s “just half a man, riding in some giant’s hand”, who will, they demand, be “gone, gone, gone, GONE, gone in the blink of an eye”.

Timms then returns, in the loose spirit of things, for the wistful “Seminole Wind”, before “AFC Song” states the night’s primal purpose?”Alcohol, freedom and a country song”. Then a man whose vision of riot rock The Mekons renounced early on is fittingly invited to join us. Langford enquires, “What would Joe Strummer have said?”?about everything happening in the world now, you think?then launches joyously into “I Fought the Law”. The song’s spirit of unbowed, outgunned defeat suits the men on stage as they strum and strut their mix of rock’n’roll’s old elements, of rockabilly’s beat and country’s steel twang, and swing their guitars at the ceiling, happy in their work. Beneath the bullshit corporations have heaped on it, this simple social pleasure is what the Wacos know rock’n’roll is for.

Spirit – Blues From The Soul

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Following last year's Sea Dream set, the Randy California estate delivers a companion slab of bluesy home studio tunes, embellished with the occasional moment of poppier light relief. Utilising the last Spirit line-up-Ed Cassidy, Matt Andes, Steve Loria and Scott Monohan?California's good-natured takes on "Kansas City" and "The Letter" slip beside his Delta obsessions, exemplified on "You're Gonna Need Somebody On Your Bond", and the cosmic Maui jams that became his stock once major label backing disappeared.

Following last year’s Sea Dream set, the Randy California estate delivers a companion slab of bluesy home studio tunes, embellished with the occasional moment of poppier light relief. Utilising the last Spirit line-up-Ed Cassidy, Matt Andes, Steve Loria and Scott Monohan?California’s good-natured takes on “Kansas City” and “The Letter” slip beside his Delta obsessions, exemplified on “You’re Gonna Need Somebody On Your Bond”, and the cosmic Maui jams that became his stock once major label backing disappeared.

Blackstreet – Level 2

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Blackstreet's new jack swing anthem "No Diggity" was cool, witty, and one of the slinkiest hits of recent years. Their new album is all about what they're gonna do to your sweet titties and pink-lycra-clad asses, and is so patently wrong in so many ways that it exhibits a peculiar strain of genius. This, fused with several pop-tastic retreads of The Commodores' "Brick House" vibe, means it's guilty as sin and just as much fun. The band (riddled with new boys) are puppets of producer Teddy Riley; guests include Erick Sermon and, on single "Wizzy Wow", Mystikal. You have to like the way they work it.

Blackstreet’s new jack swing anthem “No Diggity” was cool, witty, and one of the slinkiest hits of recent years. Their new album is all about what they’re gonna do to your sweet titties and pink-lycra-clad asses, and is so patently wrong in so many ways that it exhibits a peculiar strain of genius. This, fused with several pop-tastic retreads of The Commodores’ “Brick House” vibe, means it’s guilty as sin and just as much fun.

The band (riddled with new boys) are puppets of producer Teddy Riley; guests include Erick Sermon and, on single “Wizzy Wow”, Mystikal. You have to like the way they work it.

The Postal Service – Give Up

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Jimmy Tamborello's collaborations with other artists on Life Is Full Of Possibilities-his debut album recorded as Dntel?never lived up to the promise of his solo tracks, which makes it doubly rewarding that his new project in conjunction with Death Cab For Cutie's Ben Gibbard is such a resounding success. Gibbard's refined, feather-light vocals waft delicately over Tamborello's indie electronica (with nods toward Prefab Sprout and The Human League), creating a wide-eyed world out of bittersweet love songs and autobiographical daydreams.

Jimmy Tamborello’s collaborations with other artists on Life Is Full Of Possibilities-his debut album recorded as Dntel?never lived up to the promise of his solo tracks, which makes it doubly rewarding that his new project in conjunction with Death Cab For Cutie’s Ben Gibbard is such a resounding success. Gibbard’s refined, feather-light vocals waft delicately over Tamborello’s indie electronica (with nods toward Prefab Sprout and The Human League), creating a wide-eyed world out of bittersweet love songs and autobiographical daydreams.

