Reviewed by: Paul Davis

Supergroups. While exceptions do happen, such as Broken Social Scene and The Good, The Bad & The Queen, supergroups typically illicit a negative reaction from fans.  This is because there are bands like The Transplants, with members that really shouldn’t be working together in the first place who clearly have divergent opinions of where their group should fit, musically speaking.  I for one, as a huge Jack White fan, was sincerely hoping that The Dead Weather’s Horehound would be a success.  I felt a great deal of optimism, as everything that White touches turns out to be at least solidly listenable, and The Kills, Alison Mosshart’s full-time gig, are fantastic.

Opener “60 Feet Tall” proved my optimism wasn’t misplaced.  Riding in on a clattering rattlesnake of percussion and a distant sounding guitar, the production leaves a lot of space and echo.  A huge, stomping rhythm picks up from here, dominating the song with Mosshart’s vocals.  A solo emerges, sounding like it came straight from the gut.  The apocalyptic riffage of the late meltdown is also fantastic.

With its strutting drumbeats, cocksure guitars, and spacious Jack White production, Horehound sounds like it rode out of the desert as dusk fell to sleaze it up in the saloon.  “Hang You From The Heavens” keeps the momentum up, with another swaggering rhythm laid down by White.  With its huge guitar firepower, it’s a violent song, both in its sonics and lyrics.  “I Cut Like a Buffalo” is the only track on the album written solely by White, and it comes through with his trademark cheeky but catchy simplicity.  When White asks, “is that you choking’?” I sure hope not, because you’ll find no help.  The Dead Weather would sooner spit on you and mosey on their way.

After the more relaxed “So Far From Your Weapon,” which resembles Mosshart’s other group, The Kills, more closely than past tracks (she does get sole writing credit for it), “Treat Me Like Your Mother” pummels its way to the top of your playlist.  Riding on a clanging cymbal, the choruses ooze style and confidence, as the verses strut the ground between.  An amazing breakdown in the mid section ramps up the intensity before a solo cuts it off only too quickly.  White’s vocals on the track sound almost like rapping, further revealing his depth as a performer and his willingness to explore.

“Rocking Horse” exhibits an effortlessly pulled-off throwback vibe.  Tex-Mex guitars drenched in reverb and tremolo dominate a bizarre duet between White and Mosshart.  “New Pony,” a stomping Bob Dylan cover, showcases Mosshart’s talent, as her vocal literally owns the track.  She brings the sneer and attitude that help make Horehound such a success.  Tracks like this are what dispel the mere thought of them being a supergroup, as they gel together and create something unique and cohesive.

Drum machines and synths kick off “Bone House,” which with Mosshart’s voice, give it more of a Kills flavour at first.  A texture-laden solo bleeds for a while until the song knocks itself out.  “3 Birds” revels in being borderline absurd and schizophrenic.  A slew of disparate elements and timbres surface throughout, making it an interesting instrumental diversion.  “No Hassle Night” begins by shocking the listener out of the complacency induced by “3 Birds” with an enormous crashing intro before settling into an evil, foreboding place, dominated by the smooth talking guitar and bass.

“Will There Be Enough Water?” ends things with a distinctly rootsy sound.  An understated shuffle paired with a nimble acoustic guitar form the foundation for an exasperated and resigned vocal duet.  As the album comes to its conclusion, it’s safe to say that The Dead Weather’s supergroup status is far from the listener’s mind.

Horehound is a spacious, echoing, strutting, fantastic piece of work.  It rewards repeated listens by revealing more of the nuances of Jack White’s production, and exudes confidence and experience in the form of consistently high quality writing and musicianship.  The four members of The Dead Weather, while coming from different places (The White Stripes, The Kills, The Raconteurs, Queens of the Stone Age) gel together into an honest-to-goodness band. They achieve a delightful cohesive sound, strutting right over the trap of becoming an ego war zone.

As a final note, if you like this album, do yourself a favour and check out Mosshart’s full-time gig, The Kills.  They’ve got three excellent albums, and you owe it to yourself to give them a spin.

