JILL SOBULE DISCOGRAPHY

JILL SOBULE  (Lava/Atlantic, 1995)
Produced by Brad Jones and Robin Eaton

Track Listing:
1)  Good Person Inside
2) Margaret
3) (Theme From) The Girl In The Affair
4) Karen By Night
5) HoudiniÕs Box
6) Trains
7) I Kissed A Girl
8) The Jig Is Up
9) Resistance Song
10) The Couple On The Street
11) Vrbana Bridge
12) Now That I DonÕt Have You

The Players on JILL SOBULE:
Jill, Brad Jones, Richard Barone, Robin Eaton, Susy Davis, Kenny Malone, JillÕs Mom, Sam Bacco, Buddy Emmons, Al Perkins, Byron House, Kirby Shelstad, Pet Bergeson, Eric Moon, Jerry Dale McFadden, Chris Carmichael, Mac Gayden, Viktor Krauss, J.D. Blair, Ross Rice, Jim Wizniewski, Wayne Kramer.

Some Strange Sounds YouÕll Hear On JILL SOBULE:
Tympani, Steel Guitar, Fake Flute, Fingersnaps, Talking Drum, Dog, Violin, Cello, Double Bass, Mandolin, Pianorgan, Knee Slaps, Drunk Singing, Accordion, Pedal Steel Guitar, Squeaky Chair, Whoops, and Bop Bas.


THINGS HERE ARE DIFFERENT  (MCA, 1990)
Produced by Todd Rundgren

Track Listing:
1) Living Color
2) Sad Beauty
3) Too Cool To Fall In Love
4) Life Goes On Without You
5) Pilar (Things Here Are Different)
6) Evian
7) So Kind
8) Tell Me Your Dreams
9) Disinformation
10) Golden Cage
11) The Gifted Child

So Real, So Rich, Sobule:
Jill Sobule Kisses And Tells
By David Goldberg
	If Jill Sobule were a Broadway musical, she would be Les Miserables: Great songs, tragedy and comedy, strong characters, and a happy yet realistic ending. Speaking with her, you get the sense that the concept of a musical is not only an undercurrent in her music, but an important part of who she is. 
	ÒIf I had my fantasy, I would like to write a musical,Ó Sobule mused during a too-brief chat in an Atlantic Records conference room. ÒYou can already tell with ÔMargaret.Õ ItÕs storytelling.Ó Just as musicals are about creating characters and telling stories using songs, Jill Sobule, on her recent self-titled album, has used her songs to give us very clear images of her characters.
	The subjects of SobuleÕs songs are real people, with slices of fantasy typically thrown in. ÒI actually did work with Karen Burnett at a shoe store on Madison Avenue,Ó she says. ÒShe was the boss. But I made her out [in the song ÔKaren By NightÕ] to be an exciting kind of outlaw character, when she was just a pathetic alcoholic.Ó Songs in Jill's personal musicals are ironic, humorous, but rarely depressing; in her words, she tends to write songs that Òsound innocent but underneath are kind of perverse.Ó
	And of course, the two women who do a little sexual experimenting in ÒI Kissed A GirlÓ  have become the stars of this album. ÒI'm writing this goofy song about the next door neighbors getting it on. And itÕs funny,Ó she explains, Òbecause I never meant to be a lesbian poster child.Ó But the characters in this song have come to life, through the power of radio and MTV--with results both good and bad. 
	Sobule mentions a recent live show in Phoenix where the younger audience members sang along during her performance of ÒI Kissed A Girl.Ó  ÒI felt like a good role model. IÕm sure everyone has had a crush on someone when they were in junior high--someone of the same sex--and they were kind of ashamed by it. And I thought, ÔGod, if there was a song like that when I was a kid, that would have been OK.ÕÓ
	On the bad side, a radio station in Tennessee recently began airing a warning message before playing the song, advising parents to cover their childrenÕs ears. Sobule, who describes the song as a Òtotal lark,Ó was stunned. ÒIÕm not talking about blowing up somebody. ItÕs just first base,Ó she says with irony, a sheepish smile on her face. After all, who can take ÒI Kissed A GirlÓ that seriously when its video includes a supporting role by Fabio?
	Talking with Sobule about her songs, you get the impression they sprang from some of her own dreams--dreams maybe dreamt while going through a rough part of her own life. From Òa smile as big as MontanaÓ in ÒGood Person InsideÓ to the lyrical, cinematic nature of ÒTrains,Ó you would never know that the songwriter in question was someone who ended up ÒdestituteÓ after being dropped by her first record label, MCA. ÒI think this record was kind of a recovery record,Ó she says candidly. ÒIt was such a tough couple of years--and my sense of humor was the only thing which saved me.Ó
	Sobule mostly skirts around this dark period with humor: she jokes about how easy it was to make this record because she thought she had nothing to lose.  Her positive state of mind is disturbed only by the topic of politics--or, rather, the lack of political songs on her  album. ÒI feel kind of ashamed,Ó she explains. ÒI think a lot of these songs were written before the Contract With America--before people were calling up to get ÔI Kissed A GirlÕ off the airwaves.Ó She promises future songs will take a more political bent; Newt has spurred her to become more active, she claims.
	Sitting in the conference room, she grins and then sings an acapella verse from a new song that makes her point: "Oh, our Lord loves the family/Our Lord loves the saved/Our Lord loves the unborn babies and the NRA." The Randy Newman/gospelish mix will likely win smiles and smirks on both sides of the political aisle.
	Still, Jill's stories-in-a-song will always be her calling card. She dreams of collaborating with songwriting great Burt Bacharach, she says, and of maybe writing her own musical someday. Will ÒI Kissed A GirlÓ ever have its day in the sun on the Great White Way?  Who knows? But hereÕs hoping that itÕs Fabio-less.


NAUGHTY BY NATURE PERSONNEL
Treach
Kay Gee
Vinnie 


NAUGHTY BY NATURE DISCOGRAPHY

ALBUMS:
PovertyÕs Paradise  (Tommy Boy, 1995)
19 Naughty III (Tommy Boy, 1993)
Naughty By Nature (Tommy Boy, 1991)


12-INCH SINGLES:
Craziest (Tommy Boy, 1995)
Feel Me Flow (Tommy Boy, 1995)
Hip Hop Hooray (Tommy Boy, 1993)
Written On Ya Kitten (Tommy Boy, 1993)
ItÕs On (Tommy Boy, 1993)
Uptown Anthem (Tommy Boy, 1992)
EverythingÕs Gonna Be Alright (Tommy Boy, 1991)
OPP (Tommy Boy, 1991)


Some samples youÕll hear on POVERTYÕS PARADISE:
ÒPovertyÕs ParadiseÓ (D. OÕWarren) performed by 24 Carat Black
ÒEric B. Is PresidentÓ (E. Barrier, W. Griffin) performed by Eric B. & Rakim
ÒI Thank YouÓ (D. Porter, I. Hayes) performed by Sam & Dave
ÒThe Bones Fly From Spoons HandÓ performed by The Last Poets
ÒJust Hanging OutÓ (K. McKenzie, S. McKenzie, W. Mitchell) performed by the Main Source
ÒHang Out & HustleÓ (J. Brown, C. Sherell) performed by the JBÕs
ÒFind YourselfÓ performed by the Meters
ÒThatÕs All That Matters, BabyÓ (C. Wright) performed by Charles Wright
ÒEverybody Loves The SunshineÓ (R. Ayers) performed by Roy Ayers
ÒKing Of RockÓ (L. Smith, J. Simmons, D. McDaniels) performed by Run-D.M.C.
ÒOff & OnÓ (Gaye, Nyx, Perren, Mizell, Gordy, Fordham, Jones, Perry, Richards) performed by Trends Of Culture
ÒPeople Make The World Go RoundÓ (T. Bell, I. Creed) performed by Michael Jackson
ÒWhat You Do To MeÓ performed by Tony Williams
ÒOur Love Has DiedÓ performed by the Ohio Players
ÒThe WhatÓ (O. Harvey, C. Wallace, S. Combs, Method Man) performed by the Notorious B.I.G.

