Since 2008's Attack & Release, Dan Auerbach went solo, Patrick Carney formed Drummer, and both collaborated in the hip-hop/rock group Blakroc. It's all been nothing but inspiration for the Akron natives, who are starting to sound like true Southern boys. They open with the funky shoop of "Everlasting Light"; bring back Danger Mouse for some R&B swagger on "Tighten Up"; and cover Jerry Butler with "Never Gonna Give You Up." It sounds like the Keys boogieing with the ghosts of blues and soul. Then again, maybe they were: Brothers was recorded at the legendary Muscle Shoals Studio.
Rarely does an artist's debut album feel as fully realized as Hans Chew's. One could argue the making of Tennessee & Other Stories... began the minute Chew entered this world: crying, bald and naked. The record -- incorporating elements of Southern boogie, country rock and bluegrass -- is a loose song cycle, one that documents Chew's stormy life as a Southerner. It's all here: death, loss, temptation, failure, betrayal and (finally) redemption. Several tracks, including "Queen of the Damned Blues" and a version of Tim Rose's "Long Time Man," exude a gothic vibe that's heavy and powerful.
James Jackson Toth (aka Wooden Wand) has long been adamant that he's a songwriter first and singer second. That may have been true on older albums, but not Briarwood. The record is so fully realized that it's impossible to separate words from voice from music. All three melt into a rumbling goo of rock, country, blues, soul and gospel. This is thick and weary folk music for Middle America. No growth, just day-to-day maintenance: rust, wood paneling and gray skies. The Wand is still a young dude with more music inside him, but don't be surprised if Briarwood goes down as a career highlight.
As the producer, Jack White makes Lynn's album sound like countrified White Stripes with better drumming, but that's just fine. This is the first time Lynn has recorded all her own songs on one record, and her music proves to be more haunting than any Nashville producer could have imagined. Oh, and the kids will dig it.
On his solo debut, Jack White essentially tosses his entire catalog into a blender -- from his famous bands' output to his production work -- and spins it into gold. The retrophile throws solid punches at everything modern (even the women: "She don't care about the bruises that she's leaving on me/ 'Cause she's got freedom in the 21st century"), reveling in classic sounds from Zeppelin rock to country to blues to soul. He bangs on the electric piano as fervently as he strikes his axe, and he ain't one bit happy about love, even when ex-wife Karen Elson joins in on the bruised-and-battered fun.
It's tempting to say Locked Down is the Doctor's long-overdue return to the psychedelic voodoo meditations of Gris-Gris and Babylon. After all, this Dan Auerbach-produced effort is awfully trippy in places. Yet the music is decidedly modern in its hyper-awareness of pop-music history, from vintage New Orleans R&B to the fuzz of modern garage rock. The sublime "Ice Age" bubbles like the vintage stuff, yet there's a subtle hip-hop strut lurking in its groove. This idea is even more successful on the funky "Eleggua" (dig that Creole jive). Though Dr. John is now 71, his voice still sounds great.
Dan Auerbach's gruffy, soulful vocals and cavernous electric blues will strike a chord with Black Keys fans -- he is, after all, the band's frontman. The multitalented musician wrote, produced and played nearly every instrument on his solo debut while promoting Attack & Release, the Keys' most experimental release to date. It's appropriate then that he chose to go back to the basics here, mixing sparse, bluesy folk with '70s classic rock. "I Want Some More," "Heartbroken, In Disrepair" and the Van Morrison-ish "When the Night Comes" all contend with the Keys' best.
Maybe there's something anachronistic about a band that plays funk music in the 21st century as if Parliament (let alone hip-hop) had never happened. It does sound like Sharon Jones could have cut her record in 1967, not 2007. But when the music's this good, those concerns fly out the window. Jones pours everything she's got into this album, and her gruff, passionate, brassy style grabs you by the collar and doesn't let go until the end. The Dap-Kings restrain themselves behind her, shuffling and jangling but leaving her plenty of space to maneuver on a clutch of good, if not great, songs.
She's a gospel great, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement recipient and arguably one of the greatest singers of all time. You Are Not Alone reminds us why. Produced by Wilco's Jeff Tweedy, this project takes on poverty, joblessness other social ills, hoping to make it better through music. It's something she's been doing for more than 60 years. Staples credits this album, recorded with her own band and augmented by Wilco members and friends, with taking her back to her childhood. Don't miss album closer "Only the Lord Knows," a Tweedy composition written just for Staples.
Keys to the Kingdom is bare-knuckled, eccentric and cracked. They are qualities that make total sense, considering the album is a tribute to Luther and Cody Dickinson's late father, the legendary Southern eccentric Jim Dickinson. The record kicks off with "This A'Way," a rocker that sounds like a cross between Exile On Main St.-era Rolling Stones and The Flamin' Groovies. From there, the album only gets better -- and far more self-aware of rock 'n' roll history. On "How I Wish My Train Would Come" the Allstars morph into a long-lost relic from the 1970s that bridged Lou Reed and Gary Stewart.
