For Primus' first full-length of new material since 1999's Antipop the band has, interestingly enough, turned back the clock to the late '80s. The music exudes a choppy and bizarro vibe reminiscent of early offerings such as Frizzle Fry and Suck On This. Though this stuff isn't quite as violently thrashy, it does get fairly brutish and manic at times (see the six-minute rumpus "Last Salmon Man" and the record's single best cut "Extinction Burst"). The throwback feel has to be partially a product of Jay Lane taking over the drummer's seat. After all, he was in Primus for a spell back in '88.
Though jokes about grass skirts and leis are a bit rich, one would think a ukulele album to be the perfect opportunity for Grunge Master General to mellow, maybe bust a little tropical chillwave. Not a chance. Ukulele Songs is passionate, moody and unflinchingly intimate. A full-blown rock band could tackle most of these songs with ease. One of the record's highlights is a rousing cover of the country standard "Sleepless Nights." The only track that feels a tad too precious is Vedder's rendition of "Dream a Little Dream." He sounds like a washed-up show-tune singer too in love with rum.
In a culture that worships at the feet of the meteoric rise-and-fall pop star, steady artistic consistency goes unrewarded. This is especially true of Fountains of Wayne, who have dropped some of the best power pop of the '00s. Sky Full of Holes is the most acoustic-flavored release of the group's career. This places the spotlight more squarely on Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger's slyly imaginative songwriting. Perfect example: "Acela," named after the high-speed rail slicing through BosWash, is your typical coming-home tale, yet the imagery put forth is really kind of delicious.
Screaming Trees had the unfortunate fate of getting lost in the '90s grunge shuffle, peeking out for a minute with hit "Nearly Lost You," releasing one more album, and then disbanding at the close of the century. More than a decade later, Last Words: The Final Recordings unveils the group's concluding statement, a "lost album" of sorts recorded in 1998 and '99. A testament to their underrated rep, it still sounds fresh thanks to the Trees' singular weaving of '70s rock, subtle psychedelia and frontman Mark Lanegan's brooding cowboy drawls. Josh Homme and Peter Buck guest-star.
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.
Though Joakim Nilsson's high wail suggests Soundgarden's Chris Cornell with a Scandinavian accent, the concentric blues-psych these Swedes shift through on their sophomore set harks back to more distant ancestors -- from Cream boogie to Sabbath depresso-sludge to Thin Lizzy tapestry. The title track, one of two songs haunted by demons, swirls toward space Hawkwind-style in parts; "Longing," a gorgeous, cinematic instrumental, follows "Buying Truth (Tack & Forlat)," a quick, percussive chug with wooh-wooh vocal backup. Across the board, there's an earthiness rarely embraced in modern metal.
Thrice's intent is obvious from the rhythm section's opening thump-n-roll. The band has created one of them albums that's all about "back to basics." In the case of Major/Minor, this means brittle math-rock grooves underpinning wiry guitar riffage and a litany of impassioned howls. There are hooks and choruses for sure, but rarely do they break free from the ensemble's highly charged syncopation and point-counterpoint interplay. At a time when so many bands have devolved into bloated Radiohead wannabes, it's nice to hear one dedicated to rhythm, which is what rock 'n' roll is all about.
Playing heavily rhythmic, butchershop-riffed metal, but yelling like punks (low voice sorta early Black Flag and high voice sorta Dropkick Murphys, usually with An! Exclamation! Point! On! Every! Word!), this Savannah band keeps things concise, by metal if not hardcore standards -- 10 songs, almost all around three or four minutes. The tracks assume creative stop-and-start structures, grind speedily here and sludgily there and oily always, and boom like old Swans toward the end of "Carved in Stone." But does "Bring Me Darkness" go "Six! Six! Six!" or "Sick! Sick! Sick!"? Or both?
Rise Against, much like their heroes Bad Religion, never stray far from their strengths: melodic hardcore laced with lyrics and hard-rock heft. Endgame is the group's most accessible effort to date; this isn't a bad thing by any means. Everything here -- songwriting, arranging, production, etc. -- is razor-sharp and streamlined. Plus, there are some wildly catchy tunes, including "Make It Stop (September's Children)," "Broken Mirrors" and the anthemic "A Gentleman's Coup." This last track is particularly cool, as it fuses Dag Nasty's speed with the start-n-stop dynamics of the mighty Helmet.
