Nothing good comes from the hermit lifestyle

I spent my freshman year in my room. Eating greasy sandwiches from the downstairs cafeteria, getting fat and smoking cigarettes. When my roommate was around, I stared at him suspiciously as if the whip were about to come down. I had virtually no contact with the outside world, and it stayed that way, right through classes, through the weekends and until I finally withered away in paranoia and stomach cramps.\nI can't really remember anything specifically about this period of my life, besides watching lots of television and yelling at my roommate when he failed to bring me home dinner. Suffice it to say, my first stint at Indiana University was a short one. The holes in my stomach have since healed, and I get out of the house every once in a while now to buy groceries and records.\nIn my circle of friends, the hermit life is seen as a very chivalrous thing, the ultimate sacrifice to artifice. Virtually everyone I know who fathoms himself creative believes he is disturbed or screwed in some way and must engage in some form of slow suicide, either by drug ingestion or by pure, antisocial antics.\nA fellow I know lives in a high rise in Chicago. He dropped out of art school after two years, feeling that he was misunderstood and couldn't bear the wrath of these trained artists. These days he spends his days working in a bagel joint and sitting in his flat reading Dostoevsky at night. Having a conversation with the guy now is like talking to Marlon Brando's character from "Last Tango In Paris." \nLately his e-mails have taken on a Charles Manson quality. He talks about women a lot. He believes he has a chance with the girls who pass him on the street each day because they don't seem horrified by the sight of him. Once he said he had a old girlfriend up at his place for the night. The next day, after she left, he said he couldn't get her smell out of the place so he was thinking about moving.\nIt is possible he actually believes he is the Underground Man: "I am a sick man … I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased … My liver is bad, well then -- let it get worse."\nAnother buddy of mine lives out in the woods in a small bungalow. He was once a fine musician and composer. Nowadays, he mostly watches "Cosby" and "Home Improvement" reruns. Once in a while, he'll pick up his guitar and mess around. Usually, though, he ends up playing the theme to the original Zelda.\nHe was never besieged by some enormous disappointment; he just seemed to pack it in. He takes his parents' money up his nose and must weigh around 115 pounds now. The last time I saw him, he told me, "Long ago I had stopped being surprised by anything. Pain took on dull, decaying senses. Once upon a time, I had been so upset and self-loathing that my head was ripped apart with the feeling of 1001 machetes. It may have been the best night of my life. Everything now, I see coming a mile away."\n"Heavy, man," I said. "Maybe you ought to go get yourself some McDonald's or go to a class." He just looked at me like I could not possibly understand his privatized situation. \nThe thing that is important to note about these figures is that they are not getting anything done. In their time and their own way, they once represented to me the achievement that was possible by my peers. They are now getting exponentially deeper inside themselves. Bill Clinton said on Letterman the other night, "Once you're in the hole, why keep digging?" \nI find it hard to think of any sort of creativity that comes out of this lifestyle that can be sustained over more than a short period of time. Time and time again, a good book, album, painting or personality is the direct result of overcoming the diversities of life. The key is movement -- what my friends are doing cannot be determined motion. \nSo stay home if you want to, it makes no difference to me, really. I don't like competition, and I get claustrophobic on campus. I advise you, though, not to give credence to the ideology of the tortured artist. People have been killing themselves for years; it's hackneyed and pretentious now.

Plainness plagues Adams' 'Demolition'

Ryan Adams has officially attained rock-star status. He's hanging out with Elton John, dating Winona Ryder and Bono is singing his songs on VH1. You can argue until the chickens come home to roost about whether or not he deserves the acclaim, but his talent is undeniable, no matter how nefarious his public presentation becomes.\nDemolition is a collection of demo recordings that were floating around his record company's office for the past several months. Therefore, the songs' production is kept simple, and the tracks highlight Adams' voice and acoustic guitar. The lyrical matter continues on the lovelorn themes that were displayed on his first two albums, Heartbreaker and Gold.\nThe acoustic ballads lack the lyrical presence to overstep the plainness of the music. A typical couplet like, "Two hearts fading, like a flower / And all this waiting, for the power," from "Desire," lacks the geography and personal predilection to get across a point. \nSongs like "Starting to Hurt," with its Replacements-style vocals, and "Nuclear" consolidate Adams' skills much better than other tracks since they are driven by a full-band setting. With the guitars on overdrive, Adams' voice has the push it needs to move beyond his usual stately delivery.\nDemolition is the up-and-down collection demo tapes should be. When the songs are not fleshed out by the band, the album becomes halcyon and tedious. Only when the gravel meets the dust is there the kind of rock and roll that keeps you at rapt attention, and that only happens two or three times here. \nSo far, Adams' career resembles Rod Stewart's: incredible voice, songwriting ranging from transcendent to monotonous and a passion for the roots of rock. Stewart, though, had the intelligence to cover a song when his craft failed him. Adams still remains the man for you if you find Garth Brooks a bit ungainly or haven't wised up to Gram Parsons yet. Adams' lack of progression proves that he'll probably remain like he is, at least until he moves on from marijuana, alcohol and authenticity to coke and sonics.