Overall: Excellent

According to Alan Cross, the story behind the creation of Jack White’s new project, The Dead Weather, goes something like this.  The Kills were opening for White’s other, other band, The Raconteurs, when Alison Mosshart took over some of the vocals for White when he got sick.  He was so impressed that they got drunk together one night, and then bussed it back to Nashville to record immediately at White’s studio.  Good stuff.

The Hangover
Directed by: Todd Phillips
Warner Bros, 2009

A recent professor of mine made our class break the habit of writing in the first person. He argued that it makes for weak writing; if the writing is good and well-argued, you shouldn’t need to insert yourself into it. I agree, and I’m trying my best to pull myself out of my reviews. It’s difficult, but it ultimately makes for a more objective review.

That being said, sometimes writing in the first person is just more…fun. There are some films that don’t deserve the fancy-pants academic review (if you can even call my reviews those).

With this in mind, I declare the following: I didn’t like The Hangover.

Yeah, I said it. The lone dissenter against one of this summer’s biggest surprise hits. And before accusing me of being contrary for contrary’s sake, let me say that I really wanted to like it.

Maybe it’s the fact that everybody in the known universe saw it before I did, and made a point to tell me how “amazing,” “hilarious,” and “incredible” it was, causing a maelstrom of unreachably high expectations.

But that’s not right, because my expectations weren’t that high – I just wanted to be proven wrong.  I waited this long only because I didn’t really want to see it in the first place. What I saw in the unrelenting marketing for this film was comedy fare that’s been done before, from a director whose films have a few good moments in them but ultimately cater to a dominantly (although not entirely) frat-boy audience – an audience who can appreciate the experience of the drunken night before and the nostalgic, epic tales follow. A hangover, if you will. A phenomenon which this author doesn’t fully identify with, because his interests and ideas of fun are more akin to that of a 57-year-old retiree.

So maybe why I didn’t like it is that the central premise, a memory-erasing night of debauchery in Las Vegas, just didn’t appeal to me, despite the presence of both Ed Helms and Zach Galifianakis (who, like Will Ferrell in Old School, exists outside of the film as the guy who is way funnier and way smarter than the script because he’s simply doing his own thing).

But that’s not fair, either. My own personal biases can’t factor into what I think of a film – what sort of reviewer would I be? Maybe…just maybe… it’s that in a golden age of Arrested Development, Ricky Gervais and 30 Rock, I’m spoiled and just expect more from comedy. I expect more than Asians who swear a lot in exaggerated accents. I expect more than a generic and 2-year-old-stale rock soundtrack. I expect more than another cameo from another sports icon from yesteryear. I expect more than the same cover band that Todd Phillips insists on featuring in all of his movies, doing the same joke – singing dirty songs as lounge singers.  I expect more than jokes involving the word ‘faggot.’ I expect more than bitter, shrill examples of women who exist only to hold back the men in these movies from having a good time, that is, going to Vegas to get drunk and marry strippers, because this is just what men do. And I certainly expect more than an ending that proves to be the comedic equivalent of “it was all a dream!”

Maybe that’s why I didn’t like it.

Away We Go
Directed by: Sam Mendes
Focus Features, 2009

It’s perhaps no coincidence that Sam Mendes chose a road-trip movie as his next project, as the director takes a completely different direction into unfamiliar territory. After the claustrophobic and soul-crushing Revolutionary Road, it’s clear the man needed to get out and breathe a little – and we’re oh so glad he did.