This unpredictable Georgia garage-punk band's third album for Vice Records has the classic sound and guitars/horns combination that once typified the Brian Jones-era Rolling Stones. Arabia Mountain comes off as a tour through '60s rock 'n' roll/garage moves: "Mad Dog," for example, echoes ? and the Mysterians. More of a loving extension of the old ways than any sort of gimmicky retro act, Black Lips offer a legitimacy to the often insubstantial, overly stylized garage-rock scene. "Raw Meat" could as easily fit on a Ramones record as a Troggs best-of.
Blues-rock lovebirds Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi have flirted with a large-ensemble sound in the past, but with Revelator, they attempt to make it a full-time occupation. This is one of them big, sprawling albums, one that incorporates numerous facets of deep Southern music. Though both principals know how to really cook, especially in the live setting, they keep the proceedings introspective and muted for the most part; keeping that in mind, Revelator feels like a first meeting, an opportunity for these musicians to establish a foundation upon which they'll build future temples.
Mutemath aren't the most original alt-rockers out there -- yet they don't lack ambition, that's for sure. Odd Soul is a rather epic listen. The band's core sound is post-Radiohead prog pop tricked out with electronica and a strutting funk that can be described as new romanticism on amphetamines. "Prytania" and the Santana-inspired "One More" are two of the better tracks that exemplify this. These tunes also serve as a showcase for what are ultimately Mutemath's most vital, if understated, assets: drummer Darren King and bassist Roy Mitchell-Cárdenas. They're a commanding rhythm section.
There's just something about Southern boys. No matter how good their records may be, seeing them live is where it's at, ultimately. This is as true of young bloods JJ Grey & Mofro as it is their fellow Jacksonville heroes, the mighty Allman Brothers. The 11-track Brighter Days is a more-than-solid document of JJ Grey & Mofro's stage prowess (which has garnered quite the cult following). Here, the band's fusion of swamp blues, Southern soul and country-rock gets all scuffed up, knocked around and sweated out. Grey's knack for the epic soul statement hits a peak with the 8-minute title track.
Thom Yorke opens Radiohead's eighth album sounding like a yogi emitting a chorus of om's: "Open your mouth wide/ A universal sigh," he quivers as snare beats trip over one another, a piano loops and a flugelhorn bursts defiantly through. More than ever, the band relies on digital manipulation to mold the mood; Jonny Greenwood's guitar gathers dust, and even Yorke's vocals liquefy in "Feral." The King of Limbs builds with restless syncopation, climaxes at "Lotus Flower," then nestles into a velvety bed of ballads. Too soon, Yorke gently yanks you from the dream world, chanting, "Wake me up."
Kurt Vile's really starting to sound like an ol' classic rocker: "In my day I was young and crazy/ sure I didn't know sh*t, but now I'm lazy," he confesses. Along with old-soul lamenting, Vile puts his ace guitar work into focus, chasing away the lo-fi fog of albums past. With touches of Neil Young and Tom Petty, Smoke Ring For My Halo has Vile sounding like a lone man on the open road; you can almost hear the wind whizzing through his acoustic. A resigned melancholy seems to circle that titular halo: "My whole life's been one living gag," he sings, though seemingly with one big smirk.
Though Arbouretum is most commonly tagged indie rock, the Baltimore quartet should also be seen as belonging to the folk-rock continuum that stretches back to the '60s. As captured on The Gathering, Arbouretum's thick riffage and bass-heavy plod are reminiscent of vintage Crazy Horse. Meanwhile, singer, songwriter and ace guitarist David Heumann is a disciple of Richard Thompson. Much like his hero, he pens words that are as complex as his epic solos. For the best balance of lyrics and music check out "Waxing Crescents," which is also one of Arbouretum's most psychedelic offerings to date.
There's something timeless about Lindsey Buckingham's musical vision. Much of this has to do with his finger-picking and voice; neither has aged all that much since he joined Fleetwood Mac back in the mid '70s. Recorded and released by the man himself, the thoroughly enjoyable Seeds We Sow feels particularly youthful. Numerous tracks, including "That's the Way Love Goes" and "End of Time," don't sound too different from much of what passes for modern indie pop. He closes out the record with a nice rendition of "She Smiled Sweetly," a deep track from The Rolling Stones' Between the Buttons.
"These are my famous last words!" screams Dave Grohl at the outset of Wasting Light, the Foos' seventh album. If it's true, he's going out with a helluva bang. Recorded in Grohl's garage using only analog gear (how rock is that) and produced by Butch Vig, the record sees the band at its heaviest ("White Limo") and even its blues-iest ("I Should Have Known"), but the Foos' classic soft-to-thunderous builds are still very much in play. Grohl seems especially mesmerized by "the end" -- of life, of Earth, of bad relations -- yet at album's end he confesses with manic zeal, "I never want to die!"