Beck finally gets his act together

Beck Hansen's last effort, 1999's Midnite Vultures, was a druggy mess of an album. It showed an artist in absolute limbo with his creative direction. Coming off such an anomaly, there was nowhere to go but up, and Beck went way up. Sea Change is the best album that he has ever made.\nIn the past, Beck attempted to form new lyrical theorems. It was a bold move, yet the music was never interesting enough and his lyrics lacked the goofy brilliance of Captain Beefheart (whose lyrical method Beck virtually stole). He came up with a few good, anthemic songs, but his albums always wanted direction and coherence. \nThe big surprise with Sea Change is that it is an album about "stuff." The lyrics express feelings in such an eloquent manner that it makes you wonder why he waited so long to tell us what was going on. They are nuggets of emotions from breakups, the pathos of sadness and obscure musical beauty, turning each song equally into a funeral march and an affirmation of life. \nAfter all, if one thing is true, breakups are not the end of anything physically. The saddest part of depression is the realization that you are not dying and you must consciously make the effort to move on. On the opening track, "The Golden Age," Beck sings, "Put your hands on the wheel, let the golden age begin / with the window down and the moonlight on your skin / the desert wind cool your aching head." \nThe sound of the album reflects Beck's increasing interest in contemporary country icon Gram Parsons and '70s folk artists Nick Drake and Skip Spence. Electronic sound effects, pedal-steel guitar and gorgeous string arrangements surround his voice and acoustic guitar. The strings borrow more than a little from Robert Kirby's arrangements on Drake's Five Leaves Left. The strings on Sea Change, though, take the seductive British-Indian qualities from Drake's album to an aching, American, bombastic conclusion.\nWhen such a private artist puts irrevocable personal sentiment into an album, the listener can't help but be fascinated. Sea Change is the first Beck album that you can say you hold unequivocal love for without lying.

Sleater-Kinney's newest stretches no boundaries

The band that Greil Marcus, the god of rock critics, dubbed the best band in rock and roll is back after a two-year hiatus. Sleater-Kinney has returned with its most experimental album to date. The musicians are no longer sporting the "Ramones read Newsweek" assault on the listener. Instead, One Beat is a showcase for instrumental aptitude.\nThe women try out a few different hats on their new record. The overall sound is a My Bloody Valentine-like trance and drone, and because of that, it may be the first Sleater-Kinney record that can become tiresome. On "Step Aside," a Motown-style horn section backs them, and on the riot-grrrl vamp "Prisstina," "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" composer Stephen Trask adds a dirty Casio keyboard riff.\nS-K sounds like the musicians spent hours perfecting the instrumental tracks to One Beat. Since the band's beginning it's stretched the boundaries of what punk rock can be, but the group seemed to work with a cautious ease here. The first few songs (especially the Sept. 11 cry "Far Away") lets the listener settle in with the subtle, buried melodies. The rest of the record, however, suffers from a laissez-faire approach to the band's old sound.\nDuring the period of 1996 to 1999, when Sleater-Kinney released Call the Doctor, Dig Me Out and The Hot Rock in succession, the band was reminiscent of the Rolling Stones in 1967. The musicians had an arrogant confidence that made it impossible for them to make anything but a fabulous record. In contrast, One Beat seems destined to be caught between that period and the next (if there happens to be one).\nLike rivers, formulas also run dry, and Sleater-Kinney seems deliberately aware of the inevitable. In the annals of rock and roll history, lasting artistic veneration has come in two ways: a drastic change of center (example: Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music) or by simply going away for awhile. Sleater-Kinney by no means needs to leave the scene, but perhaps One Beat just didn't go far enough.

