Bleed American [DreamWorks, 2001]
Jimmy Eat World are who Blink-182 want to be when they grow up--even played B-182 frontman Tom DeLonge's wedding. Since JEW frontman Jim Adkins specializes in sensitive leaps and catches, this bodes well for DeLonge's visits to the marriage counselor, but it'll ruin his whine. Like most emo bands only at a higher level of tunecraft, JEW are so surprised to discover that punks become adults that they're impressed by feelings even a folksinger would know were banal. Their label hopes that pop fans won't care--that if this band can't be maturity's answer to 'N Sync, it can be patriotism's answer to Travis. C+
Bleed American [DreamWorks, 2001]
Nolan Lee
Justin Long
It's a Beautiful Day [Columbia, 1969]
This is on the charts. Get it off. D
Joshua Bailey
>JEW frontman
wew, that's a bit insensitive.
Carter Ross
Love To Love You [Oasis, 1975]
Did you come yet, huh, huh? Did you come yet? B-
Jason Cook
Open Up and Say . . . Ahh! [Enigma/Capitol, 1988]
Hard rock trash as radio readymades, these cheerful young phonies earn their Gene Simmons cover art. A residue of metal principle spoiled the top 40 on their debut, but here they sell out like they know this stuff is only good when it's really shitty. "Nothing but a Good Time" and "Back to the Rocking Horse" are clubby arena anthems, "Look but You Can't Touch" mocks cock-rock with a self-deprecating gesture, and the Loggins & Messina remake has been waiting to happen for 15 years. B+
Jeremiah Rodriguez
Shout at the Devil [Elektra, 1984]
It's hardly news that this platinum product is utter dogshit even by heavy metal standards; under direct orders from editors who don't know Iron Maiden from Wynton Marsalis, my beleaguered colleagues on the dailies have been saying so all year, and every insult goes into the press kit. Still, I must mention Mick Mars's dork-fingered guitar before getting to the one truly remarkable thing about this record: a track called "Ten Seconds To Love" in which Vince Neil actually seems to boast about how fast he can ejaculate (or as the lyric sheet puts it, "cum"). And therein, I believe, lies the secret of their commercial appeal--if you don't got it, flaunt it. Follow-up: "Pinkie Prick." D
Angel Diaz
Have You Never Been Mellow [MCA, 1975]
After checking out the competition--I've given up on Helen Reddy, Anne Murray repeats herself, and Loretta Lynn's latest is a bummer--I began to entertain heathenish thoughts about this MOR nemesis, whose mid-Atlantic accent inspired Tammy Wynette to found a country music association designed to exclude her. At least this woman sounds sexy, says I to meself, but Carola soon set me straight. "A geisha," she scoffed. "She makes her voice smaller than it really is just to please men." At which point I put away my heathenish thoughts and finished the dishes. D+
David Thomas
CSN [Atlantic, 1977]
Wait a second--wasn't this a quartet? D+
Parker Anderson
he's right about that one
Benjamin Perry
Broadcast [Virgin, 1986]
Hip, punky wardrobes, hip record label and very hip airline, generic pop dreck. The only good Brit is a good Brit. C-
Jaxson Campbell
Devil's Night [Shady/Interscope, 2001]
The worst thing I know about Eminem is the African Americans he chooses to hang with. And at least Dr. Dre serves a commercial function--these ill jockeys are just a two-inch ruler for Marshall Mathers to measure his dick against. In the worst minstrel tradition of ignorant fantasies projected onto a dark-skinned Other, D-12's bum-fuck brutality and dumber-than-Durst humor provide a baseline Eminem can rise above in his sleep, as he promptly does. If you have to hear the backward rapping and "Fight Music," put money back into the community--buy a bootleg. C
Christian Davis
Decade of Decadence '81-'91 [Elektra, 1992] :(
Jace Martin
Grand Funk [Capitol, 1969]
This group is getting attention apparently because they play faster than Iron Butterfly. Which I grant is a start in the right direction. Me, I saw them in Detroit before I knew any of this. I found myself enjoying them for five minutes, tolerating them for fifteen, and hating them for forty-five. This lp, their second, isn't as good as that performance. C-
Nathaniel Ward
Hot [Mammoth, 1996]
These guys don't just love old jazz, they love old jazz records, and true to form they've recorded everything live with a single mic. Striving for the life they hear on those old records, none of them have the wherewithal or the history or the chops to pull off anything more than a very crude imitation, which is why Katharine Whalen thinks the way to channel Betty Hutton (and Betty Boop) is by singing while scrunching up her tonsils. And if that throwaway calypso hit was by any chance purloined, then the teeth that deserve to be extruded are their own. C-
Colton Reyes
The Wall [Columbia, 1979]
For a dumb tribulations-of-a-rock-star epic, this isn't bad--unlikely to arouse much pity or envy, anyway. The music is all right, too--kitschy minimal maximalism with sound effects and speech fragments. But the story is confused, "mother" and "modern life" make unconvincing villains, and if the recontextualization of "up against the wall" is intended ironically, I don't get it. B-
Jackson Gomez
Flavours [RCA Victor, 1974]
The Burton Cummings side of this band always wanted it to be Jimi Hendrix, Carlos Santana, The Doors, and Gary Puckett and the Union Gap all rolled into one. This rather monstrous goal has finally been realized. Me, I preferred the part that wanted to be Bachmann-Turner Overdrive. C
Jacob King
>me, i had never been there. Well perhaps once, but I was so enveloped in that Ol E I couldn't make it past the do'
You speak of hardcore
Was all i could think about reading this review. God damn this guy is a shit writer. Like i don't even care about his taste but please just stop. Not witty or funny or insightful and seems to think he's concise when in actuality he has trimmed out literally all the relevant information from his review and has laeft us with random meandering and rambling. Horrible reviewer. Is it scruff mcgruff or kissboy?