Dawes' sophomore album opens with "Time Spent in Los Angeles," a troubadour's ode to that mythical city. It's fitting when one considers Nothing Is Wrong is all about archetypal West Coast roots-rock. From Neil Young and The Byrds to The Long Ryders and Tom Petty, Dawes hit all the key notes, so to speak. On the six-minute mini-epic "My Way Back Home," lead singer and songwriter Taylor Goldsmith even nails that peculiar mix of boyish innocence and well-aged wisdom that Jackson Browne nailed in the mid-1970s. What pushes the record over the top is the warm, vintage production. Very cool.
The essence of Wilco's best stuff is all here: a weave of dollar-bin sounds (the cheapie organ riff on "I Might," the retooled vaudeville jive of "Capital City," even a bit of E.L.O. on "Dawn On Me") and Jeff Tweedy's usual ambiguous confessions and suggestive images. With the sprawling opener, "Art of Almost," the band uses a pixilated oblivion of digital blips and square-wave guitar distortion to lull you into complacency before finishing it in a wash of lionhearted noise. Adding songs like "Black Moon" and "One Sunday Morning" help flesh out one of Wilco's most engaging records.
Dedicated to (and named in honor of) guitarist Brent Hinds' brother, who died of a heart attack while on a hunting trip in December 2010, The Hunter is the Atlanta-based prog metal band's fifth record, and their first since 2002's Remission that is not a concept album. Featuring stolid, mid-tempo riffs and the careening seaworthy rhythms that made Leviathan an all-encompassing experience, The Hunter finds Mastodon returning to the simpler structures and all-out heaviness of their beginnings.
There's something magnetically haunting in PJ Harvey's music; it's intangible but always there, like a heart beating under the floorboards. Her eighth album pumps restlessly with this eerie substance. "England you leave a taste, a bitter one," Harvey croaks with a girly innocence -- but she's not ungrateful, just observant in her poetic tales of wars and woes. Some of the most visceral moments are strikingly upbeat: the pint-clanking bounce of "The Words That Maketh Murder" or the reggae nod on "Written on the Forehead," where Harvey, both ominously and jubilantly, declares "let it burn."
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.
The Timbaland-produced Scream was a misguided stab at pop stardom. Luckily, Cornell came to his senses. In the spring of 2011, the singer -- possibly inspired by old pal Mark Lanegan -- played folk-rock bard as he toured with nothing save acoustic guitar, his ageless voice and some of his best tunes. As Songbook attests, he was excellent. There are many standouts, among them the previously unreleased "Cleaning My Gun." On that track, Cornell echoes the wounded outlaw menace of Steve Young, growling, "As you lay sleeping, with your eyes softly shut, I'll be cleaning my gun."
Here We Rest is Jason Isbell's third album since leaving Drive-By Truckers, yet just his second with The 400 Unit. The musicians' growing familiarity with one another is one of the record's more salient qualities. They cover an awful lot of terrain, from the Muscle Shoals-flavored tenderness of "Heart on a String" to the funky Little Feat romp that is "Never Could Believe." Overall, the group emphasizes the folksy qualities that have always haunted Isbell's tunes. In fact, this just might be the most plaintive album the country-rocker has yet to produce. "Daisy Mae" is a total heartbreaker.
The ninth album by these Louisiana metal musclemen only sludges some of the time. They actually speed up a lot -- "The Cemetery Angels" opens at almost slam-dance pace, and Kirk Windstein's surprisingly comprehensible battle-march bellow betrays plenty of James Hetfield thrash. In "Cleanse Me, Heal Me," he pleads to a higher power to help him through sickness. "A Farewell to Misery" is Renaissance faire gloom with medieval high-mass chanting. But it's still the downtuned Sabbath riffs -- most dolorous in the almost Swans-like "Liquid Sky And Cold Black Earth" -- that really catch a groove.
Time Machine 2011: Live in Cleveland is the companion piece to the DVD of the same title. Recorded in Cleveland, a longtime hub of classic rock fandom going back to the '70s, Rush is totally on top of their game. As the title suggests, the 26-track set list spans decades, from the neo-Zep onslaught of Rush's earliest output ("Working Man") to cuts from the yet to be released Clockwork Angels ("Caravan"). Halfway through the power trio unleashes their 1981 classic Moving Pictures from beginning to end. By concert's end you'll feel as pleasantly wiped out as anybody who actually attended.
In the past four decades, Jane's Addiction has released four albums, weathered nearly as many breakups and endured myriad controversies and rumors. Regardless, The Great Escape Artist contains the most lavish and progressive compositions of the band's tumultuous career. This music is neo-Radiohead art rock, basically. The one thing it does lack -- and this reveals the importance of original bassist Eric Avery, replaced here by TV on the Radio's Dave Sitek -- is that violent funk-metal thump that made Jane's Addiction unique to begin with.