Away We Go stars The Office’s John Krasinski and SNL-alum Maya Rudolph as expecting parents who embark on a cross-country trip to learn where to – and how to – best raise their soon-to-be family.  Burt and Verona encounter a variety of parenting styles and stereotypes, most of which are played with almost parodic intensity. Case in point: Maggie Gyllenhaal’s stroller-hating, New-Age mother named LN (read it out loud), and Allison Janney’s brash and obnoxious beliefs that children are who they are, so no use trying to change them. The laughs are deep and often, because underneath the exaggeration of these characters are people we all know – a credit to real-life husband and wife writing team Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida, who drew from their own experiences as expecting parents to craft the script. The familiar cast is also superb, especially Krasinski who clearly demonstrates his comedic timing goes deeper than knowing smirks at the camera. Rudolph is also a surprise, playing Verona as toned-down and collected, almost to a fault. The look on her face throughout most of the movie often implies she is bored with everything happening around her.

The laughs don’t last as some of the more serious aspects of parenthood are explored – a flaw of the film is its checklist of parenting styles and trials – but the movie makes a clear break between the two tones, rather than springing back and forth. Eggers and Vida’s script toes the line of indie-film quirkiness but still resounds as genuine, despite a clunker of a last line. Those going in expecting a typical Mendes film will be disappointed (it’s hard to see any of his traits in the direction), but remove that from your mind and you’ll likely enjoy the trip.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Directed by: David Yates
Warner Bros, 2009

As the Harry Potter film adaptations approach the end, the fun and magical whimsy gets increasingly stripped away in favour of bleak atmosphere and morose, adult themes – but what’s left is a much more human and weighty world. By now though, Harry and his friends are used to such a heavy life, and so are audiences. The series no longer caters to those who haven’t already read the books or seen the other films, and graciously skips over explaining bits of information and reactions that fans already know. This does, however, turn some major plot points into throwaway lines. One especially is frustrating considering it involves the title of the movie.

Half-Blood Prince is surprisingly slow in its pacing considering the enormous portions of the book it leaves on the page, but it’s really just here as a set-up for the final chapter (of which we’ll see two films a few months apart).  Of course, certain characters needed to appear, and Jim Broadbent’s Horace Slughorn follows in the series tradition of respected British actors and actresses lending credibility and excellence to the performances. He steals every scene he’s in.

Half-Blood Prince has already garnered comparison to Empire Strikes Back, which begins badly and finishes worse, and they’re not far off – the exception being that the main villain, Lord Voldemort, is sadly absent from the film, replaced by his team of Death-Eaters who wreak havoc on the film’s heroes (ineffectively, at that; most of their evil seems to be vandalism before they simply fly away again).  Fans of the series will enjoy this film just as much as the last few, but on repeat viewings it probably won’t stand well on its own as it focuses on moving everything into place for the grand finale. Director David Yates has proven himself capable with these last two installments, and if he ratchets up the pacing a bit, there’s no reason to believe he won’t stick the landing.

Japandroids – Post-Nothing
Unfamiliar, 2009

Sometimes, a band’s name says a lot about what the listener can expect to hear.  A name like “Megadeth” hints at the ultra-intense metal produced by the band.  Conversely, a name like “Chumbawamba” leads the listener to think that this might be stupid and not worth listening to.  This latter category is likely where many listeners will toss Vancouver’s “Japandroids” before knowing anything more about them.  The name just seems so gimmicky, especially when there’s another band out there named “Japanther.”

These naysayers, though, would be wrong.  The first clues to the contrary are found right on the cover.  The artwork is minimalist, black and white, and resembles a starker version of Television’s Marquee Moon cover.  Truth be told, I cannot say whether this similarity was intentional, but to pattern your cover after one of the best albums ever begins to dispel the negative feeling about what it may sound like.  Then there’s the album’s title, Post-Nothing.  Again, I can’t be certain, but I would like to think the band chose the name to preemptively strike at critics who label the band “post-rock” or “post-hardcore” or “post-indie” or whatever post-suffix is in vogue at the moment.

Nothing is quite so pre-emptive, however, as the music itself.  “The Boys are Leaving Town” swells from an understated down-tuned guitar chord to suddenly jump off into the deep-end of tonal bliss.  And then the drums speak up like a firing squad, bristling with fury.  The vocals are minimal, with the title repeated over and over, and then a huge chorus wail of “will we find our way back… home?” rides in on an even bigger riff.  The chorus is reminiscent of Death From Above 1979 in its delivery and production quality.  A simple but searing solo joins the fray briefly, and then after another repeat of the chorus, a final chord slams it’s way out of the song and fades to silence.  And that’s a song.  A fantastic song.  Two lines of lyrics, a guitar, a drum kit, and a TON of energy just put all the rock-and-roll pretenders in their place.