Juan Smith
Double Vision [Atlantic, 1978]
I love rock-and-roll so much that I find myself getting off on "Hot-Blooded," a typical piece of nookie-hating cock-rock based around a riff/verse/chord change that's (gah) second-generation Bad Company. Other than that there's nothing here to threaten their status as world's dullest band. Inspirational verse--"She backhanded me 'cross my face." C-
Adrian Reed
Closer to Home [Capitol, 1970]
What's happening to me? It must be that damned billboard. Or maybe I'm finally starting to appreciate (note I say appreciate) their mixture of youthful camaraderie, energy, and beatsmanship. After all, rock-and-roll has always been described as "loud" and its rhythms as "heavy." And at least Mark Farner doesn't aspire to bluesmanship. C+
Ayden Clark
Undercover [Rolling Stones, 1984]
What on earth do people see in this bloated pile of murky shit? Granted, they do still slip naturally into the vernacular specificity that other bands strive for, and despite the wind tunnel production, Keith Richards remains the incorrigible genius-by-accident that he is. Also guess what? Two songs contain political content, which I guess is supposed to fill me with gratitude. But I'm such a churl that I'm only a sucker for good songs, and these are as tiresome and witless and nasty as the rest. Their worst album. C
Benjamin Cruz
Live Album [Capitol, 1970]
They have a great, even a grand audience. But an audience and an album aren't the same thing, not at all. C-
Parker Smith
Frampton Comes Alive! [A&M, 1976]
Alright Peter, you win. I'll review your stupid album--it's only been in the top 20 all year. Now will you please go away? C-
Lucas Garcia
>No Remorse [Bronze, 1984] The critics who used to call Motorhead the worst band in the world had a point, which may be why Lemmy's high-speed metal has now turned into the thinking person's headbang. The stuff is so pure it's almost rarefied: no operatic declamations, no schlocky guitaristics, no satanism or medievalism or sci-fi or sexist s&m. Just aggression, violence, noise. Lemmy doesn't even bellow--his voice is more a hoarse, loud, one-note roar. This tasteful two-disc best-of-plus-four (new and definitive: "Killed By Death") is the first Motorhead product praised by Headheads since No Sleep 'Til Hammersmith, eight of whose eleven songs it includes (the eight best, too). Unless you've got an extra Y chromosone or beat your meat till it bleeds, you likely don't need it on a regular basis. But it'll sure come in handy at those precious moments when you want nothing so much as to smash somebody's face. A-
>Orgasmatron [GWR/Profile, 1986] I admire metal's integrity, brutality, and obsessiveness, but I can't stand its delusions of grandeur--the way it apes and misapprehends reactionary notions of nobility. One thing I like about Lemmy is that he's proud to be a clod, common as muck and dogged in his will to make himself felt as just that. Add that rarest of metal virtues, a sense of humor, which definitely extends to the music's own conventions, as on the lead cut of his first album in three litigation-packed years: yclept "Deaf Forever," a good enough joke right there (especially for Sabbaf fans), it turns out to be a battlefield anthem--about a corpse. And then add Bill Laswell, who was born to make megalomania signify: where most metal production gravitates toward a dull thud that highlights the shriek of the singer and the comforting reverberation of the signature guitar, Laswell's fierce clarity cracks like a whip, inspiring Lemmy, never a slowpoke in this league, to bellow one called "Built for Speed." Result: work of art. A-
Hudson Anderson
Confusion Is Sex [Neutral, 1983]
Back in 1970 I played Max Kozloff, a Cal Arts colleague of distinctly Yurrupean musical tastes, some singles I thought instructive--"Brown Eyed Girl," "California Earthquake," "Neanderthal Man," like that. The one he flipped for was "I Wanna Be Your Dog." So if you think the sonic cover here proves they're rockers at heart, you have a fine art critic on your side. The dull rock critic wants to mention that the cover doesn't rock too good. Of course, neither did King Crimson a lot of the time. C+
Jack Sullivan
The Amazing Jeckel Brothers [Island, 1999]
Refreshing for white guys, especially white guys as dumb as these two, to complain about the slave owner on the dollar bill--simpleminded, but an act of cultural nonconformity nonetheless. Cool to give away a special-offer CD where you rap over stolen gangsta tracks, too. But when a real gangsta's bitch fucks his homey he kills everybody in sight. These kiss-offs just kill the girl, every chance they get. And though they claim clown, they rarely get funnier than "I'd cut my head off but then I would be dead," and that on the cut everybody uses to prove how dumb they are. Personally, I think saying fuck 93 times in one song is a riot. Tell Fatboy Slim the news. C+
Julian Evans
Survival [Capitol, 1971]