Harris' best albums, from 1975's Elite Hotel to the ambient-flavored Wrecking Ball, strike a fragile balance between earthy expression and ethereal beauty. It's a sweet spot Hard Bargain hits on several occasions, including the tracks "The Road" and "Home Sweet Home," both of which find the singer reflecting on love, career and even the late Gram Parsons. The bulk of Hard Bargain floats by with all the melancholy of a morning walk through a fading rose garden, but on "New Orleans" and "Six White Cadillacs," Harris proves she's still a cowgirl capable of dropping scratchy country-rock.
Following in the footsteps of Monsters of Folk and Molina & Johnson, Middle Brother is an indie-folk supergroup featuring the singers from Deer Tick, Dawes and Delta Spirit. Their debut album is a tasty mix of Cosmic Americana, country balladry and oldies-encrusted rock 'n' roll. What's really cool is how they sound like a real band, rather than three singer-songwriters merely taking turns out front. Highlights are many, but pay special attention to "Blue Eyes," a Jayhawks-inspired stomper, and the slow-burn "Theater," which totally feels like vintage Crazy Horse.
Black Country Communion came together at a Guitar Center in L.A. But the location might as well have been the TARDIS. For their second long-player, the super-group rocks out as if they're living in the 1970s. What a lot of stoner rock bands struggle to capture, these dudes do with ease. Riffs are jagged, grooves are tight, and former Deep Purple howler Glenn Hughes sounds fantastic. The production feels digi-sterile at times, but overall, 2 is another more-than-solid effort. Do yourself a favor and begin your journey with "Save Me," a seven-minute epic that sounds like Rising-era Rainbow.
The Truckers love their down-and-outs, and Go-Go Boots is a fine collection of such. The title track is a swampy blues number about a preacher who hires a hitman to kill his wife so he can marry his go-go-boot-clad mistress. "Cartoon Gold," with its rolling banjo and shuffling rhythm, is all glass-half-empty: "It's like bringing flowers to your mama/ Tracking dog sh*t all over the floor." The highlight is "Mercy Buckets," a slow-burning Southern gothic number that emanates despair like the South oozes humidity: clinging, unrelenting and omnipresent.
Five Easy Pieces picks up where Saskatoon's Sheepdogs' last full-length, 2010's Learn & Burn, left off. If you freak for Buffalo Killers, Rivals Sons and other modern acts revisiting the classic sound of Southern-fried boogie and country rock, then this nifty little EP is definitely for you. "I Don't Know" is the track that shines the brightest. It's a wonderful blend of Skynyrd machismo and the Dead's pastoral vibes. "The Middle Road" is lots of fun, too, but it's soft rock reminiscent of Hall & Oates' 1970s material and Honky Chateau-era Elton John.
Dan McCafferty's screech flies higher after four decades than his disciple Axl Rose's did after four years. But with McCafferty and bassist Pete Agnew both turning 65 in 2011, aging's clearly on Nazareth's minds, and their more nostalgic cuts serve up a wistful autumnal swirl. The grizzled Scots get witty like a music hall ZZ Top, too, but they're still best when heavy: in an ominous dirge aimed at religious zealots, a cynical swipe at government in times of austerity, some epic metal about mental illness, and a mean-swinging, maybe rap-inspired bilingual boogie about gang war in the barrio.
Give Till It's Gone is a muddy flood plain into which Ben Harper spilled his inner torment. This shouldn't come as any surprise, considering the record's making overlapped with his divorce from actor Laura Dern. The shambolic art-rocker "Clearly Severely" lays it all out for listeners: "There is no breath left for words/ They have all been spoken for/ All we say just shatters to the ground." In addition to being the singer-songwriter's most personal release, Give Till It's Gone feels like a conscious stab at a classic rock sound, with both Ringo Starr and Jackson Browne lending their help.
Recorded at the legendary auditorium in Nashville, the thoroughly star-studded Ramble at the Ryman is more than an excellent live album; it's a sweeping panorama of America's richly mongrelized musical landscape. This becomes obvious very early on, specifically when Levon Helm's scratchy Arkansas bark weaves its way through loopy New Orleans brass on The Band classic "Ophelia." Another highlight is "Baby Scratch My Back," a horny house-blues groover featuring Little Sammy Davis. The only real misfire is "Evangeline," on which Sheryl Crow attempts, but fails, to fill Ms. Emmylou's shoes.