     ItÕs the summer of 1995, and Naughty By Nature (Treach, Vinnie and Kay Gee) have just released their third CD, PovertyÕs Paradise. The East Orange, New Jersey trio is gearing up to A)tour, B)make videos, and C)answer questions about selling out, catering to white kids, and in general not being hard enough. Know what, girls and boyeees? Naughty ainÕt having it. Oh no. Not for NBN the slings and arrows of having to pay the price for selling truckloads of product that, oh IÕm so sorry, happens to also appeal to honkies and honkettes.
     You see, Naughty By Nature may clock mad units and make sick cash and all that, but at the end of the day, they remain remarkably true to their game. And in this industry--big bucks/big stakes hip-hop, for those who just tuned in--keeping true reigns supreme, because a rap fan can suss out a fake a city block away. In hip-hop, critical acclaim means nada; itÕs the kids who matter.
     ÒYeah, exactly,Ó concurs Treach, NaughtyÕs lead rapper, certifiable love god and sometimes consort to the equally bodacious Pepa. ÒItÕs like we know the lifestyle. We continue to see it on a daily basis. So if you canÕt see whatÕs in front of your face, and make it conceptually out of something that youÕve been doing all the time, then youÕve lost touch and you donÕt deserve all that respect. In hip-hop, youÕre only as good as your last stuff--and a lot of people, they get out here and they see the money, the fame, the fortune, and they lose touch. They donÕt stay true to themselves. Our whole definition of keeping it real is staying true to ourselves. Our thing is that weÕve got our own sound, weÕve got our own vibe. Naughty By NatureÕs a totally different kind of hip-hop and we stay to that. We donÕt listen to, say, Snoop, who comes out, and we donÕt say, ÔDamn, Snoop blew up offa this, letÕs rhyme like Snoop.Õ We stick to our own sound, our mainframe, Õcause it stands out.Ó
     Sticking to oneÕs stylistic guns is a noble endeavor to be sure--but itÕs also risky financially, because hip-hop is perhaps the most fickle of art forms. Kids who bob their heads to that wacky hip-hop beat can make or break you; todayÕs Biggie Smalls is tomorrowÕs Big Daddy Kane. So if a style is perceived as being played out, then itÕs Òwould you like fries with that burgerÓ for some hapless microphone bandit. Naughty By NatureÕs gift is that over the course of three albums, they have kept to their game, created ridiculously catchy anthems (ÒOPP,Ó ÒHip-Hop Hooray,Ó the current hum-along ÒCraziestÓ), all the while maintaining a real sense of what real hip-hop should be. In a genre known for hype singles, NBN make hype albums: ones with thematic continuity, layers and layers of lyrical brilliance, and enough hooks to fill a freaking fishing boat.
     Yet the temptation must be there, lurking in the wings for NBN: the urge to make a record that has the guaranteed hit-making flavor of the week. ÒYou canÕt really do that without being on some kind of bandwagon,Ó offers Vinnie, who steps up to the mic more than ever on PovertyÕs Paradise. ÒWe know that our music is basically party-oriented, and when we make records, we mainly think of how people react onstage with us. We take it from an entertainment point of view, you know? How will we be able to rock the crowd? We donÕt want the crowd to just sit there and bob their heads to us.Ó
     Entertainment is perhaps NaughtyÕs secret weapon. Yes, there may be better rappers (although Treach is truly a fiend on the mic, taking LLÕs tripled-up style to the next logical level), and yes, there may be better producers (although Kay Gee--now head of his own Illtown Records and the man behind Zhane, among others--is nothing to sneeze at), and yes, there may be a lot of other guys doing it. But only Naughty consistently puts all the elements together and remembers itÕs called show business for a reason. Any kid can play junior-A&R dude listening to a Naughty record, itÕs that easy to figure out the hits. But these guys donÕt stop.
     ÒYeah, it comes from different angles,Ó says Treach. ÒWe might come up with a hook, and then Kay might come up with beat. Then we have list of different concepts, and Kay will have his tracks, and we have different rhymes, and itÕs like a puzzle.  We just put all the pieces together.Ó
     ÒWeÕve already got stuff cataloged for the next album,Ó Vinnie chimes in. ÒBut itÕs like that, itÕs an everyday process for us. We always conceptualize, weÕre always taking from whatever.Ó For example, ÒClap Yo HandsÓ came from a routine the group would do onstage. ÒCraziestÓ was a chant they heard at a celebrity basketball game. NaughtyÕs anthems are so deceptively simple, so why-didnÕt-I-think-of-that, that itÕs hard to imagine nobody did. As great as ÒHip-hop HoorayÓ was, itÕs amazing, considering the music's history, that it took so long for a group to come up with the chant.
     ÒYeah, well a lot of people are so caught up in showing you how real they are, how rugged they are, how much weed they smoke, or how many people they shoot. They lose the whole entertainment thing,Ó says Vinnie.
     ÒAfter we came out, we was like, Ôdamn!ÕÓ Treach laughs. ÒWe done created a monster, Õcause people were just creating hooks. Wu Tang is a perfect example. When they came out they had some hooks, they had some shit that was rocking, and Tupac...the list goes on.Ó
     OK. So NBN make great party records that pack a wallop, they look good, rhyme better, and are nice guys who give back to the community and raise consciousness. So how come some folks still have a beef with them? Oh yeah, itÕs the old sell-out thing, the you-make-hip-hop-for-MTV thing.
     ÒKay Gee said it best,Ó Treach declares. ÒThere are all these different pop radio stations that play all this rap. You donÕt see nobody going up to them and saying, ÔThis is a pop radio station--donÕt play my record, Õcause IÕm keeping it real. IÕm on some underground shit. DonÕt pay me. How many white little kids gonna buy my record? DonÕt buy my shit, this just for projects.Õ There ainÕt that many projects gonna get you gold and platinum. Everybody is after that mark, but then say you sold out.Ó
     Treach leans into the tape recorder. ÒWell, thank you. IÕll be the biggest sell-out out there. I donÕt care. Everybody whoÕs buying my records, continue to buy Õem--and all the pop radio stations, continue to play Õem. ÕCause we love it, and we support it. Thank you!Ó