“Young Hearts Spark Fire” is even better.  Again, a mesmerizing guitar tone and a furious drum performance race to outdo one another.  The vocals are shouted at the listener, and sound immensely youthful.  The chorus careens into an even greater breakneck pace, as the fantastic lyric “we used to dream / now we worry about dying” is delivered with supreme conviction.  The chorus calms down and tapers off, and then the song attacks again.  Songs such as this one sound like an homage to …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead (before they forgot how to write a song, that is), in that they are earnest and energetic and overflowing with ideas, even though they aren’t particularly complex or technical, and the pair of vocalists couldn’t carry a note in a bag.

“Rockers East Vancouver” is another solid standout, built from an addictive single chord riff.  An homage to a band’s hometown can often fall flat, as listeners outside that scene likely don’t get the references, but this is an exception.  This track also sets a new standard for Japandroids guitar pyrotechnics, with blisteringly fast sections augmented by laid back portions and dead stops synced with the drums.  The composition meanders from place to place before coming to its conclusion.  What a ride.

Another hallmark of this album’s sound that begins to hit the listener is the tendency displayed by this duo of pushing their equipment to what sounds like the absolute limit.  It is a fantastically loud piece of work.  Even less-intense songs, like “Heart Sweats,” which takes a short breather from the shouted vocals, sound impressively loud.  This track still features a tumbling breakdown and a nimble little solo.  “Crazy/Forever” begins with a mid-tempo sludgy riff that jams along on top of a jazzy drum performance.  And again, what volume!  The guitar tone achieved by Japandroids is the biggest star on this album, and it’s perfectly suited to slow riffs.  It would be criminal to shoehorn notes and chords in when the tone and volume speak with so much power.

Album closer “I Quit Girls” ends things on an epic note, starting off with a pitch-perfect monolithic guitar riff.  The vocals are sung rather than shouted, and rather sweetly so.  Heavy drums break their way in and settle nicely into a groove with that huge riff.  The song’s intensity swells gradually, and then declines just as gradually, and then it’s over.  Despite having no song structure whatsoever, the listener is left feeling elevated.

What Japandroids bring on Post-Nothing is legitimately the music of youth.  Many young bands try for maturity in the form of bookishness and hyper literacy (Vampire Weekend) while older ones try for youth in the form of skate clothes and a juvenile demeanour (anything connected to Tom Delonge or blink-182, in any way).  Japandroids is a pair of young buddies making simple, crushingly loud, and nakedly earnest music about girls and the minutiae of life while completely obliterating their competition.  It sounds like it matters, and it does.  This is garage rock, in the purest sense.  It’s also, I will say right now, one of the best albums you will hear this year.

Overall: Excellent

We made a webzine!

Compiling several recent reviews and some stories/photography done on our more local, less mainstream site, this is the first step in eventually combining these two sites together.

Download it here and enjoy!

Please take heed of the call for submissions within. We’d like to keep this webzine thing going, and the more the merrier!

Public Enemies
Directed by: Michael Mann
Universal; 2009

Public Enemies tells the story of legendary bank robber John Dillinger (Johnny Depp), as seen through the stark and professional lens of director Michael Mann, he of the bank robber masterpiece Heat. What sounds like a perfect match-up and return to greatness for Mann after 2006’s lackluster Miami Vice ends up being another disappointment, albeit for completely different reasons.