The sum and substance of a weekend night

You set the scene: a local bar/dive, tight-clothed (underage) girls and guys who constantly look wet. Like so many nights before there was a prowl, there was a dense, wafting air of cigarettes and alcohol. This is what we have assimilated ourselves to, but I am always in the mood for assimilation of any kind. \nA group of young men, whose faces were familiar but the memories of names had been fried, stood haunched, snickering at some wisecrack. I figured I wouldn't look completely out of place in this group, so I sidestepped close and tried to look attentive and aloof at the same time, so as not to offend them or the rest of the patrons. \nThere were a couple of young ladies nearby, and I decided to converse with one. Rather, our proximity and my keen aloof look forced conversation upon us. Of course, the inevitable, ice-breaking major question came up quickly. I said mine was music, as it always is with beer and ladies. Sometimes I feel like a child molester at the bars. \nShe said hers was psychology, to which I quickly replied, "So are you like a, uh, crazy?" I was hoping to spur some conversation, but she looked offended. I was speedy to recover and told her how all psychology majors I had met were very much loose cannons or bedwetters. I said I could never understand why someone would trust these people with their secrets and problems and expect them to actually help out. I mean, these psychologists are probably just looking to justify their own strange behaviors by proving to themselves that there are people more screwed up then them.\nWell, that just didn't make anything better: her eyes darted around the room for a life preserver. She found one in a burly fellow about twice my size. She screamed a little in my ear, politely excused herself and went to wrap her arms around him. Now, I couldn't decide if I had been too obscure or too good-looking; either way, I was dissatisfied. Good-looking men can never have a woman really fall in love with them, and I was always very happy I had broken my nose when I was a boy.\nThe next conversation I found myself in was with a bald-headed, goateed Southerner. I had overheard him saying something about Jack Kerouac, and I figured this might lead somewhere. I started up the conversation by saying that lately I'd been plagued by an apocalyptic nightmare. At the end of the dream I had been upset when I found out there were many other survivors. \nUnfortunately, I had just given this guy the soap box he'd been waiting for to deliver his rhetoric. Before I could run away, he started explaining his personal philosophy that the world would be a better place if love ruled and everybody hugged. It was more than even a mild cynic could bear. I started to tell him that I couldn't understand how an obvious existentialist could swing with that notion. I told him that it truly is our prerogative to not care about other people. I'm a real democrat and an isolationist, a realist.\nHe looked equally puzzled and angry. He told me that I had it all wrong and started in on a theme and variation of his previous comments. In a brief and all-too-sparse moment of silence, I looked down at the ground and noticed he was wearing Dale Earnhardt Jr. socks. \nI spent the rest of the night ordering drinks or going to the bathroom -- anything to look busy. I wondered how a crowd of thugs and husband-seekers could invoke such violent feelings within me. I suppose that I'm searching for the same thing that these people are, and, in a way, it is hard to accept. I too want to get laid and have good drinking buddies, but perhaps it's too much to ask for good conversation as well.\nI ended up closing down the bar that night, stayed 'til I got kicked out. At the time I was ranting about sectional composition and the new Wilco album to the bartender. Can you believe that this guy from the Village Voice said he didn't know who would find Jeff Tweedy sexy? That guy's just trying to prove he's not gay -- Tweedy's got boyish charm! \nThat girl was still there, too, and she was not looking at all passive about her attraction to the guy. They headed out the door, and she was at a 45-degree angle. Maybe my old friends were right when they told me to lighten up, but I'm starting to take personal offense to my weekend nights.