Fine Arts Militia Feat. Chuck D – We Are Gathered Here

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The Oliver Stone of rap, Chuck D has gradually softened his incendiary rhetoric and murderously complex conspiracy theories in recent Public Enemy work. But he uses this collaborative project, which foregrounds the rap veteran's spoken-word sideline, to sharpen his lyrical and verbal dexterity once more. Over a sometimes pedestrian but always solid backing of funk, hard rock, jazz and even calypso, Chuck holds forth on subjects like September 11, the difference between rap and hip hop, and the need to educate yourself. Some of it is high-octane waffle, but much is also funny and humane. Wrapped in a warm, organic, boho coffee-bar feel akin to Michael Franti's Spearhead project, Fine Arts Militia make party music with brains.

The Oliver Stone of rap, Chuck D has gradually softened his incendiary rhetoric and murderously complex conspiracy theories in recent Public Enemy work. But he uses this collaborative project, which foregrounds the rap veteran’s spoken-word sideline, to sharpen his lyrical and verbal dexterity once more. Over a sometimes pedestrian but always solid backing of funk, hard rock, jazz and even calypso, Chuck holds forth on subjects like September 11, the difference between rap and hip hop, and the need to educate yourself. Some of it is high-octane waffle, but much is also funny and humane. Wrapped in a warm, organic, boho coffee-bar feel akin to Michael Franti’s Spearhead project, Fine Arts Militia make party music with brains.

Abigail Hopkins – Smile Road

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You can ask Julian Lennon or Ziggy Marley about the curse of a famous surname. But at least Abigail Hopkins has the advantage of working in a different field from her old man. You'd be forgiven for expecting a fey, acoustic singer-songwriter record. But Hopkins turns out to be a much feistier figure...

You can ask Julian Lennon or Ziggy Marley about the curse of a famous surname. But at least Abigail Hopkins has the advantage of working in a different field from her old man. You’d be forgiven for expecting a fey, acoustic singer-songwriter record. But Hopkins turns out to be a much feistier figure whose role models are Tom Waits and Bj

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Since 1999's Stephen Street-produced debut The Magic Treehouse, Dan Popplewell's Ooberman have zigzagged an erratic course: from band-most-likely-to to label castaways and back. If 2001's Running Girl mini LP was a timely reminder of talent, Hey Petrunko! sees them return to full(ish) bloom. Subtle, painterly pop, this is meticulously crafted exotica awash with strings, piano and tremolo guitars. It's occasionally overcooked, but there's no denying the dazzling vision of "Open The Hatch" (an astronaut's fruitless search for God) or the cinematic perfection of "Where Did I Go Wrong?" Sophia Churney's voice?like lavender permeating through woodsmoke?is a joy throughout.

Since 1999’s Stephen Street-produced debut The Magic Treehouse, Dan Popplewell’s Ooberman have zigzagged an erratic course: from band-most-likely-to to label castaways and back. If 2001’s Running Girl mini LP was a timely reminder of talent, Hey Petrunko! sees them return to full(ish) bloom. Subtle, painterly pop, this is meticulously crafted exotica awash with strings, piano and tremolo guitars. It’s occasionally overcooked, but there’s no denying the dazzling vision of “Open The Hatch” (an astronaut’s fruitless search for God) or the cinematic perfection of “Where Did I Go Wrong?” Sophia Churney’s voice?like lavender permeating through woodsmoke?is a joy throughout.

Bob Log III – Log Bomb

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A one-man band of drums, shit-hot slide guitar and vocals, Bog Log III makes the same kind of minimalist blues racket as Jack and Meg or Jon Spencer. The difference, though, is that most of Log's material is a redneck celebration of tits and whisky (combining the two on the perverse "Boob Scotch"?oh, use your imagination!). Sounds smutty? It is, but don't let that deter you from what remains an exhilarating showcase for a wildly gifted blues-guitar maverick.

A one-man band of drums, shit-hot slide guitar and vocals, Bog Log III makes the same kind of minimalist blues racket as Jack and Meg or Jon Spencer. The difference, though, is that most of Log’s material is a redneck celebration of tits and whisky (combining the two on the perverse “Boob Scotch”?oh, use your imagination!). Sounds smutty? It is, but don’t let that deter you from what remains an exhilarating showcase for a wildly gifted blues-guitar maverick.