SOUL ASYLUM: Let Your Dim Light Shine (Columbia)
By Bill Holdship
     You still just canÕt help thinking ÒReplacements.Ó
     Dave Pirner always kind of struck me as Paul WesterbergÕs little brother. The irony was that while the Replacements successfully captured their essence on at least three albums, Soul Asylum have never translated their always awesome live performances onto vinyl or CD.
     An even bigger irony, however, was that after Nirvana made the world safe for the sound the ÕMats pioneered, Soul Asylum broke through not with a grunge anthem but with a modern folk-rock (now-) classic that wouldnÕt have sounded out of place coming from John Mellencamp or Tom Petty. Shame was that while Grave DancerÕs Union was a powerhouse onstage, on disc, it was a tad...well, boring.
     Things change. By employing producer Butch Vig to turn the knobs here and beefing up the rhythm section with a new drummer, Soul Asylum have finally captured it on vinyl. And the great thing is that Let Your Dim Light Shine will disappoint neither fans of ÒRunaway TrainÓ or those who still want their Soul Asylum hard. ÒMiseryÓ--which with its chorus of ÒFrustrated IncorporatedÓ could become an anthem for disenfranchised youngsters as well as unsatisfied oldsters--successfully merges both elements on the kickoff track, and the folkish ÒTo My Own DevicesÓ and rocking ÒBittersweetheartÓ intermingle throughout the next 45 minutes-plus.
     Lyrically, Pirner still captures those Minneapolis working-class blooze and that post-teen angst in the same way his Òolder broÓ used to do. And like Westerberg, Pirner writes sensitively about women in a way that explains why so many women are infatuated with both dudes: ÒEyes Of A ChildÓ deals poignantly with a prostitute,  and ÒTo My Own DevicesÓ a waitress (who claims Òshe waited on ElvisÓ). ÒJust Like Anyone,Ó meanwhile, is about a woman whoÕs thinking when sheÕs peeing. Weird!
     But be it folk or rock, itÕs pop music the way we unsatisfied oldsters have always loved it. The great thing about ÒRunaway TrainÓ is that it immediately sounded like something youÕd heard and loved before, and like Westerberg (hell, like Lennon and Wilson for that matter), PirnerÕs hooks have frequently been nicked from the best. After several listens to ÒDim Light Shine,Ó I can recall and identify hooks that remind me of the Sweet, Tom Petty, ZZ Top (!?), the Who, the Byrds, George Strait (!?), Exile-era Stones, the Clash, Steve Forbert, both psychedelic and mop-top Beatles, and, oh yeah, the Replacements. Always the Replacements.
     And in the process, Soul Asylum have created a wonderful slab of popÕnÕroll here. Looks like Dave Pirner has finally grown up.


BUSH: Sixteen Stone (Trauma/Interscope)
By Richard C. Walls
     British band Bush have gotten some grief for coming across as ersatz grunge, posers who have mastered the contours of the genre without touching its greasy heart. And there is some evidence on their debut disc for this cruel assessment--not just that ÒLittle ThingsÓ bears a huge if circumstantial resemblance to the flannel anthem ÒTeen Spirit,Ó but in the strategy that the bandÕs singer/songwriter/guitarist Gavin Rossdale uses to collect his thoughts: a string of private jokes passed off as poetry with a few catchy near-aphorisms per song (e.g. ÒEverything ZenÓÕs ÒthereÕs no sex in your violenceÓ). The grunge move then would be to put an obliterating guitar layer over the cubist lyrics, giving the song a hot coherent  sheen.
     Which is pretty much what Rossdale and his co-guitarist (and the bandÕs baldie sex symbol) Nigel Pulsford do, except that--and hereÕs the rub which makes or breaks the band for most folk--these guys are proficient musicians and so, inevitably, their approach to au courant simplicity sounds a little...worked at. The cut ÒComedownÓ is a good example of the non-ostentatious busy-ness that runs through the disc--theyÕre using pauses, counter-textures, coloring effects; just  the sort of filigree youÕd expect from musicians once removed from the original spark (theyÕve heard the Seattle sound, and now they have to do something with it).
     But second wave need not mean second rate, and even though the more dedicated devourers of mod guitar angst may be put off by BushÕs brew of good, clean despair, if you like a well-attended-to guitar directness (always preferable to a dummy virtuosity) and tend to cut rock lyrics the slack they deserve, then Bush oughta suit you just fine.


OUR LADY PEACE: Naveed (Relativity)
By Ron Givens
     Who needs classic rock when there's Our Lady Peace? In just one album--and a debut at that--you get the power-riffing that made the Who famous, the endless hooks that sent Cheap Trick to the top of the charts, the slow start/fast middle/slow finish style that put the Led into Zeppelin, the poetic mysticism that made Jim Morrison's Paris grave a shrine. And that's not all. You also get all the dysfunction and confusion that made Seattle our nation's capital of rock, not to mention a few vocals with the kind of quiver that Eddie Vedder could only master after years of psychic pain. And that's not all. You get all of this delivered with such discipline and musicianship that it makes very little difference how derivative the whole deal can be. Our Lady Peace, a quartet out of Toronto, puts more music in, so you get more music out. 
     Take, for example, "Starseed," the song that introduced the band to the States earlier this year. The tune shifts musical gears four times--from folky noodling to acid-rock soaring to full-bore pounding--before the lead singer even comes in. Some bands don't deliver this much energy in an entire album. 
     And, amazingly enough, these whippersnappers (Raine Maida, vocals and lyrics; Mike Turner, guitar; Chris Eacrett, bass; Jeremy Taggart, drums) know how to work the dynamics of a song like veterans, building great tension in the title tune, for instance, by going from a white-hot chorus to a cool, delicate bridge and then back again. 
     Too many of these songs have somewhat vague or completely murky lyrics--"We're under zenith again, it's healthy, if not for long"--but the music is so strong that it doesn't matter much if you ever solve the riddles. You don't have to think to appreciate the power of Our Lady Peace.


BETTER THAN EZRA: Deluxe (Elektra)
By Chuck Crisafulli
     ItÕs difficult, at best, and probably pointless, to try to define what exactly ÒalternativeÓ music is supposed to sound like at this point. But itÕs not so hard to hear that the music made by Louisiana-bred trio Better Than Ezra is an alternative to ÒalternativeÓ--their major label debut is packed with the kind of straightforward hard-pop songcraft that seems to stay in style no matter whoÕs headlining Lollapalooza. 
     Knowing that the band crafted its sound while working its way through the Baton Rouge club circuit, one might expect to hear something full of swampy, stinky, delta vibes. But Better Than Ezra keep their music clean and clear. The swirling guitars are tasty, the beats are straight and true, and vocalist Kevin Griffin belts out his songs of heartache with unflinching earnestness. With that pop recipe in effect, the band covers quite a bit of sonic territory, and theyÕre helped along by producer Dan Rothchild, who proves that a sure hand in the studio may have some basis in genetics (his father Paul produced the Doors). 
     ÒIn the BloodÓ is a high-spirited jangler, prime for blasting out of car radios, while ÒSouthern GirlÓ and ÒCry In The SunÓ ride deeper, more melancholy grooves. Thumping bass and harder-edged guitars keep ÒGoodÓ and ÒSummerhouseÓ bright and lively, and ÒHeavenÓ has the band shooting for tender balladry. ThereÕs a seriousness of purpose to most of BTEÕs material, but a bonus track loudly celebrating the wonders of pork, beans, and sauerkraut demonstrates that the fellows have a sense of humor too.  
     Deluxe isnÕt a stunner, but it is an album of convincing craft and gentle pleasures--and thatÕs always an attractive alternative when the world starts to get too noisy. 