The film opens strong with the first of Dillinger’s two career jailbreaks, and wastes little time before he hits another bank. His love interest, Billie (Marion Cotillard) and opponent, Agent Melvin Purvis (Christian Bale) are also quickly established, but what follows is a disappointing lack of tension in the Purvis/Dillinger cat-and-mouse game; the film simply meanders from jailbreak to robbery to getaway to shootout and back again without ever properly conveying a sense of anxiety. A major factor in this is Bale, turning in yet another flat and unassuming performance this summer as Purvis. To be fair, he has little to work with. Little time is devoted to explaining what drives Purvis – in fact, the only explanation the film offers is that he was thrust into the role by J. Edgar Hoover (a terrific Billy Crudup) as part of a PR campaign to form what is now the FBI.  There is no personal connection established between Purvis and Dillinger that raises the stakes of the game, and as a result, we can’t invest in them.

However, Depp is excellent, portraying Dillinger as confident yet needing the approval and love of the public, as evidenced in scenes where he mugs for interviews and cameras upon his arrest. There’s a memorable scene where Dillinger sits in a movie theatre as an advertisement shows his mugshot and asks patrons to look to their left and right, because “he could be sitting next to you!” All heads but Depp’s turn, as he sits with a sly smile on his face. This confidence is eventually taken too far in a silly scene where Dillinger strolls into the Chicago PD’s Dillinger Task Force office, perusing a lifetime of evidence and photos without anyone recognizing him, never mind asking what a stranger is doing in the middle of a police station. His romance with Billie also rings false; as it is between Dillinger and Purvis, there’s no connection between their romance. Although well-acted by Cotillard, she swings wildly between angry belief that Dillinger will be caught or killed and fierce devotion to him, with only his reassurances to calm her (which, most of the time, are proved wrong).

Mann can’t be faulted for exploring new avenues of cinema, and his experiments with high definition cameras largely paid off stylistically in his last two films, Collateral and Miami Vice. The hyper-realism these cameras lend provides a documentary feel, augmented by the fact that much of it is shot handheld.  But it proves to be Public Enemies undoing. While it certainly wouldn’t have looked better through a hand-cranked camera, to film a period piece set in 1933 using a piece of technology only recently invented is a contrast that leaves the viewer cold and removed from the entire film. It doesn’t help that many of the scenes look unfinished and are buzzing with grain (especially in what is arguably the most exciting scene, a nighttime cabin shoot-out), so much so that the footage that made it onscreen looks more suited to a behind-the-scenes featurette. The final scenes of Dillinger’s fateful end in particular look unbelievably amateur, made even more jarring with the addition of some obvious CG effects. Rather than transporting the audience back in time, the overwhelming feeling is that you’re simply watching men and women in old costumes. Perhaps most frustrating is that Eliot Goldenthal’s score at times evokes classic cinema with its exaggerated orchestral swells, adding further discord between the old and new.

Mann still knows how to direct a shootout, though. Guns in Mann films always sound terrifyingly realistic, augmented by the lack of soundtrack and stock sound effects, and the frequent use of tommyguns here is thrilling. At times the camera appears to be sitting on an actor’s shoulder, looking down the barrel of the gun they’re firing. It’s just too bad that everything in between these scenes isn’t terribly interesting.

Drag Me to Hell
Directed by: Sam Raimi
Universal; 2009

Sam Raimi’s resume over the last decade and a half is an interesting read. With a western, a romance about baseball and one of the culture’s most expensive, household-name trilogies taking the forefront, one might not even remember (or be able to comprehend) that Raimi directed the cult horror classics Evil Dead and Evil Dead II. But Raimi remembers where he came from, and he’s made incredibly sure you won’t either. After Spider-man 3, already infamous for an emo Peter Parker dancing his way into fanboy’s nightmares, Drag Me To Hell is a gleefully demented slap to the face of those who thought Raimi had lost his edge.

Alison Lohman plays Christine, a farm girl trying to start fresh in Los Angeles. Working at a bank and in line for a promotion, she decides to prove her ability to make tough decisions by denying elderly Mrs. Ganush a loan to stave off her foreclosure. Shamed and angered, Ganush waits for Christine in the parking lot to curse her and bless the audience with a wildly inventive and hilarious struggle. Christine then has three days of torment ahead of her while she figures out how to break the curse and avoid fulfilling the film’s title.