The sum and substance of a weekend night

You set the scene: a local bar/dive, tight-clothed (underage) girls and guys who constantly look wet. Like so many nights before there was a prowl, there was a dense, wafting air of cigarettes and alcohol. This is what we have assimilated ourselves to, but I am always in the mood for assimilation of any kind. \nA group of young men, whose faces were familiar but the memories of names had been fried, stood haunched, snickering at some wisecrack. I figured I wouldn't look completely out of place in this group, so I sidestepped close and tried to look attentive and aloof at the same time, so as not to offend them or the rest of the patrons. \nThere were a couple of young ladies nearby, and I decided to converse with one. Rather, our proximity and my keen aloof look forced conversation upon us. Of course, the inevitable, ice-breaking major question came up quickly. I said mine was music, as it always is with beer and ladies. Sometimes I feel like a child molester at the bars. \nShe said hers was psychology, to which I quickly replied, "So are you like a, uh, crazy?" I was hoping to spur some conversation, but she looked offended. I was speedy to recover and told her how all psychology majors I had met were very much loose cannons or bedwetters. I said I could never understand why someone would trust these people with their secrets and problems and expect them to actually help out. I mean, these psychologists are probably just looking to justify their own strange behaviors by proving to themselves that there are people more screwed up then them.\nWell, that just didn't make anything better: her eyes darted around the room for a life preserver. She found one in a burly fellow about twice my size. She screamed a little in my ear, politely excused herself and went to wrap her arms around him. Now, I couldn't decide if I had been too obscure or too good-looking; either way, I was dissatisfied. Good-looking men can never have a woman really fall in love with them, and I was always very happy I had broken my nose when I was a boy.\nThe next conversation I found myself in was with a bald-headed, goateed Southerner. I had overheard him saying something about Jack Kerouac, and I figured this might lead somewhere. I started up the conversation by saying that lately I'd been plagued by an apocalyptic nightmare. At the end of the dream I had been upset when I found out there were many other survivors. \nUnfortunately, I had just given this guy the soap box he'd been waiting for to deliver his rhetoric. Before I could run away, he started explaining his personal philosophy that the world would be a better place if love ruled and everybody hugged. It was more than even a mild cynic could bear. I started to tell him that I couldn't understand how an obvious existentialist could swing with that notion. I told him that it truly is our prerogative to not care about other people. I'm a real democrat and an isolationist, a realist.\nHe looked equally puzzled and angry. He told me that I had it all wrong and started in on a theme and variation of his previous comments. In a brief and all-too-sparse moment of silence, I looked down at the ground and noticed he was wearing Dale Earnhardt Jr. socks. \nI spent the rest of the night ordering drinks or going to the bathroom -- anything to look busy. I wondered how a crowd of thugs and husband-seekers could invoke such violent feelings within me. I suppose that I'm searching for the same thing that these people are, and, in a way, it is hard to accept. I too want to get laid and have good drinking buddies, but perhaps it's too much to ask for good conversation as well.\nI ended up closing down the bar that night, stayed 'til I got kicked out. At the time I was ranting about sectional composition and the new Wilco album to the bartender. Can you believe that this guy from the Village Voice said he didn't know who would find Jeff Tweedy sexy? That guy's just trying to prove he's not gay -- Tweedy's got boyish charm! \nThat girl was still there, too, and she was not looking at all passive about her attraction to the guy. They headed out the door, and she was at a 45-degree angle. Maybe my old friends were right when they told me to lighten up, but I'm starting to take personal offense to my weekend nights.

Sleater-Kinney's newest stretches no boundaries

The band that Greil Marcus, the god of rock critics, dubbed the best band in rock and roll is back after a two-year hiatus. Sleater-Kinney has returned with its most experimental album to date. The musicians are no longer sporting the "Ramones read Newsweek" assault on the listener. Instead, One Beat is a showcase for instrumental aptitude.\nThe women try out a few different hats on their new record. The overall sound is a My Bloody Valentine-like trance and drone, and because of that, it may be the first Sleater-Kinney record that can become tiresome. On "Step Aside," a Motown-style horn section backs them, and on the riot-grrrl vamp "Prisstina," "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" composer Stephen Trask adds a dirty Casio keyboard riff.\nS-K sounds like the musicians spent hours perfecting the instrumental tracks to One Beat. Since the band's beginning it's stretched the boundaries of what punk rock can be, but the group seemed to work with a cautious ease here. The first few songs (especially the Sept. 11 cry "Far Away") lets the listener settle in with the subtle, buried melodies. The rest of the record, however, suffers from a laissez-faire approach to the band's old sound.\nDuring the period of 1996 to 1999, when Sleater-Kinney released Call the Doctor, Dig Me Out and The Hot Rock in succession, the band was reminiscent of the Rolling Stones in 1967. The musicians had an arrogant confidence that made it impossible for them to make anything but a fabulous record. In contrast, One Beat seems destined to be caught between that period and the next (if there happens to be one).\nLike rivers, formulas also run dry, and Sleater-Kinney seems deliberately aware of the inevitable. In the annals of rock and roll history, lasting artistic veneration has come in two ways: a drastic change of center (example: Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music) or by simply going away for awhile. Sleater-Kinney by no means needs to leave the scene, but perhaps One Beat just didn't go far enough.