MONSTER MAGNET: Dopes To Infinity (A&M)
By Chris Morris
     Deadpan burlesque artistes or rawk knucklehaids?  It's really hard to tell which category Monster Magnet falls into, but that may be a large component of the charm of this neo-psychedelic posse, who serve up another side of slammin' lysergic sprawl on their second A&M album.
     Like the band's previous efforts, Dopes To Infinity purees all manner of '60s-derived aural mucous into a noisy heap of mind-altering clatter. The overlord and auteur of the Magnetic morass is vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Dave Wyndorf; a reveler in sonic unrestraint, he woofs such declamations as ÒI am Tarzan, King of MarsÓ without betraying a hint of post-modern irony.  Behind him, guitarist Ed Mundell, bassist Joe Calandra, and drummer Jon Kleiman stir an authentically hallucinatory cacophony that will tickle anyone whose LP collection was scarred during long-ago acid parties.
     It's a hoot to play Òspot the theftÓ with this record.  Note, for example, the straight-faced cop from ÒTales of Brave UlyssesÓ on the adeptly-titled ÒNegasonic Teenage Warhead,Ó thrill to the Pink Floyd purloining on ÒAll Friends and Kingdom Come,Ó or bang your noggin to the Funhouse-era Stooges lift ÒI Control, I Fly.Ó The Magnets are shameless pirates, and that makes their music all the more entertaining for veteran tripmasters.
     Some listeners may be irked by the seemingly dead-serious oh-wowism of Dopes To Infinity. But, taken in the proper spirit, Monster Magnet's throwback dopefest is definitely worthy of a cosmic giggle or two.  Light an incense stick, toss a tie-dyed scarf over the lamp, taste the windowpane, and get into it, man. 


TRICKY: Maxinquaye (Island)
By Greg Sandow
     ON FIRST HEARING: I adored this record. I like music that sounds as if the clock reads 4 A.M. This is nocturnal and queasy, partly muttered and partly sung, with sampled beats you canÕt call Òambient,Ó because they donÕt cohere enough. They sound like an old house creaking late at night.
     BUT THEN I...read the record companyÕs publicity stuff. Besides factual data--Tricky, a rapper and producer, is one of those insanely creative British dance guys (he worked with Massive Attack), with a subterranean streak all his own--I learned how twisted the artist thinks this record is. Gonna have to listen harder, I said.
     SO I PLAYED THE CD ABOUT 15 TIMES. Lyrics hover in the fog: ÒYou feed me when IÕm hungry, drink me till IÕm dry.Ó Tender, in a noir kind of way. But IÕm distracted. A singer billed only as Martine sounds so intimate IÕd swear I can taste her tongue. 
     AND NOW...I donÕt want to write this review because I donÕt want to stop listening. The beats are genius, arresting and at the same time almost random, as if Tricky had mixed in murmurs stolen from disconnected dreams. ThereÕs a ballad, ÒPumpkinÓ (from sampled Smashing Pumpkin drums), with a smoky melody, affecting even though it only comes in wisps. But most of all I loved the vocals, most of them duets, Martine (or other women) singing, while Tricky speaks. Damned if they donÕt convey the most amazing bond, between two people tied together even while they move on separate tracks. If thatÕs not love--in these dark days--I donÕt know what is.


M PEOPLE: Bizarre Fruit (Epic)
By Tom Lanham
     Folk came back. Punk came back. And now, as if on cue, disco music is stomping back onto the airwaves in glittery platform heels. Not that this is any great secret--the Pet Shop Boys have always understood the campy beauty of a good dancefloor remix--but UK hi-NRG trio M People give the sound enough of a unique spin that it comes off new and invigorating. Like something special you've never heard before. The group's sophomore Bizarre Fruit disc states its case bluntly with the opening "Sight For Sore Eyes"--a faux gospel beginning, courtesy of bluesy belter Heather Small, bounces lithely over piano notes for a minute, then plunges headlong into a throbbing disco pulse. And Small's got one of those muscular Aretha-school voices that can not only keep pace with the frantic synthesizer beats, but actually clobber 'em senseless to the ground. Which she does, song after hip-shaking song.
     As in the halcyon days of Casablanca Records--when Kiss fans sneered at Donna Summer albums--it's all too easy for today's alternative types to point fingers at groups like M People, Yaki Da, and Ace Of Base as mindless, mechanized modulations. But they're truly missing this music's inherent genius. Listen to the way the champagne-bubbly keyboards at the beginning of "Open Your Heart" bleed into a full-tilt hook that's almost Euro-pop, ABBA-esque in its complexity, and as moving as anything off Summer's classic Once Upon A Time set (which exemplified all the greatest attributes of the disco movement). DJ/group mastermind Michael Pickering isn't fooling around here--he knows his sources (and readily nicks a trick or two from them, when necessary) and understands their ear-candy possibilities. "Walk Away" features casual fingersnaps for percussion, Small's voice coiling around the socially-conscious words like an anaconda, and a robotic, gotta-move chorus that literally pounces on the listener, unsuspected. It's a succulent slice of sound that transcends tags like ÒpopÓ or ÒdiscoÓ and transcends national borders as well. Go ahead. Move to M People's manipulative rhythms. There's nothing to be ashamed of.


JAMIROQUAI: The Return Of The Space Cowboy (Work)
By Amy Linden
     Jamiroquai burst upon the musical scene with enough hype to...well, forgive the child, he is from the U.K. Signed to a multi-album deal, and armed with a marketing plan that combined eco-friendly politics with club-kid attitude, Jamiroquai (AKA Jason Kay) made a noble attempt to stake his claim as acid jazzÕs first pin-up-boy, American division. His debut Emergency On Planet Earth did nicely (it was massive in Europe), but Jason KayÕs impassioned but rambling defense of indigenous peoples, endangered species, and new age activism overpowered what was essentially a pretty funky little effort.
     On Return Of The Space Cowboy, Jason and the gang have tuned the polemics down a notch or two and opted to let the music do the talking. Jason Kay has a fluid, playful tenor that at best suggests a lifetime spent listening to Stevie Wonder, at  worst a lifetime dreaming he was Stevie Wonder. Granted he wouldnÕt be the first boy (white, black or otherwise) to aim for the stars, but the flattery can grow tiresome. So too can JamiroquaiÕs somewhat aimless method of songwriting.
     Obviously influenced by Roy Ayers, Donald Byrd, Wonder, and any number of Ô70s R&B/lite jazz masters, Jamiroquai & co. are able to pull a delicious groove out of  their collective trick bag with ease. Where they falter is their inability to construct songs, rather than extended riffs held together by random thoughts. One notable exception is the soulful ÒHalf A Man,Ó which pulsates, captivates, and follows a linear progression. The first single ÒSpace CowboyÓ is a percolating love song to JasonÕs drug of choice, the ever-so-trendy Mary Jane. The band flits in and out of the beat, as Jason croons cheeba cheeba, but somethingÕs missing. ThereÕs not enough anchor, not enough bottom. By the end of  ÒReturn Of The Space CowboyÓ you realize that the noise Jason & co. serves up tastes kinda great, itÕs just not all that filling--and youÕre hungry for more.