Reminder is a good word to encompass this film – even the Universal logo at the beginning is in the style of the past. Raimi reminds audiences why they loved him in the first place, with his familiar zooms, extremely jarring jump cuts and sound cues and lots of gross-out gags. While nowhere near as graphic as the Evil Dead films (it is, after all, rated PG-13), the film is still full of bodily fluids, bugs crawling where they shouldn’t, and various other viscera designed to make you squirm.  Even the trusty Oldsmobile gets several minutes of screentime (sadly, The Chin does not).

But the other, and ultimately more important reminder is what horror films have been missing the last few years: the fun. Drag Me To Hell is, above all, a pure and unrelenting blast to watch; a film that elicits as many laughs as it does frights and waves of disgust. In fact, they often come simultaneously, a hybrid that Raimi is famous for. This decade’s fascination with churning out lame photocopies of Japanese horror, remakes that trade real scares for gore, and films accurately dubbed ‘torture porn’ has produced few films that audiences can truly enjoy. Can anyone really say they enjoyed watching Saw V or Rob Zombie’s Halloween? Conversely, it’s hard not to enjoy Drag Me To Hell, which often plays out like a Bugs Bunny cartoon come to life (this isn’t hyperbole – one scene literally has an anvil that drops on someone’s head).

Reminder also unfortunately refers to the film’s plot, which, once you get past the fun, relies heavily on genre stereotypes. Gypsy woman? Check. Curses? Check. Scene where cursed visits a palm reader who gets so scared they offer the cursed their money back? Check. Seances? Check. Possession? Check – for both human and…goat. (So maybe there is some originality – know of any other films with angry, obscenity-spewing goats?)

Raimi also often goes for the cheap scare, bouncing from utter silence to squealing violins and characters appearing exactly where one expect them to. But he plays with the timing and rhythm. Jumps occur either seconds too late or too early to when one expects them, which after 90 minutes leaves nerves shredded and parallels the unpleasant experiences Lohman endures on screen. As annoying and clichéd it is to compare a film to an amusement park ride, Drag Me To Hell mirrors that experience more than any other film in recent memory. Walking out, you feel exhausted and slightly disoriented. And you can’t wait to do it again.

Up
Directed by: Pete Doctor
Pixar; 2009

After watching Up, Pixar’s latest film, part of me wondered if a backlash against the reigning champion of animation would ever occur. There are certainly individuals who can’t stand the work they do, but one wonders if the lone dissenters in a sea of praise are doing it merely to be contrary. Because as Up proves, even just a good Pixar film still stands firm above the competition.

Up opens with some old-timey movie footage of famed adventurer Charles Muntz (voiced by Christopher Plummer) as young Carl watches with awe. On his way home from the screening, Carl meets a fellow Muntz enthusiast named Ellie. The two of them make a childhood vow to one day live at the top of Paradise Falls, the South American destination where their hero sailed off to in search of fame and glory. The film wastes no time and heads into a montage of the two falling in love, getting married and living their lives together (a cliche to be sure, but one that still manages to be poignant).

As the effects of old age arrive, tragedy strikes and Carl (well-cast as Ed Asner) finds himself alone, miserable and regretful, fixated on the vow he and Ellie made as children but never realized. Forced from all sides to move from his house in the midst of urban sprawl, Carl decides to honor his wife by taking the adventure they never got to, filling his house full of balloons and sailing off to Paradise Falls. Of course, the plan goes awry, mainly due to Russell, the grating young boy scout who was unlucky enough to be standing on Carl’s porch as he lifts off.

Coming off of what is arguably Pixar’s best film, Up veers away from the photo-realism of WALL-E in favour of more cartoon-like character design and goofier plot developments. Carl’s head is distractingly square and his hands oddly flat, while Russell’s body seems to resemble an egg. It may seem petty to denounce cartoon-like characters in a film that isn’t, in fact, real life, but Pixar’s strength lies in its ability to push the boundaries of animation through realism, story and cinematography. To watch Carl, who resembles Waldorf and/or Statler from The Muppets, is to be constantly reminded that yes, this is an animated film.