Those who dismiss them as unlistenable miss the point entirely--they Americanize Led Zeppelin with a fervent ingenuity that does broad service to the gestures of mass art. But I now read where similar men of taste, having arrived at the same conclusion, are claiming in addition to actually like the stuff. That's going too far. C
Jordan Taylor
Pump [Geffen, 1989]
If fried brains are your idea of a rock-and-roll dream, then side one of this album will do nicely. Of course, this band's idea of a rock-and-roll dream is also the traditional "Love in an Elevator," okay stuff as it goes, but I could do with more of "Janie's Got a Gun," in which an abused teenager offs her dad. B
Tyler Wright
Singin' With The Big Bands [Arista, 1994]
Amusing though it might be to poke fun at reformed Halo of Flies fans for going gaga over Tony Bennett, the wily old codger is certainly prudent about deploying his lovingly preserved pipes. But this guy's got a nerve. Granted, it's not quite as awful as some computerized nightmare in which Manilow replaces Martha Tilton and Tex Beneke on classic swing records, but it's also worse--swing as '50s TV music, reimagined or reconceived arrangements by the original orchestras (whatever that can mean after 50 years), astounding chestnuts (Frank Sinatra and the Andrews Sisters, what taste). All of course fronted by Manilow's uncompromisingly inoffensive voice--a voice that never once hints at history or sex or chops. Incomprehensible press quote--"I've found a funkiness and intelligence in this music that will last forever and I wanted to remind my listeners of what a hip era this was." C
Liam Jackson
FUCK OFF
Brody Nguyen
Freedom of Choice [Warner Bros., 1980]
Hey now, don't blame me--I insulted them every chance I got back when your roommate still thought they might be Important. But now that that's taken care of itself we can all afford to giggle. Robot satire indeed--if they ever teach a rhythm box to get funky, a Mothersbaugh will be there to plug it in. B+
Lincoln Reyes
Shout [Warner Bros., 1984]
Marking time (actually a computer marks it for them), they play the equivalent of baseball's play-me-or-trade-me. I played, now I'm trading. C-
Jacob Gonzalez
The Joshua Tree [Island, 1987]
Let it build and ebb and wash and thunder in the background and you'll hear something special--mournful and passionate, stately and involved. Read the lyrics and you won't wince. Tune in Bono's vocals and you'll encounter one of the worst cases of significance ever to afflict a deserving candidate for superstardom. B
Josiah Hill
Get Yer Ya-Yas Out [London, 1970]
Yeah I was at the Garden when this was recorded and had a blast, but there isn't one song on here, including the two Chuck Berry covers, that isn't available better elsewhere. C
Brody Ramirez
Outrageous [Imperial, 1969]
Fowley is such a gargantuan shuck that he ought to be preserved in a time capsule. I don't understand how he continues to earn a living, but he does. This is a follow-up to his flower record of a couple of years ago. It comes complete with revolutionary liner notes ("Guerilla warfare has begun. The streets belong to the people. Let's tune in to find out what went wrong today.") that for some reason--they'd sell a few, no?--are concealed within the double-fold. E
Leo Hill
>reviews a genre a doesn't value just so he can comfortably shit on art
Jimmy Eat World is based. fuck this guy. all this made me do was listen to Bleed American. Clarity's next.
Joseph Fisher
E Pluribus Funk [Capitol, 1971]
The usual competent loud rock with the usual paucity of drive and detail. Likable in its own way--I even find myself touched by "People, Let's Stop The War." But it doesn't tell me anything I don't already know. C
Ethan Johnson
Singer of Songs, Teller of Tales [Bang, 1978]
Local labels surely do a worthy work in this era of conglomerate rock. If it weren't for Atlanta-based Bang, Atlanta-based Davis might never have discovered that there's a modestly profitable audience for humorless singer-songwriters all across this land of ours. D+
Ethan Walker
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band [RSO, 1978]
At first I felt relatively positive about this project. I'm not a religious man, I liked the Aerosmith and Earth, Wind & Fire cuts on the radio, and I figured the Bee Gees qualified as ersatz Beatles if anyone did. Well, let's hope clones aren't like this. From the song selection, you wouldn't even know the originals were once a rock and roll band. Most of the arrangements are lifted whole without benefit of vocal presence (maybe Maurice should try hormones) or rhythmic integrity ("Can't we get a little of that disco feel in there, George?") And what reinterpretations there are are unworthy of Mike Douglas. George Burns I can forgive, even Peter Frampton--but not Diane Steinberg, Sandy Farina, Frankie Howerd. I never thought Alice Cooper would stoop to a Paul Williams imitation. I never thought Steve Martin would do a Nerd imitation. Get back, all of you. Back I say. D+