BUSHWICK BILL: Phantom Of The Rapra (Rap-A-Lot/Noo Trybe)
By Rob OÕConnor
     If one had to justify why one liked an album by Bushwick Bill--or his previous band, Geto Boys--one wouldnÕt be able to. Oh, one could try to pawn off the excessive, gratuitous violence as merely comic book/ horror film escapism, but letÕs face it, the idea of a one-eyed midget hoarsely yelling isnÕt really escapism. The category, I believe, is voyeurism. And, hey, if a one-eyed midget wants to make a mint relaying stories of the Òhood,Ó well, what the hell, they donÕt call it capitalism for nothing.
     While rapÕs detractors will tell you all rap is just yelling, well, theyÕre half-right. When rap works, it is yelling--but to succeed, it also needs grooves that ensure toe-tapping and ass-slapping alike. Bushwick may begin the album with some dull explanation of how rap is like street opera (ÒPhantomÕs ThemeÓ), but heÕs quick to quit the homily and get down with ominous grooves and paranoiac ranting. While ÒWha Cha Gonna Do?Ó and ÒX-GirlsÓ are unrepentant and full-force rap braggadocio, ÒOnly God KnowsÓ openly admits that underneath all the boasting reside men who confront their mortality every day of their lives. By side two, BushwickÕs sound echoes that of Dr. Dre and Ice CubeÕs ÒNatural Born Killaz,Ó where swooping radar tones suggest  every man is marked.
     While IÕm sure over time certain lines will bear out BushwickÕs sick sense of humor, what is most surprising about Rapra is the way it never successfully conceals the real emotions behind the put-on. In effect, Bushwick has made a compelling album by accident. But compelling it is, nonetheless.


NATALIE MERCHANT: Tigerlily (Elektra)
By Jon Young
     At the risk of sounding offensively shallow, it must be noted that Natalie Merchant's first solo album is no fun. Anyone familiar with the elegant folk-rock she made in 10,000 Maniacs will not approach Tigerlily expecting updates of ÒLouie, Louie,Ó  of course, but this is ridiculous. The bandÕs gravest efforts were downright playful compared to these somber reflections on mortality and betrayal, which find Merchant adrift in a gloomy haze, confusing listlessness and subtlety. Somebody get this woman a cup of coffee and tell her a joke! 
     Regardless, the melodies are often lustrous, delivered with chamber-music tastefulness by pianist Merchant and her quiet crew, which includes guitarist Jennifer Turner, drummer Peter Yanowitz and bassist Barrie Maguire. The mellow ÒSan Andreas FaultÓ  and the almost perky ÒWonderÓ  underscore humanityÕs inadequacy in the face of greater natural forces, while ÒBeloved WifeÓ and ÒRiver,Ó an ode to River Phoenix, contemplate the finality of death, offering solace to morbid romantics. Despite her characteristically lovely vocals, Merchant seems emotionally drained, a state she acknowledges to the wan strains of ÒI May Know the Word,Ó  murmuring, ÒIÕd be praying for deliverance/From the night into the day/But itÕs all gray here.Ó 
     Offering a clue to the source of her dispirited bearing, the closing track could have been the starting point for a considerably more interesting album. Making explicit the anger implied elsewhere, ÒSeven YearsÓ simmers with rage and bitterness underneath its polite surface, as Merchant curses a deceitful lover, vowing never to forgive--a primal scream wouldÕve been appropriate, though sheÕs hardly prone to such vulgarity. Still, Tigerlily may have provided Merchant the catharsis she needs to get up off the floor and squeeze out a few sparks next time.


SUDDENLY, TAMMY!: (We Get There When We Do.) (Warner Bros.)
By J. Kordosh
     Well, this should be one heck of a typographical treat. Please try to stay with me and my sentence structure as I discuss Suddenly, Tammy!Õs major label debut, (We Get There When We Do.).  I will work ellipses in here somewhere (by cracky)...
     The odd...er, oddest...thing about this trio from Lancaster, PA, I guess, is that none of them plays guitar. No, sir. Beth Sorrentino sings and plays piano, bro Jay is their drummer, and Ken HeitmuellerÕs their bassist. See: no guitars. Now this doesnÕt hurt on ÒHard Lesson,Ó with its catchy piano riffing--click on to that button over there that says ÒHard LessonÓ and IÕm sure you'll agree--but it does tend to wear you down after a while. The last band I heard that depended on their rhythm section this much was the Rolling Stones and they, after all, were the Rolling Stones.
     A further consequence of their bare bones line-up is that Ms. SorrentinoÕs voice is everywhere. Sometimes, as on ÒNot That Dumb,Ó this works well, in a poppish way. Elsewhere, Beth (who really would seem happier as a folksinger than she would fronting this mutant jazz combo) can get sort of cloying. Go ahead, click another button over there. Any button.
     The reason for this, in great part, is that almost none of the TammysÕ lyrics make any sense whatsoever. IÕll grant thereÕs a certain charm in the concept, but 13 songs of  it goes beyond even high concept. Beyond, perhaps, even Himalayan concept. I dunno about you, but when I hear a lyric like ÒWaving my heavy arms back and forth/Floating with schools of tropical fish,Ó I start looking for the chum bucket.
     (We Get There When We Do.) is almost more a collection of moods than songs. At its best itÕs subtly melodic; at its not-so-best itÕs rambling ambience. Which is, I suppose, what youÕd expect from a parenthetical album.


THE APARTMENTS: A Life Full Of Farewells (Hot/Restless)
By Michael Lipton
     If the first half of the year is any indication, 1995 may be the most influential year for Australian music since the heyday of Midnight Oil. With U.S. releases by Grant McLennan, Ed Kuepper, Simon Bonney and the Cruel Sea, the Aussie crop has been a varied and bountiful one. But of all the above discs, the U.S. debut from AustraliaÕs Apartments stands out as the most timeless.
     Be forewarned: Farewells doesnÕt bowl you over with tape-saturated production (Cruel Sea), woo you with contemporary pop gems (McLennan), or seduce you with haunting soundscapes (Bonney). Quite simply, ex-Go-Between/Laughing Clown Peter Walsh takes songwriting to its most fragile and elegant level--a quality that becomes more apparent with each listening.
     Framed in a string quartet passage, ÒThank You for Making Me BegÓ recalls the cabaret folk of Space Oddity-era Bowie before turning into a moving anthem: ÒI get tired of living or maybe IÕm just tired of who I am/Failure left its mark on last yearÕs man.Ó ÒThe Failure Of Love Is A Brick WallÓ pairs a Nick Drake-styled acoustic guitar, cello, and trumpet with a melody line that brings to mind Orange JuiceÕs Edwyn Collins. Thanks in part to Tommy GrassoÕs absolutely beautiful pedal steel work, ÒYou Became My Big ExcuseÓ is not only accessible, but a tune that could easily be co-opted into a country ballad.
     These days, recordings are meant for immediate consumption. But if you have the time to be caressed by some heavy spirits--the trumpet lines of LoveÕs Forever Changes or the eerie solitude of Moby Grape's Bob Mosley, for instance--A Life Full Of Farewells will be a rare treat.