Case's sexy voice carries new album

Neko Case, or her producers, seem dead-set on making you realize that she has a fabulous voice. On her new album, Blacklisted, her voice sits amongst voluminous amounts of reverb and echo. All of this is used to make her voice sound as sweltering and sexy as possible, and it works. Her bare midriff portrait on the cover makes a nice visual companion for the disc. \nIt's sort of easy to be cynical about the production techniques; they're cheap, but they are tried and true. Daniel Lanois used it to make Bob Dylan sound like death on 1997's Time Out of Mind, and last year's Kelly Hogan record, Because It Feel Good, is nearly identical to Blacklisted. But really, this modus operandi dates back to Sun Studios, so -- let it go!\nCase hardly has to rely on her voice to carry her albums -- she's a fine songwriter. Her songs are not hook-heavy, but they're more in tradition with Motown or Brill Building songwriting. Her sophisticated melodies and consuming vocals nearly render her lyrics superfluous, but rest assured that they are not vapid.\nOn Blacklisted, Case sounds like the channeled spirit of Dusty Springfield backed by Scotty Moore and Bill Black. Additional room is key, and the musicians have plenty of room to move around. The instrumentation is kept back in the mix, so when someone takes a solo it is as startling as hearing a pay phone ring -- imperial and forlorn. \nCase remains tied to that burdensome genre of alt-country, but despite a banjo or a pedal-steel here and there, there is nothing particularly country about Blacklisted. Genres are for creeps and a ridiculous waste of time anyway. Besides which, the best artists never remain firmly in one camp or the other. At the end of the album is the sound of television and dead air, and take that as a sign of what the truth is, all of this is merely part of the stratosphere.

Case's sexy voice carries new album

Neko Case, or her producers, seem dead-set on making you realize that she has a fabulous voice. On her new album, Blacklisted, her voice sits amongst voluminous amounts of reverb and echo. All of this is used to make her voice sound as sweltering and sexy as possible, and it works. Her bare midriff portrait on the cover makes a nice visual companion for the disc. \nIt's sort of easy to be cynical about the production techniques; they're cheap, but they are tried and true. Daniel Lanois used it to make Bob Dylan sound like death on 1997's Time Out of Mind, and last year's Kelly Hogan record, Because It Feel Good, is nearly identical to Blacklisted. But really, this modus operandi dates back to Sun Studios, so -- let it go!\nCase hardly has to rely on her voice to carry her albums -- she's a fine songwriter. Her songs are not hook-heavy, but they're more in tradition with Motown or Brill Building songwriting. Her sophisticated melodies and consuming vocals nearly render her lyrics superfluous, but rest assured that they are not vapid.\nOn Blacklisted, Case sounds like the channeled spirit of Dusty Springfield backed by Scotty Moore and Bill Black. Additional room is key, and the musicians have plenty of room to move around. The instrumentation is kept back in the mix, so when someone takes a solo it is as startling as hearing a pay phone ring -- imperial and forlorn. \nCase remains tied to that burdensome genre of alt-country, but despite a banjo or a pedal-steel here and there, there is nothing particularly country about Blacklisted. Genres are for creeps and a ridiculous waste of time anyway. Besides which, the best artists never remain firmly in one camp or the other. At the end of the album is the sound of television and dead air, and take that as a sign of what the truth is, all of this is merely part of the stratosphere.

'60s soul revisited

Solomon Burke was one of the original soul music pioneers, with early influential singles like "Cry To Me" and "Everybody Needs Somebody To Love." Unfortunately, like many other great voices who have had to rely heavily on producers, patrons and songwriters, he was passed over for younger and more hip models.

'60s soul revisited

Solomon Burke was one of the original soul music pioneers, with early influential singles like "Cry To Me" and "Everybody Needs Somebody To Love." Unfortunately, like many other great voices who have had to rely heavily on producers, patrons and songwriters, he was passed over for younger and more hip models.