Seven years before guitarist Jay Bennett left and long before singer Jeff Tweedy decided to go indie rock, Wilco gave alt country a golden crown and scepter in the form of this sophomore double album. The band's chemistry was at such a peak on these sessions that no alt country rockers since have come close to touching the album's perfection -- not even Ryan Adams.
Lit up by the punked-out blues riff of "Black Math" and the high-pitched Queen-like squall of "There's No Home For You Here," the group's fourth LP is probably its dirtiest but has the smartest lyrics of them all. "Ball And Biscuit" goes back to the altar of Jeff Beck worship; the fact that "Seven Nation Army" gets radio airplay is a modern miracle.
Jack White has big ideas about how to reintroduce Wanda Jackson to listeners, as the walls -- no, buildings of ringing, wide-ranging sound here attest. Maybe too big. His wild, hyperactive arrangements almost overpower the project. Jackson still has one of the most distinctive voices and personalities in the biz, and she almost can't be heard above the din -- almost. She manages to sass everything from Mexicali brass to Caribbean post-punk into submission -- and you'll never hear Amy Winehouse the same way again after listening to Wanda snarl her way through "You Know That I'm No Good."
On their sophomore effort, Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears tighten up the grooves and go raw, creating a seamless foundation of classic soul and gritty Detroit garage rock. Their sound is neither trendy nor retro, and yet it is both: While "Livin' in the Jungle" borrows heavily from James Brown, it's also not far removed from Cee-Lo's mega-smash "F You." Then there's "Booty City," a crazed, amped-up boogie rock number whose scorching, fist-pumping chorus hits a sweet spot when the group shouts, "Right on everybody, won't you take me to Booty City."
The hype surrounding this album is too much for such a young band; best to explore with sober ears. Alabama Shakes are a wonderfully promising garage-soul act, the triangulated center between The Black Keys, Sharon Jones and Black Lips. They can shake and rattle, yet their roll is a bit stiff. But hey, they're young! What makes them a major prospect is Brittany Howard. She can really sing the blues, though like Otis (or even Bon Scott), her pleading shifts into overdrive too often. But hey, they're young! To hear the Shakes really nail it, try "Hold On," "On Your Way" and "Goin' to the Party."
First off, stop reading this and go listen to the last track, "I Guess We Shouldn't Talk About That Now." OK, wait for the goose bumps to go down and for your heart to drop back down into your chest. Resume reading. Bettye LaVette follows up I've Got My Own Hell to Raise (one of 2005's best releases) with this deeply satisfying collaboration with the alt-country outfit Drive-By Truckers. LaVette rocks like nobody's business, but when she lays back and sings a ballad such as "Choices" or "Talking Old Soldiers," a lifetime of hard-earned experience and pain comes pouring out.
Patrick Sweany gets it. The blues-rock bard wails and moans about those folks stalking the fringes of society with an understanding that's downright uncanny. The character in the opening tune, "Sleeping Bag," is right out of a Gary Stewart tale. Crashing at his bro's house for the time being, the poor schlub yearns for shelter and stability: "Tell me, where do I sleep at night?" Yet he just can't get his life together. Later on, in "Police Car Blues," the same guy (most definitely) gets all nervous and antsy at the mere sight of the fuzz -- must be on probation, right?
The first couple spins produce, "Man, this guy sounds drunk." After that the response becomes, "George Thorogood on cough syrup?" But eventually Webb's genius crawls out of his own bluesy murk: this guy has stolen the most lo-fi/country blues aspects of the Stones' Exile on Main St. and alchemically shaped them into a brand-new universe. "Which Witch," for example, burns slowly like vintage bar rock, then slyly shape-shifts into a droning raga that confuses the Ganges and the Mississippi.
The Raconteurs join Radiohead and NIN in throwing their weight in front of sluggish record companies with their second album, rushing its release only a couple of weeks after its completion. It's a move that minimizes leaks but also jukes any sales-impeding critical disapproval. The latter point, however, can be put to rest: from the first skronky strut of the album's title cut to "Hold Up" and "Rich Kid Blues," it boogies, shrieks and flails with a level of down-home rock stank (the good kind) never before imagined by the super-group.
Erika Wennerstrom and Heartless Bastards are totally American: They rock, they roll, they follow their muse across the land -- mountains, sea and desert. Moreover, they're simple and immediate both emotionally and sonically, a lot like Crazy Horse, really. But they're American in another sense. Rising up from Arrow's very best tunes -- "Only For You," "Parted Ways," "Simple Feeling" -- is a thick cloud of inchoate restlessness. This isn't a lyrical component necessarily, just this weighty feeling. It's weird. Heartless Bastards aren't the heaviest band in the world, but they actually are.
Cincinnati's Buffalo Killers might hail from the other end of the Buckeye State, but their artistic trajectory (up to the release of 3, that is) mirrors that of Cleveland's James Gang. Like their heroes, the power trio has tempered their chunky riffage and thunder grooves with country-flavored folk rock that's heavy on the sweet, high harmonies. In other words, 3 is best listened to not on Saturday night, when the keg flows unimpeded, but rather Sunday morning, when the only thing that can clear that foggy brain is a brisk swim in a cold lake tucked away inside Ohio's rolling foothills.