ANGEL CORPUS CHRISTI: White Courtesy Phone  (Almo Sounds)
By Richard Riegel
     As an actual participant in that infinite bicentennial moment of Bloomington, Indiana pop sensibility that thrust John Cougar Mellencamp upon a hungry-for-chili-dogs universe, Angel Corpus Christi knows that pink houses arenÕt built in a day. Back when it looked like the inchoate Johnny Cougar might not have a prayer, Ms. Corpus Christi was already crafting bohemian lyrics to the unique post-consumer metal manifestoes of spouse Rich StimÕs band, the legendary MX-80 Sound. As fate would have it, the multiplatinum-arteried Mellencamp was hit with a heart attack before any permutation of the (relocated-to-San Francisco) MX-80/Angel Corpus Christi salon-for-life got a record deal from a major American label.
     Not late but just in time, White Courtesy Phone is everything (and more) we wanted all those years we knew someday Angel would be queen, as the gloss and punch of Craig LeonÕs big-league production only serve to showcase the inevitable pop truth of AngelÕs supposed eccentricities. Yes, that IS a different keyboard you hear in the rÕnÕr flux on there, as odd as the late NicoÕs late harmonium, but not so anti-social; Angel Corpus Christi has always been the life of any pop-music third party with her strolling ACCORDION. Ms. Corpus ChristiÕs instrument-of-choice is a perfect symbol of her musical vision, which likewise lies somewhere between the rive gauche and North Dakota, and is made up of songs so smoothly dry & true that theyÕre positively radical.
     Just reality-check the Desert Storm-despaired opener, ÒBig Black Cloud,Ó or the mellow but edgy ÒThrew It AwayÓ--when Angel Corpus Christi croons, itÕs always 3 P.M. in the muggy Bloomington afternoon of your soul, time to write more songs while your laundry turns in the dryer. In ÒJohn Cassavetes,Ó Angel admits that she cried when the terminally black & white actor/director died, and what could be more real? Rich StimÕs and Craig LeonÕs guitars provide all the rave punctuation AngelÕs tales-as-dealt demand.
     In ÒCandyÓ and ÒLazy,Ó Angel C.C.Õs a 4-paw-declawed sex kitten, ready to cuddle up to and to squeeze all your boxes, to take the edge off the usual angst suspects one more time. Label boss Herb Alpert adds his own velveeta-underbrowned trumpet to the lusciously sensual ÒLazy,Ó which reminds the listener that the nifty ÒDim The LightsÓ sounds like Lou ReedÕs old group, if theyÕd only included Branson, Missouri, on their reunion tour. And ÒBeen There Done ThatÓ is an even more brilliant exposition of Ms. Corpus ChristiÕs melodic as-drunk-by-the-astronauts Twang.
     After all, when the only new land west of S.F. is ÒGoing underground/Next to your next-of-kin,Ó as Angel Corpus ChristiÕs ÒDownÓ has it, who wouldnÕt want to hear an accomplished accordionist tickle a Ò96 TearsÓ subtext out of her synthetic ivories?  I know I would.


MARCUS PRINTUP: Song For The Beautiful Woman (Blue Note) 
By Josef Woodard
     Considering that the youthful age arc and widespread emulation of bygone eras still hold the jazz scene in check, a solid--if hardly original--mainstream outing like Marcus PrintupÕs Song For The Beautiful Woman seems to be right in the lap of fashion. Of course, it may be a point of tired irony by now to mention that it would have also sounded fashionable 10--or, more to the point, 30--years ago.
     At age 28, Printup is a certifiable young trumpet wizard. His fleet facility, clever palette of nuances, easy grasp of the hornÕs tonal range, and a willingness to blow suggest the early recordings of Wynton Marsalis, minus MarsalisÕ deposits of inveterate invention. As dazzling as the playing is, Printup sometimes runs up against a  facile predictability that keeps his improvisations from either soaring with feeling or digging deep into soulfulness. 
     Here, PrintupÕs quintet outing surveys the familiar straightahead/hard bop terrain that Marsalis retooled from Art BlakeyÕs paradigm and repopularized in the early Õ80s.  Complemented by a band featuring pianist Eric Reed, Printup touches on the requisite varieties of mood and texture, including deftly-handled standards-fare of ÒI'll Remember AprilÓ and ÒSpeak Low,Ó the musky balladry of the title track, and the brisk, angular blowfest of the aptly-named ÒTrauma.Ó Variations on the minor blues form are represented by ÒMinor Ordeal.Ó  Printup picks up a mute and a twilight attitude, as drummer Brian Blade picks up brushes, to bask in the blue light of ÒLonely Heart.Ó Conscientiously designed and well-balanced, it has everything you want from a neo-Blue Note album...and a little bit less. 
     As with other young traditionalists with abiding respect for their musical elders and the legacy of such an iconic label as Blue Note, Printup gives the term Òcompany manÓ a new validity. This is a proficient, true-to-form example of modern, backward-glancing jazz: more professional than confessional, with nary an existential qualm or stylistic deviation in the house. Judging from PrintupÕs ample musicality, deeper progress reports can be expected in the future. 


RACHELLE FERRELL: First Instrument (Blue Note)
By Chip Stern
     Over the past year, whenever the topic of deserving R&B vocalists arose, IÕd ante up JoiÕs Pendulum Vibe to my friends. Those whoÕd heard it would inevitably raise the stakes by drawing the names Dionne Farris and Rachelle Ferrell from the bottom of the deck.
     These emerging divas share a deep feeling for the Afro-American vocal tradition, and a willingness to stretch out and try something fresh and personal. And after a listen or two to FerrellÕs First Instrument, youÕll find it hard to believe that these tapes have been bouncing around since 1990-Ðbecause only once every generation or so does a voice like Rachelle FerrellÕs emerge. 
     On ÒDonÕt Waste Your TimeÓ she opens with percussive accents over a shifting Afro-Cuban/swing pulse--sounding for all the world like a cuica and a talking drum--before descending into her rich lower register, where she metaphorically disengages from a suitorÕs designs. She returns after the piano solo with elaborate horn-like arpeggios, first descending, then ascending, shading her notes with expressive horn-like colorations and Coltrane-ish harmonic modulations, before leaping into her altissimo register for an unearthly whistling tone that must have every dog on the eastern seaboard taking a cold shower. 
     FerrellÕs stylings suggest Sarah VaughanÕs limitless top-to-bottom range (ÒExtensionsÓ) and Ella FitzgeraldÕs rhythmic virtuosity (ÒBye Bye BlackbirdÓ)Ð-although no way does she swing like Ella. And like these great stylists, Ferrell often seems less concerned with the songÕs storyline than with its possibilities as a jumping off point for her phenomenal melodic and harmonic variations (Cole PorterÕs famous blowing changes to ÒWhat Is This Thing Called Love?Ó are treated to an exploratory slam-dunking). But on ÒYou Send MeÓ and a remarkable ÒMy Funny Valentine,Ó she fuses her dramatic and melodic approaches in the service of the song, suggesting why First Instrument may just be a shot across the bow of the popular song.