Tridelphia avoids Phishy sound of jam bands

To hear guitarist Dave Miller say that his band's big mainstream influence is Phish might cause many to roll their eyes. Being a "Phish-influenced" band conjures up connotations of a typical college rock band. But to make that assumption would be selling Tridelphia short.\nThe influence of Phish is not subtle, but neither is it primary to the sound of the band. Where other college jam-bands try mightily to sound as much like Phish as they can, Tridelphia uses the name as a reference point for those who have not heard their focused take on jazz and rock and roll.\nThough it's only been together for about a month-and-a-half, Tridelphia has formed into a tight unit as a band. That the band's sound is built on improvisation makes it all the more impressive.\nTridelphia has its roots in Valparaiso, Ind., where Miller and bassist Ryan Allen went to high school together. \n"As long as I've been playing, Ryan has been playing, and we have been playing together," Miller said.\nNow, as sophomores at IU, they've joined with drummer Evan Kresman to form their band. \n"Since Ryan and Dave have been playing together so long, it made it really easy for me to come into this group," Kresman said.\nKresman, who came to IU from the Philadelphia area, was originally headed for the School of Music. A lack of formal training and an irregular technique kept him from being admitted, but he was able to develop a unique sound and style despite his awkward approach to the drums. \n"Of course I've been listening to rock and roll longer than anything else," Miller said of his influences, "but then I started listening to other things like jazz and Indian classical music. Of course we all love Phish, but we have other goals too. I really like modern jazz like Medeski, Martin and Wood or Charlie Hunter. Really, though, we just have our own sound." \nIn their short amount of time together, the band members have built an impressive catalog of material. Miller is the songwriter of the group but insists he merely writes the melodies and his band is able to fill in around it. \n"Dave has a really unique style of writing," Allen said. "It's very rhythmic. He's also gotten a lot better and continues to improve."\nNinety-five percent of what the band plays at shows is original, Miller said.\nTheir stage shows display a band steadily gaining confidence. They play regular shows Tuesdays at Uncle Fester's, and play regularly at Cafe Django. \nThe band's songs have typically been mixtures of straight rock and a Mahavishnu Orchestra-like take on jazz. Their sound projects an allegiance to rock and roll that Miller's compositions don't seem to be shooting for. But the more developed compositions suggest an important new step for jazz-fusion. \nTheir songs also envelop the long list of influences Miller is able to rattle off. The band's repertoire includes a Santana-like Latin dance song, songs with Western Classical quotes and the irregular, obscure cover of someone like Dave Brubeck or John Schofield. \nTridelphia is at its best while playing an addictive groove music that allows Miller free range to develop his songs' themes. He shows a remarkable knack for creating unique melodies and an addictive dance groove.\n"I hate to see people not reacting to our music, I want them to move and to dance," Miller said. "The worst thing is to see someone sitting still and not knowing what they think."\nTridelphia is interested in building a local following and relying on word of mouth to bring attention to the band. So far, the crowds have been relatively large for weekday shows, and despite few and unpublicized shows, the band is getting attention from its peers. \n"I'm really impressed with the skill level of each musician," said senior Christian Felabom, who has seen the band three times. "They are so tight and consistently interesting."\nTridelphia has come a long way in a short time, and is continuing to develop. The band insists it doesn't wish to remain a trio much longer. The members are interested in experimenting with piano and brass or even a vocalist.\nMiller wants listeners to understand band members consider themselves more than a jam band.\n"I don't just play chords, we don't play ballads, we are trying to be a tight groove and jazz band," Miller said. Built from superior musicianship and an eye on progression rather than on the past, they are advancing at a torrid pace.

Artistic progression shown on 'GHV2'

GHV2\nMadonna\nMaverick/Warner Bros.\nMadonna's GHV2 or Greatest Hits Volume 2, speaks for itself. After summing up her '80s career so well with The Immaculate Collection in 1990, a decade later GHV2 sums up the her career in '90s just as accurately. Whereas The Immaculate Collection is a bit of a shallow ride through '80s pop music at its best, GHV2 shows the remarkable growth of Madonna as an artist and a person. \nAfter listening to Revolver, it is very difficult to go back and really enjoy "I Want To Hold Your Hand." The same situation comes up with Madonna. After listening to "Drowned World/Substitute for Love" or "Frozen," can you really go back to "Holiday" for anything more than nostalgia?\nMadonna in the '80s was a particular moment in time, much like early Beatles; their later craft was what defined them as great, timeless artists. We grew with them and no matter how much we would like to get it back, it just can't happen.\nGHV2 comes off a little shaky at first because of its abandonment of a chronological order. Instead, it tries to prevent a feel. Whether or not the mixed order succeeds is really pointless, the disc doesn't seem too shifty at all. Madonna did become a bit of an album artist in the '90s, but often the albums weren't as artistically successful as the singles. \nIt is nice to hear the smart and sensual singles "Deeper and Deeper" and "Erotica" from the ill-conceived Erotica (1992) album without the rest of that disc weighing them down. The guilty pleasure\n"Don't Cry for Me Argentina," makes an appearance without the rest of the Evita album with it, which is good.\nThe second half of the disc is mostly taken up by tracks from Ray of Light and Music, her last two albums, and probably her two best. They complete one of the most satisfying collections of the year. GHV2 is really a tremendous introduction to one of the world's savviest and most intelligent artists, and if you're happy with it, there is more where that came from.\n