This Month In Americana

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Along with the most devilish 'tache since Terry-Thomas, NoahJohn singer-songwriter Carl Gustav Johns owns one of the most wiped-out voices in modern American music. Since its first somnambulistic entry on 1999's Tadpoles through 2001's superb Had A Burning, and now Water Hymns, its impact is drawn less from singular strength and more from its relationship to musical surroundings. Where both the rustic, semi-nostalgic Tadpoles and the more aggressively raucous Had A Burning used Johns' delivery for contrast, Water Hymns is the first to fully assimilate singer and song into one impressionistic whole. Its trump card is a use of strings (namely Eena Ballard's viola and Terminal 4 guest-star Fred Lonberg-Holm's cello) as mood-setting lead instruments, alongside Johns' and Stephen Burke's needly guitars. Recorded one steaming Chicago day in July 2001, this record oozes doped summer heat from every pore, from the creepy hush of "They Will Call" to narcoleptic closer "Rabbit Reprise". In between, moments of sublime country, splintered rock and near-gospel bleed through the haze. There are at least a couple of toe-tappers-the quasi-hillbilly reel of "Two Members" and freight-train chug of "First Communion"-but it's Johns' vivid conjuring of universal experience via small-town claustrophobia that's impossible to shake. The latter, for instance (described by its author as a kind of hicksville Graduate), delivers both sin and salvation through its protagonist "knee deep in the creek with Arlene", while "Promise Breakers" explores private faith while wedged inside a stadium of 60,000 fellow Christians. Most movingly, "Ballad Of William Roy". is a wake for Johns' cousin, drowned off the South Carolina coast in 2000.

Along with the most devilish ‘tache since Terry-Thomas, NoahJohn singer-songwriter Carl Gustav Johns owns one of the most wiped-out voices in modern American music. Since its first somnambulistic entry on 1999’s Tadpoles through 2001’s superb Had A Burning, and now Water Hymns, its impact is drawn less from singular strength and more from its relationship to musical surroundings. Where both the rustic, semi-nostalgic Tadpoles and the more aggressively raucous Had A Burning used Johns’ delivery for contrast, Water Hymns is the first to fully assimilate singer and song into one impressionistic whole. Its trump card is a use of strings (namely Eena Ballard’s viola and Terminal 4 guest-star Fred Lonberg-Holm’s cello) as mood-setting lead instruments, alongside Johns’ and Stephen Burke’s needly guitars.

Recorded one steaming Chicago day in July 2001, this record oozes doped summer heat from every pore, from the creepy hush of “They Will Call” to narcoleptic closer “Rabbit Reprise”. In between, moments of sublime country, splintered rock and near-gospel bleed through the haze. There are at least a couple of toe-tappers-the quasi-hillbilly reel of “Two Members” and freight-train chug of “First Communion”-but it’s Johns’ vivid conjuring of universal experience via small-town claustrophobia that’s impossible to shake. The latter, for instance (described by its author as a kind of hicksville Graduate), delivers both sin and salvation through its protagonist “knee deep in the creek with Arlene”, while “Promise Breakers” explores private faith while wedged inside a stadium of 60,000 fellow Christians. Most movingly, “Ballad Of William Roy”. is a wake for Johns’ cousin, drowned off the South Carolina coast in 2000.

M. Ward – Transfiguration Of Vincent

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After the early patronage of Howe Gelb, Oregon's Matt Ward dished up 2001's End Of Amnesia, one of the most breathtaking albums of recent years. Transfiguration...is another masterclass in deft guitar picking, smudged with piano, harmonica and a voice like honey drizzled onto a dry creekbed. The behind-a-screen-door quality of production adds to the strangeness, while the likes of "Undertaker" often stop, start, scuff around then veer off at a tangent. Somewhere between a Gelb bothering to finish off songs and The Band at their most bucolic. And look out for the unlikeliest version of Bowie's "Let's Dance" you'll ever hear.

After the early patronage of Howe Gelb, Oregon’s Matt Ward dished up 2001’s End Of Amnesia, one of the most breathtaking albums of recent years. Transfiguration…is another masterclass in deft guitar picking, smudged with piano, harmonica and a voice like honey drizzled onto a dry creekbed. The behind-a-screen-door quality of production adds to the strangeness, while the likes of “Undertaker” often stop, start, scuff around then veer off at a tangent. Somewhere between a Gelb bothering to finish off songs and The Band at their most bucolic. And look out for the unlikeliest version of Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” you’ll ever hear.

