|
Kind
of a Drag
The
Old 97s
Drag
It Up (New West)
The opening strains of Drag It Up are encouraging:
Someone fiercely barks off a “One, two,” then Ken Bethea coaxes
some introductory peals of hot twang out of his Telecaster
and drummer Phil Peeples takes the handoff like a freight
train, barreling ahead with trademark reckless rattleclap.
Then Rhett Miller, in butch boy-man mode, suggests, “You’re
a bottle cap away, from pushing me too far,” in one of his
classic, clever turns of phrase. (Nuggets from the past: “You
made a big impression for a girl of your size” or “I thought
so much about suicide, parts of me have already died.”) The
song—in fierce spirit, bluster and infectiousness—harkens
back to 1997’s outstanding Too Far to Care. Great news:
Especially since the native Texans hung in the balance a couple
of years back as Miller (who moved near Woodstock last year)
embarked on a solo career, resulting in a rich, polished,
uninspired album on which he decided—in very un-97s fashion—not
to swing. (“Dance with them’s that brung ya,” we say in
the hills.)
Ultimately, however, only a portion of Drag It Up is
up to Old 97s scratch.
The bashed-out “Won’t Be Home,” described above, joins the
stridently infectious “New Kid,” the gorgeously acoustic “Adelaide”
(which bites a little Simon and Garfunkel) and the nervy “Friends
Forever” to constitute an excellent batch of tunes. But elsewhere
they come off like a band making an overly conscious effort
to rewrite the glory of Fight Songs (1999) and Too
Far to Care in particular, stirring up past reference
points. The results are too often shadow images. As for “Coahilua,”
Bethea’s lead-vocal debut, this one could be eviscerated on
so many levels, but it’s best just to consider it a larky
aberration (“I turn my microwave on and I cook my chicken
ravioli,” sings the guitarist over bouncy, childlike Tex-Mex—like
Nick Lowe’s “Half a Boy, Half a Man” with its gears sprung
and mind lost). Elsewhere, the group explores new, curiously
dreary territory (the Velvet Undergroundish “Valium Waltz,”
and the sad shuffle “In the Satellite Rides a Star”).
Over the past decade the Texas group has pretty much created
their own genre, adding tinges of west-ern swing, rockabilly,
country and Tex-Mex to hook-ridden, Brit-Invasion-influenced
pop melodies, and while there’s clearly something a little
lost overall on Drag It Up, few artists will write
songs as strong as “The New Kid” and “Won’t be Home” this
year. Whether that’s worth the price of admission is your
call.
—Erik
Hage
Midlake
Bamnan
and Silvercork (Bella Union)
Give me a word I don’t know in a title and I’m tipsy; give
me a couple of them and I’m downright intoxicated with a sense
of having traveled into another land. I don’t even need or
want to know what Bamnan or Silvercork mean. Street names?
Don’t even tell me, let the mystery endure.
Midlake have created a dozen-song set which flows with a hypnotic,
lightly hallucinogenic unity. Draped in keyboards, they’ve
done so with a rare and commendable amount of alluring character.
As is my wont, I popped the disc into my computer to play,
paying no attention to track numbers or titles. It played
several times before I began to find myself in familiar locations
and needed to find out exactly where I was. And one of the
places I then kept returning to was track five. The strange
melancholy and oblique poetics of the song “Some of Them Were
Superstitious” is carried aloft by dreamscape textures and
a melody that now pops into my head throughout the day. The
fractured narrative in the lyrics feels alternately like a
warning, a promise, an observation, and a prayer. On Bamnan
and Silvercork the quintet has infused contemporary electric
keyboards with a quietly inventive and bittersweet resilience
that few, outside of Robert Wyatt, attain. There’s also bass,
guitar and drums, but their judicious employment makes for
a sonic whole that is layered and powerfully mysterious.
—David
Greenberger
Ray
Charles
Genius
Loves Company (Concord)
Too bad Ray Charles isn’t around to hype this star-studded
duets CD. It’s pretty good in places, forgettable in others,
and likely to sell pretty well. Charles’ death June 10 is
all the promotion it needs. Besides, trophy performers like
Charles’ contemporaries B.B. King and Willie Nelson turn in
fairly decent performances, though “It Was a Very Good Year,”
a Charles-Nelson tradeoff, is more treacly than convincing.
Even at 73, Charles could get down; he, not Natalie Cole,
is the sexy one in their update of “Fever,” and his voice,
not Diana Krall’s, gets under your skin in “You Don’t Know
Me.” Even though there aren’t enough uptempo tunes—it’s the
rare record that features James Taylor singing sprightly,
as he and Ray do on “Sweet Potato Pie”—the vibe is pleasant,
the arrangements professional. Other relatively upbeat tracks
are “Heaven Help Us All,” a nice, churchy turn with Gladys
Knight, and a zesty take on “Crazy Love” featuring Charles’
key disciple and tune author Van Morrison. One can be thankful
there’s no duet with Eric Clapton.
Despite its gloss and occasional soul, Genius Loves Company
may be more memorable for marketing than music. It’s the inaugural
disc in a relationship between Concord Records and Hear Music,
the custom Starbucks label. That means Starbucks will feature
it Sept. 1, the day after it goes on sale in record stores.
No word whether Brother Ray was a coffee man. Word how soulful
he was comes clear in contrast with others who glory in his
presence here: Elton John, Norah Jones, even Michael McDonald
(“Hey Girl,” replete with strings, bombs). As a testament,
Genius Loves Company isn’t bad. Legacy Ray? No way.
—Carlo
Wolff
|
Columns
& Opinions