Rockin' for the benjamins rather than the music

New Old Songs\nLimp Bizkit\nInterscope\nIn a way, New Old Songs by Limp Bizkit is the most predictable album of the holiday season. Don't be fooled by Bizkit's rebel pose, they are a processed product in the same way as the Backstreet Boys, N'Sync and Britney Spears. New Old Songs is exactly the type of album you'd expect for the holiday season market. \nWhile it was too early for a Limp Bizkit Greatest Hits package, they chose the next best thing -- an album of remixes of the old favorites. It's all here, including five different versions of "My Way." Are you excited yet?\nBizkit trotted out the best known in the business to sell this album. \nMadonna crony William Orbit, former Nirvana and Garbage producer ButchVig, Puff Daddy, Timbaland, Everlast and Xzibit all appear in guest spots as remixers or featured artists.\nUnfortunately, the remixes shed no new light on the testosterone-fueled rockers. \nIt is also interesting that almost all of the guest remixers chose to drop the group's music, leaving Fred Durst's vocals as the only reminder that this is a Bizkit product.\nThere are a few tracks like the Neptunes' remix of "N 2Gether Now - All in Together Now" and Butch Vig's remix of "Nookie," that turn out to be good, butt-shaking, dance numbers. \nToo often though, the remixes are sound textures strikingly similar to Kraftwerk and the Beastie Boys, using their much belabored drum-box beats and techno pops and buzzes.\nIf there is one bright spot to New Old Songs, it is that it may alienate their fan base enough so we can get these guys off of the radio and television. That probably won't happen and this record will probably be in the top five its first week out. This is market opportunism at its best, because Bizkit is all about the Benjamins and doing it for the nookie, but what happened to doing it for the sake of the song? \n

A 'great divide' between this and Nelson's best work

The Great Divide\nWillie Nelson\nLost highway\nIn the Willie Nelson tradition, The Great Divide is an album filled to the brim with duets with famous stars. The marketing move is probably more than a little bit influenced by Carlos Santana's placid and gigantic-selling Supernatural (see the two songs written by and performed with Matchbox 20's Rob Thomas), but this is well-worn territory for the 68-year-old singer-songwriter. \nKid Rock appears on "Last Stand In Open Country" sounding more like a cross between Axl Rose and John Mellancamp than the rebel yeller we've come to know. His voice is awkward, it ruins a fine number and it taints Nelson's best vocal on the album. Then there are songs like "Medocino County Line" (with Lee Ann Womack) and "Don't Fade Away" (with Brian McKnight), that are exactly the type of overly-lush Nashville productions that Nelson fought against in the early part of his career. These schmaltzy sentiments are the hallmarks of Nelson's guests and are found here in full, nauseating force. \nThere really is no artistic reason why Nelson should get Rob Thomas to write road-weary tunes for him, even though Nelson is the king of dejected road warriors. Thomas writes like a man who has never tasted failure or rejection, and Nelson doesn't sound convincing when he sings Thomas' lyrics. \nThe one great moment on The Great Divide is the Nelson-penned title track. It is recorded like a live jazz record where the sound is so sparse that you can almost picture the dimensions of the room it was recorded in and where everyone was standing. The hollow drum rolls and the whining fiddle riffs add faith to Nelson's gloomy, Spanish guitar playing and his agoraphobic tale of lost love.\nFor too long, Nelson has been pandering to the lowest common denominator of his fan base. His best records, and not coincidentally, his best-selling records were brutally honest confessions about the duality of the country outlaw spirit. Like Rod Stewart and Buddy Guy, Willie Nelson became a showman a long time ago, and we are left with shattered hopes of what they could have been.\n

Merritt's latest is disappointing

Eban & Charley\nStephin Merritt\nMerge Records\nStephin Merritt always seemed suited for another life. He holds more in common with Jonathan Larson or Burt Bacharach than with his indie-rock contemporaries. While it has been Merritt's gift for melody and penchant for themes that has thrust him into this paradox, it has been his dourness and quirkiness that has kept him from being a household name.\nMerritt takes the next step towards the Brill Building on his first solo album, Eban & Charley, creating the score to the film by James Burton. This is an obscure movie first screened at the San Francisco Lesbian and Gay Film Festival in 2000. \nNot having seen the movie will make this album very strange to listen to. Ten of the 16 tracks are ambient instrumentals, most of them sounding like a cross between tribal African music and outtakes from Brian Wilson's Smile sessions. There are also surreal distortions of the familiar Christmas tunes "O Tannenbaum" and "Greensleeves." Whether or not these work for the film can be decided later, but for now they make for baffling and uninteresting listening.\nThen there are six songs presented almost as half thoughts, gone before the listener even had a chance. The songs sweep through beautiful visions in the up-tempo "Poppyland," to the gloomy wordplay of "Water Torture" without showing any reason for the mood swing. All six songs are generally likeable, low-key efforts but none of them effectively convey any sort of emotion. \nIt is quite possible that Stephin Merritt has created a brilliant soundtrack for a brilliant movie. It could also be possible that after seeing the movie that this soundtrack will take on a different significance. But as an album, the rewarding moments are few and far between, and the ambient textures are about the same as a leaky faucet and air in the pipes, which you can hear for free. \n