The Sadies – Stories Often Told

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After the largely unheralded triumph of 2001's Tremendous Efforts, Toronto brothers Dallas and Travis Good-along with Sean Dean and sometime Pernice Brother, Mike Belitsky-serve up their finest yet. With Blue Rodeo's Greg Keelor replacing old producer Steve Albini, their trademark mix of Sergio Leone twitch, surf, cowpunk and desert-rock is cushioned with Lee Hazlewood-like ballads ("Oak Ridges", "The Story's Often Told"), fat horns ("Mile Over Mecca") and spooky duets (Dallas and mother Margaret's "A Steep Climb"), without compromising intensity. Meanwhile, the Cramps-flogging-Highway 61 fireball of "Tiger Tiger" is further proof they're the best roots-rollers since early Blasters.

After the largely unheralded triumph of 2001’s Tremendous Efforts, Toronto brothers Dallas and Travis Good-along with Sean Dean and sometime Pernice Brother, Mike Belitsky-serve up their finest yet. With Blue Rodeo’s Greg Keelor replacing old producer Steve Albini, their trademark mix of Sergio Leone twitch, surf, cowpunk and desert-rock is cushioned with Lee Hazlewood-like ballads (“Oak Ridges”, “The Story’s Often Told”), fat horns (“Mile Over Mecca”) and spooky duets (Dallas and mother Margaret’s “A Steep Climb”), without compromising intensity. Meanwhile, the Cramps-flogging-Highway 61 fireball of “Tiger Tiger” is further proof they’re the best roots-rollers since early Blasters.

Forever Changing

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2000's music witnessed Madonna successfully, if belatedly, absorbing the sound of French house with the help of Gallic sound scientist Mirwais Ahmadzai. William Orbit also came along for the ride, still hanging on after the successful career resurrection of 1998's Ray Of Light. This time around, Orbit has been kicked to the kerb and Mirwais is her Madgesty's sole collaborator, resulting in a more coherent album-more coherent, that is, because everything on American Life sounds unhinged even by today's avant-mainstream standards set by The Neptunes, Dr Dre, Timbaland et al. Mirwais has been given carte blanche to create a fizzy, brightly-coloured poptopia for his mistress' voice. The title track opens with disorientating FX-swoops and bleeps that do to one's hearing what American TV does to one's vision, which is appropriate as the song casts a critical eye over an unjust USA which still values beauty, might and privilege above humanity. Madonna smartly summarises the paradoxical allure and repulsiveness of the American Dream, her declaration that "this type of modern life is not for me" clashing with the later admission that it's the "best thing I've ever seen". Hardly Noam Chomsky, but not bad for a million-selling celebrity goddess. "Hollywood" reduces the perplexity of the American Life to a single question?"How could it hurt you when it looks so good?"?and reintroduces the jangling West Coast psychedelia first evinced on 1999's "Beautiful Stranger". What seemed a throwaway movie tie-in at the time (Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me) actually presaged a stylistic shift to come, the results of which are scattered all over this album. Hardly a track goes by without some subtle form of six-string assistance, as on the Garbage-y "I'm So Stupid" and the quietly introspective "The Process". It wouldn't be wildly inappropriate to identify American Life as an early 21st-century update of Love's Forever Changes, effecting as it does a similarly eerie ambivalence with its fusion of mind-altering sonics and mellow acoustics. This may be the truest Madonna LP since 1992's Erotica. Her vocals are more relaxed when backed by Mirwais, and if she leans a little heavily on the Vocoder at times, at least the sub-operatics encouraged by Orbit are absent. That voice comes into its own on the ballads. "Love Profusion" and "Nothing Fails" are beautiful low-key cyber-lullabies. She negotiates these winding melodies with enough grace to make you forget she's singing about Guy Ritchie. Whatever one thinks of her extra-curricular activities, La Ciccone can never be accused of skimping on the pop music side of things. We may be left-idly dreaming of Felix Da Housecat or Aphex Twin team-ups, of ventures into electroclash or nu R&B, but then, if she did all we wished, she wouldn't be Madonna-more or less in tune with, but ultimately distanced from, the mythical cutting edge.

2000’s music witnessed Madonna successfully, if belatedly, absorbing the sound of French house with the help of Gallic sound scientist Mirwais Ahmadzai. William Orbit also came along for the ride, still hanging on after the successful career resurrection of 1998’s Ray Of Light.