Another glaring reminder of this is an army of dogs fitted with special collars that allow them to speak. It simultaneously provides the film with its biggest laughs (especially from a fierce-looking Doberman whose malfunctioning collar reduces its snarl to something more at home on a Chipmunks album) and its most ridiculous element. It seems lazy and thrown in, like punch-up to give the film some comic relief. Again, we expect more from the Pixar team than dogs that talk in funny voices.

This isn’t to say that Up isn’t a thoroughly enjoyable experience, it merely doesn’t consistently live up to Pixar’s self-imposed incredibly high standards of quality. It is a much safer film than WALL-E, a film that dared audiences to embrace a garbage robot and an utter lack of dialogue for its first forty minutes. Up does benefit from a subtle use of 3-D (a Pixar first) and thematic metaphors. As Carl’s house becomes increasingly weighed down when balloons float off into the clouds or pop under the pressure, so too does Carl in his stubborn unwillingness to relinquish the past and move forward. It’s not until he lets go that he truly has his adventure, his spirits lifted like so many helium-filled vessels. Heady subject matter for animated fare, and tackled gracefully; proof that even merely a good Pixar film is great by any other standard.

Street Sweeper Social Club
S/T
Warner Music Group
June 16th, 2009

On paper, a group made up of Boots Riley from The Coup and Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine sounds like vehemently left-wing magic.  The Coup is generally good and occasionally great, with the foundation of their appeal being Riley’s lyrics and delivery.  Tom Morello has a long and storied history of bringing awesome riffs in a hip-hop influenced way.  Unfortunately, as prophesied by a pair of teaser tracks unleashed months ago on the Internet through a Nine Inch Nails tour sampler, Street Sweeper Social Club’s self-titled debut fails to deliver on that seemingly sure-fire formula.

Opener “Fight! Smash! Win!” sets the tone of mediocrity immediately.  After a flanged intro riff, the track settles into a very Rage Against the Machine-style verse riff.  Boots brings some skills to the verses, but the chorus is HORRIBLE.  It’s clearly meant to sound angry, but the whole track sounds like a crappy photocopy of what angry is, especially the laughably chant-able (read: simplistic) chorus.  The verse riff sounds like Morello could have done it with his hands tied behind his back.  It brings “Guerrilla Radio” from 1999′s The Battle of Los Angeles to mind.

Lead single “100 Little Curses” is even worse.  Following a dull militant drumbeat capped off with harmonics from Morello’s trusty bag of tones, a typically funky guitar phrase underpins verses describing a seres of curses directed at the stuffy upper classes.  The chorus, again, is HORRIBLE.  “’cept for that muthafucka right there (get him!)” is not what listeners should expect from this proven duo of thoughtful, righteously angry socialists.  The solo again leans on Morello’s typical style, with his scratching and toggle switch stylistics branding his unmistakable stamp on it.  The worst thing about this track is that it has a reasonably decent idea behind it, but it’s nowhere near as funny or piercing as Boots Riley is capable of, as evidenced by The Coup on tracks such as “We Are the Ones,” a ghetto tale delivered in an upper-crust accent.

With the album’s rut already thoroughly constructed, Street Sweeper Social Club begins to rehash itself.  “The Oath” begins with a gentle guitar intro, followed by a solid verse riff and a huge beat.  This is yet another sub-par chorus.  The copious amounts of expletives strewn about the choruses of this album are totally unnecessary, and serve only to dumb down the offering and dilute its revolutionary impact.  While Boots can be extremely literate and articulate, these choruses seem written solely for simpletons and frat boys to chant in a live setting, pumping their Coor’s Light-clenching fists in the air while sporting their American Eagle Che Guevara T-shirts.  “The Squeeze” fares better than the three tracks preceding it.  More typical Morello phrasing dominates the track, but in this case, the arrangement is slightly more gripping, as is the lyrical delivery.  The chorus works, only because Boots steps back and lets Morello’s guitar bring the angst.