Local band's new release textbook

Home\nBlue Moon Revue\nBlue Moon Revue Records\nLocal soul-slingers Blue Moon Revue have released their first album and called it Home. Blue Moon Revue is more like a wedding band than anything else. The group is full of capable musicians whose originals go absolutely nowhere. The exception is keyboardist Andrew Scalercio who really contributes some interesting elements to the album \nBMR play together exceptionally well as a group. They reproduce spot on covers at their shows, and it's obvious that they rehearse often. They've carried this over to the studio, where they've created a clean record with immaculate production value. Because of this though, Home ends up sounding more like an R. Kelly record than the muddy soul and blues they are obviously influenced by. \nWithin the confines of this record, BMR don't seem to be aiming for anything but textbook structure in their songwriting. The sound is reminiscent of Luther Vandross crossed with a bluegrass group, but considerably heavier on the Vandross side. They even go so far as to completely rip off Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle" right down to the brass scores on their own "Time." Unfortunately Matt Marshall's painfully restrained vocals don't have anywhere near the conviction of Redding, or for that matter Chris Robinson's on the Black Crowes' version. \nThe other problem with BMR is their ham-fisted approach to lyric writing. Lines like, "Well Indiana weather it seemed like such a bore/there's gotta be so much more" (from "Montana") and many others come devoid of any wit or sarcasm. Well it's not fair to expect "Moby Dick" from them, but the lyrics sound like the work of sheltered college students.\nOverall, there is nothing really terrible about Home, conversely, there is also nothing very good about it either. There is nothing on this album that will offend the listener outright and not a track on the disc is challenging to listen to. But the near-robotic vocals and the verbose bass lines will wear down the listener to the point that BMR is not too bad for background music.\n

Kid from the north country

Kid from the north country

Repent and be saved

Lucky 7\nReverend Horton Heat\nArtemis Records\nLast weekend I was at a bar in town listening to a couple of strummers on stage playing the light-headed pop favorites of the day and thinking about how much I would give just to see an Elvis impersonator on that stage playing "Mystery Train" or "Milkcow Blues Boogie." I just wanted to hear the force that great rock and roll has. With real rock, no matter who you are, a greek out to get drunk or just someone who likes music, you cannot deny the power.\nI've got nothing against bar bands, but I hate to see acts that dehumanize music. They transform the incontrovertible magic in great rock into a mechanical deed. It doesn't really matter how fast and loud they strum, the truth that is displayed when playing great rock and roll is not something that can be faked.\nThis is the frame of mind I was in when I put on Reverend Horton Heat's latest album, not dejected at the state of rock, just feeling a bit alienated from it. I must admit that this was my first exposure to the Reverend, and without a bit of sarcasm I can say I was converted.\nLucky 7 is not an art record, it's not even a great rock record, it was just a record that has come along at the right time to revitalize my faith in the great rock and roll stage act. This is essentially what the band is -- they played 220 shows in 2001. The vision of this barn-burning act criss-crossing the States, playing totally raucous music, touring under a name with obvious religious connotations and singing about cocaine, tequila, women and automobiles was too much. I wanted to know where to sign up.\nComparing Reverend Horton Heat to swing revivalist Brian Setzer is an unfair pigeonhole. Rev's music takes as much from swing as it does from the Sex Pistols, the Beach Boys and Jerry Lee Lewis. Jim Heath (the Rev) sounds like an evangelist for debauchery, and his two-piece rhythm section perfectly sets up his presence and his surf-style guitar.\nIt seems to me that the records only tell half of the Reverend Horton Heat's story. They are the truest to the rock and roll spirit I've heard in a long time. They are completely unpretentious, and rock harder than Blink-182 or Metallica ever dreamed of.\n