This time around, Orbit has been kicked to the kerb and Mirwais is her Madgesty’s sole collaborator, resulting in a more coherent album-more coherent, that is, because everything on American Life sounds unhinged even by today’s avant-mainstream standards set by The Neptunes, Dr Dre, Timbaland et al. Mirwais has been given carte blanche to create a fizzy, brightly-coloured poptopia for his mistress’ voice.

The title track opens with disorientating FX-swoops and bleeps that do to one’s hearing what American TV does to one’s vision, which is appropriate as the song casts a critical eye over an unjust USA which still values beauty, might and privilege above humanity. Madonna smartly summarises the paradoxical allure and repulsiveness of the American Dream, her declaration that “this type of modern life is not for me” clashing with the later admission that it’s the “best thing I’ve ever seen”. Hardly Noam Chomsky, but not bad for a million-selling celebrity goddess. “Hollywood” reduces the perplexity of the American Life to a single question?”How could it hurt you when it looks so good?”?and reintroduces the jangling West Coast psychedelia first evinced on 1999’s “Beautiful Stranger”. What seemed a throwaway movie tie-in at the time (Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me) actually presaged a stylistic shift to come, the results of which are scattered all over this album. Hardly a track goes by without some subtle form of six-string assistance, as on the Garbage-y “I’m So Stupid” and the quietly introspective “The Process”.

It wouldn’t be wildly inappropriate to identify American Life as an early 21st-century update of Love’s Forever Changes, effecting as it does a similarly eerie ambivalence with its fusion of mind-altering sonics and mellow acoustics.

This may be the truest Madonna LP since 1992’s Erotica. Her vocals are more relaxed when backed by Mirwais, and if she leans a little heavily on the Vocoder at times, at least the sub-operatics encouraged by Orbit are absent.

That voice comes into its own on the ballads. “Love Profusion” and “Nothing Fails” are beautiful low-key cyber-lullabies. She negotiates these winding melodies with enough grace to make you forget she’s singing about Guy Ritchie. Whatever one thinks of her extra-curricular activities, La Ciccone can never be accused of skimping on the pop music side of things. We may be left-idly dreaming of Felix Da Housecat or Aphex Twin team-ups, of ventures into electroclash or nu R&B, but then, if she did all we wished, she wouldn’t be Madonna-more or less in tune with, but ultimately distanced from, the mythical cutting edge.

Marilyn Manson – The Golden Age Of Grotesque

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According to the sainted Manson this his fifth album, is heavily influenced by Weimar cabaret. It's hard to see how, frankly, given that The Golden Age Of Grotesque seems to be his regular m...

According to the sainted Manson this his fifth album, is heavily influenced by Weimar cabaret. It’s hard to see how, frankly, given that The Golden Age Of Grotesque seems to be his regular m

Momus – Oskar Tennis Champion

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This album could be retitled Kid A Meets Hanns Eisler And Ivor Cutler In Glitch Conference. Momus has enterprisingly employed young Michigan-based "reproducer" John Talaga to remix and generally mangle these 15 songs. This avant-laptop input helps Momus achieve his most purposeful work in some time....

This album could be retitled Kid A Meets Hanns Eisler And Ivor Cutler In Glitch Conference. Momus has enterprisingly employed young Michigan-based “reproducer” John Talaga to remix and generally mangle these 15 songs. This avant-laptop input helps Momus achieve his most purposeful work in some time.

The “cabaret concr

The Bangles – Doll Revolution

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Credit Atomic Kitten for one thing?their version of "Eternal Flame" is partially responsible for this Valley High reunion. Susanna Hoffs' acting career (with her mum) is a thing of the past, so the chief Bangle has motivated her crew to come up with an assured, if airbrushed, female power pop disc that's loaded with tooth-kind melodies: "Stealing Rosemary" and "Single By Choice" are instant brain worms. Whether demand for the Bangles' cute Cali cool exists today is open to debate. Hurrah for big hair, anyway.

Credit Atomic Kitten for one thing?their version of “Eternal Flame” is partially responsible for this Valley High reunion. Susanna Hoffs’ acting career (with her mum) is a thing of the past, so the chief Bangle has motivated her crew to come up with an assured, if airbrushed, female power pop disc that’s loaded with tooth-kind melodies: “Stealing Rosemary” and “Single By Choice” are instant brain worms. Whether demand for the Bangles’ cute Cali cool exists today is open to debate. Hurrah for big hair, anyway.

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