HERBIE HANCOCK: Dis Is Da Drum (Mercury)
By Thom Jurek
     For over 30 years, jazz pianist and fusion pioneer Herbie Hancock has kept a keen ear to the ground for the latest developments in popular music--more specifically, black popular music. With Dis Is Da Drum, Hancock reveals that heÕs been listening to Acid Jazz lately. The album is a funkier-than-funky exercise in beat consciousness done club-style-Ðstreet-tough, yet elegant. The biggest surprise is that Hancock used primarily jazz musicians to make it. 
     The disc opens with ÒCall It Õ95,Ó a track full of break beats, drum  loops, and HancockÕs gorgeous acoustic piano playing. As the loops set a pace, and Hancock shimmies in with his lines (which echo his own ÒWatermelon ManÓ from the Õ60s), trumpeter Wallace Roney and reed player Bennie Maupin solo over and through the mix like shamen. Sequencers, synthesizers, and African percussion fill in the space and carry it over into the stratosphere.
     On the title track, Hancock plays the Acid Jazz card for all itÕs worth. Sampled voices, synth bass, and clavinets build the track from the rhythm up, shooting a gorgeous, mysterious African chant straight through the mix like an arrow. As mixologist Will ÒRocÓ GriffinÕs samples and drum loops weave together with Kenny StrongÕs trap kit, the trackÕs dimensions extend, warp, blur, and even breathe-Ðleaving only the almighty funk to guide the listener through to its finish. 
     Make no mistake, this record is dance music first and jazz second, meant to be played over a booming sound system in a sweatbox club rather than in a concert hall--though I have no doubt it would sound fine there as well. Rather than just indulging his restless nature for experimentation and appropriation, Hancock has, with Dis Is Da Drum, taken elemental notions of all the musics he plays and given us something new, earthy, gorgeous, soulful, and gritty. I hope he sells a million of Õem.


JIMMY SMITH: Damn! (Verve)
By Mark Rowland
     Jimmy Smith came from a place where jazz fans danced, coffee meant joe, and lounge music sizzled. The guy all but invented the Hammond B-3 organ as a weapon, and with it a genre that worshipped the greasy groove along with bopÕs sophisticated harmonies. No surprise it turned out to be jazzÕs last grasp at pop music back in the Õ50s, when Smith fried the funk with guitar gods like Wes Montgomery and Kenny Burrell. And perhaps no surprise that Smith, at age 70, has become hip again in the Õ90s, generously sampled by Acid Jazzers and Starbucks cappuccino sippers alike. Or that Verve, the jazz label that markets the old masters before they die, has pulled out all the, uh, stops to give 10 of the fleetest fingers in showbizness the forum they deserve. 
     On Damn!, SmithÕs first major label outing in many, many moons, his supporting cast comprises the cream of todayÕs hot young turks--Nicholas Payton, Roy Hargrove, Christian McBride, Mark Whitfield, etc.--and you can practically hear them wheezing for breath as Smith torches his way through Blue Notey classics like Herbie HancockÕs ÒWatermelon Man,Ó Horace SilverÕs ÒSister Sadie,Ó and ÒThis Here,Ó by fellow Philadelphian Bobby Timmons. Still spry enough to lay waste to Charlie ParkerÕs changes on ÒScrapple From The Apple,Ó he can also spin gold off the barest of hooks; I once heard him kill for 10 minutes on ÒSugar SugarÓ by the Archies, I swear. Vamp vehicles here include the considerably cooler ÒPapaÕs Got A Brand New Bag,Ó showing up SmithÕs flair for melodic improvisation at warp speed, and Curtis FullerÕs ÒA La Mode,Ó featuring a saxophone menage a trois and the last recording session of the late great drummer Art Taylor, who propels tempo with his trademark swing and savvy. HereÕs hoping Damn! inspires a new generation of Jimmy Smith fans and sets off a Hammond B-3 revival in the process. Knock on wood? 


KENNY GARRETT: Triology (Warner Bros.)
By Tom Moon
     Ever since tenor saxophonist Sonny RollinsÕ 1957 classic Live At The Village Vanguard (Blue Note), the horn/bass/drums setting has been one of those hurdles the serious jazz improviser is expected to eventually clear. ItÕs almost a rite of passage: Any half-decent button-pusher can squeeze by when a pianist is supplying the harmonic outline; covering the full harmony with single notes is a whole other challenge.
     Kenny Garrett obviously thinks heÕs up to the task. His Triology takes the knotty phrases and breezy tone of RollinsÕ work, adds a bit of Maceo ParkerÕs battery-acid soul, then factors in spirited, ongoing crosstalk with drummer Brian Blade to concoct an animated statement unlike anything else available in the current jazz market. Dedicating the disk to Rollins and Joe Henderson, both masters of the trio setting, alto saxophonist Garrett, 34, was aiming high; he knew he couldnÕt simply serve the warmed-over bebop associated with the neo-traditionalist movement. He also knew that few in his peer group have showcased themselves in such open, under-the-microscope surroundings.
     So Garrett starts out with something to prove. He plays hard. His phrases, often jarringly off-kilter, suggest new ways to perceive rhythm. HeÕs trimmed away the obvious tried-and-true licks--what a pitching coach would call his ÒjunkÓ pitches--and sought out genuine melodies instead. Applying this approach to both standards and jazz warhorses, heÕs uncovering new combinations, using the open air of the trio format to blow through years of stuffy convention.
     While the ballad moments (particularly ÒA Time For LoveÓ) demonstrate that Garrett has evolved considerably since his diffuse 1992 effort Black Hope, it is his treatment of John ColtraneÕs ÒGiant StepsÓ that provides conclusive proof of his new priorities. Most saxophonists handle the tricky harmonic sequence with automatic arpeggiation, but Garrett begins with simple quarter notes, and from such humble beginnings, builds a terse, exciting, incredibly precise solo that glances at Coltrane and Rollins and Henderson, but never stoops to showboating.


BLIND MELON: Soup (Capitol)
By Janiss Garza
     On their sophomore album, Blind Melon soundly stomp on the Òhippie rockÓ tag that followed them in the wake of their debutÕs multi-platinum success. This quintet is no mere group of dreamy tripsters--theyÕre sophisticated musicians capable of taking complex ideas and molding them into catchy tunes. 
     Soup is a smorgasbord of moods that changes from track to track, often in mid-song. The urban-esque ÒDumptruckÓ subtly lays touches of freeform jazz over a heavy rock rhythm, while the easygoing ÒSt. AndrewÕs FallÓ contains melancholic cello and a frenzied storm within its calm. ÒGalaxieÓ (SoupÕs first single) dynamically sandwiches a charming, kickabout melody between hard-hitting riffs. 
     Blind Melon also know when to let simplicity shine through: The sonorous ÒWalkÓ and pensive ÒMouthful Of CavitiesÓ find their strength within acoustic renditions. The group also adds some levity to the brew--the countrified ÒSkinnedÓ (which the band also performs live in this issue of LAUNCH) is a wickedly humorous take on mass murderer Ed Gein, and vocalist Shannon Hoon screams like a lunatic through the twisted turns of ÒLemonade.Ó Additionally, the album opens and closes with a Dixieland jazz band, an apparent tribute to New Orleans, where the disc was recorded.
     The most striking aspect of Soup is its pure liveliness. The guys in Blind Melon are still young enough to revel in the wonder of making music, and they use the studio as their playground. The result is uplifting rock ÕnÕ roll for the most jaded of palates. 


CATHERINE WHEEL: Happy Days (Mercury/Fontana)
By Ken Micallef
     The journey from creating a droning shoegazerÕs glaze to the emancipation of gorgeous metal-pop melodies is a strange one for any band, and Catherine Wheel produce its full, frothy results on their third album, Happy Days. Leaving the gauzy texture of Õ93Õs Chrome behind, this English quartet now revel in threatening drums, majestic melodies and the expressiveness of Rob DickinsonÕs choirboy-meets-arena-rock vocals.
     Cloaking varied themes (tongue-teasing body parts to Metallica parodies) in abrasive guitars and DickinsonÕs near-Shakespearean delivery, Catherine Wheel shine in capturing moments of reflection (lovely vocals and gospel organ on ÒHealÓ), fear (the boisterous, ringing rock of ÒGod Inside My HeadÓ) and humor (ÒLittle MuscleÓ). Their songs capture an unusual balance between dreamy romanticism and the terror of some unseen, inner torment. The albumÕs two most beautiful tracks are ÒEat My Dust You Insensitive Fuck,Ó a funny line sung with all the gentleness of a goodnight kiss while the music simmers and swirls, and ÒJudy Staring At The Sun,Ó a duet with BellyÕs Tanya Donelly, whose tortured topic, a starstruck fan's demented love, almost detracts from the charming Mamas and Papas nursery rhyme of a hook.
     Catherine WheelÕs new rock-hard veneer thinly covers their romantic bent and grand musical ambitions. What initially sounds like a sarcastic album title becomes an apt comment of satisfaction. Happy Days, indeed.


GENE: Olympian (Atlas/Polydor)
By Craig Rosen
     LetÕs get one thing out of the way from the start: Gene is a knockoff, and the London-based band makes no effort to hide this fact. From the retro-styled album cover photography, to singer Martin RossiterÕs Morrissey-like vocal phrasing and lyrics, to Steve MasonÕs Johnny Marr-esque melodious guitar riffs, Gene may as well be the second coming of the Smiths. The band even named itself after one of the SmithsÕ least-known but best songs--ÒJeane,Ó the B-side of ÒThis Charming ManÓ--but at least they changed the spelling.
     GeneÕs obvious Smiths influences might seem reason enough to write them off immediately, but that would be a mistake. Olympian, dare I say it, is more consistently enjoyable than any of MorrisseyÕs solo efforts. And these days, if a young band is looking for someone to model themselves after, better the Smiths than Pearl Jam, whoÕve been endlessly cloned by the likes of the Stone Temple Pilots and Bush.
     There isnÕt a clunker to be heard in the 13 tracks here. True, on some of the best songs (ÒHaunted By You,Ó  ÒLondon, Can You Wait,Ó ÒTo The City,Ó and ÒOlympianÓ) Gene indeed sounds incredibly Smiths-like. But there are other moments (ÒLeft-HandedÓ and ÒA Car That SpedÓ) when the group shows a glimmer of originality and rocks harder than Morrissey and company ever did. And in the opening of ÒA Car That Sped,Ó Rossiter even sounds a bit like the late Freddie Mercury.
     In all, Olympian earns Gene a silver medal. But keep your eye on these four lads, because if theyÕre able to forge their Smiths inspiration into their own unique vision, theyÕll be contenders for the gold next time out--and they'll leave Morrissey to drown in his own tears.


EDNASWAP: Ednaswap (East West)
By Sandy Masuo
     If you didnÕt know better, youÕd think Ednaswap frontwoman Annie Preven had been separated at birth from Perry Farrell. All the distinctive vocal features are there--the gritty, off-kilter wail, the raspy crooning, the skewed lilting elocution. She even shoots the same manic leer at the camera on the back cover of their debut CD. But the similarities donÕt stop there.
     EdnaswapÕs music works for all the same reasons that JaneÕs AddictionÕs did. Paul BushnellÕs winding basslines bind Carla AzarÕs dynamic percussion/drumming to the fiery, temperamental guitar work of Rusty Anderson and Scott Cutler. There are also uncanny likenesses in the songwriting sector. The clattering quirkiness that made ÒBeen Caught StealingÓ so compelling is what fires up ÒClown Show.Ó The gay wedding vignette that plays out in ÒTed & JoeÓ could be the Ednaswap sequel to JaneÕs ÒTed Just Admit ItÓ--though the sprawling ÒMinor CrapÓ sounds more like it.
     But the years of virtual separation havenÕt passed without certain divergent effects. Though Ednaswap careen and caper with all the volatile energy of their rival sibling, they do so without JaneÕs ethereal touch. So the more down to earth passages (ÒTorn,Ó ÒBlown AwayÓ) have a churning, yearning emotional sharpness and immediacy that never really gelled in the oblique, narcotic dreaminess of the JaneÕs oeuvre. ItÕs these moments that seem to hold the most promise for EdnaswapÕs potential self-discovery.
     Ultimately only time will tell if their Addiction-prone sound is a congenital character trait or simply a phase theyÕll outgrow.

HEALTH AND HAPPINESS SHOW: Instant Living (Bar/None)
By Ken Barnes
     I recall being distinctly underwhelmed by the Health And Happiness ShowÕs first album, Tonic, in 1993. It sounded pleasant enough, but I expected more from a band descended from underrated New Jersey popsters the Bongos.
     That underwhelmed feeling survived about 13 seconds into H&HSÕs second album, Instant Living--as soon as the ÒLo-Fi IntroÓ that opens proceedings gave way to the real first cut, ÒTo Be Free,Ó which immediately served notice that this record intended to rock.
     Further underscoring this resolve is the presence of Richard Lloyd, the Televisionary riffmeister and erstwhile hub of Matthew SweetÕs guitar axis, on two tracks--ÒYou Is FineÓ and ÒTossed Like A Stone,Ó the latter featuring an arrestingly loud Lloyd lead interlude. The enigmatically titled ÒJohnboat,Ó ÒDonÕt Have Far To Fall,Ó and ÒIÕll Be Your TrainÓ (whose intro invades Zep territory) add further high-octane rock content.
     The country and folk strains that dominated the earlier album have not been abandoned by lead singer James Mastro (the ex-Bongo whose vocal warmth is one of the ShowÕs prime attributes) and crew. But buttressed by a more aggressive approach, the country/folk material hits home much harder. Cases in point: the mystical ÒOn Your WayÓ (based on an Apache birth song), whose howling guitar line sparks chills, and the minor-key lament ÒPortrait Of Disaster,Ó devastated by a dirty guitar flashfire.
     Add in ÒMany Kindnesses,Ó an appealing R.E.M.-country number, and ÒSugar In Your Eyes,Ó which sounds like the sequel to Lloyd ColeÕs ÒPerfect Skin,Ó and youÕve got a knockout album. Now IÕd better go back to that first record and see if I snap-judged it into undeserved oblivion....