“Clap for the Killers” brings some more engaging Morello guitar theatrics, sounding vaguely reminiscent of tracks like “Calm Like A Bomb” and “Mic Check.”  Boots sounds laid back, bringing a proper rap flow to this track which he hangs all over the stomping groove.  The song also brings an interesting, if unoriginal, lyrical statement.  The solo surprises, being sublimely unhurried for something played by Tom Morello.  “Somewhere in the World it’s Midnight” is basically “It’s 5 O’clock Somewhere,” only for the angst-ridden rather than the booze-hounds.  The verse holds some decent rhymes, but generally, this is another underwhelming track.

Bringing with it a welcome increase in tempo and a distant-yet-powerful drumbeat, “Shock You Again” infuses this album with a little energy boost in the middle.  Morello lets the drums lead as he mirrors their rhythm with his guitar.  The first verse is genuinely interesting, with Boots flexing his skill and his sense of humour, but then the chorus spoils it again.  “Good Morning Mrs. Smith” begins with an unfortunately poppy sounding riff, almost as if Nickleback enlisted a rapper.  This is another proper rap, with Boots following the groove, while Morello takes a boring backseat until the huge riff he drops during the characteristically weak chorus.  The shout out to Sly Stone (“dancin’ in my kitchen with Sly Stone’s permission”) is telling of Boots Riley’s depth of musical understanding and knowledge, while also being an indication of how much of a failure this album is.  Chuck D and KRS-One were spitting rhymes more incendiary and exciting than this 20 years ago, and Boots should know it.  He can, and should, do better.

Speaking of Chuck D, “Megablast” shares its name with a 1987 Public Enemy song, and the chorus features a sample of Chuck D from the aforementioned P.E. track (this, and a reference to “Revolution Rock” from London Calling makes this a song after my own heart).  Beginning with an enormous drumbeat and a swell of Morello’s guitar texture, the song rests on a simple riff that lets Boots own the verse.  However, the best that can be said about this track is that it’s not as bad as some of the others on this album.  The end of the song features a pulsing guitar squelch that sounds like an alarm, which is a nice touch.

Penultimate track “Promenade” is the most original of the album, and possibly the best.  Sounding like “Another One Bites the Dust” with a tick-tocking drumbeat, it’s an entertaining listen.  The chorus is lifted from the murk of  Street Sweeper Social Club chorus hell by some surprisingly sweet female backup vocals as Boots spits bomber raids and red stars.  The guitar solo sounds like it came from an 80′s metal song, but it’s nice to hear Morello breaking out of his comfortable Rage Against the Machine zone.  “Nobody Moves (‘Til We Say Go)” begins with an extended intro featuring a huge heavy riff.  A tension and release structure makes this a dynamic listen compared to some others on the album.  Boots brings another solid rap.  Morello’s solo is more of the same wah-pedal work.  An epiphany nearly occurs in a quick moment after the whispered portion of this song, where the drums tease of a hardcore breakdown for the final moment of the song, which would have been a welcome send-off.  Instead, a meandering guitar solo fades out and waves us goodbye.  Good riddance.

Street Sweeper Social Club is disappointing and underwhelming.  Its pair of firebrands try to accomplish something revolutionary, yet what they achieve isn’t even evolutionary.  Boots Riley sounds generally uninspired.  The wit and attitude evident in his work with The Coup is mostly absent from this recording, replaced by numbing sloganeering and meaningless tossed-off f-bombs.  Tom Morello, on the guitar (and bass guitar) side of things, sounds like most of his ideas were dug from his own past and presented under a new name.  His musicianship is solid as always, but is uninspired and less potent than it ever was with Rage Against the Machine.  Compare “Township Rebellion” on 1992′s Rage Against the Machine to Street Sweeper Social Club.  There’s your musical genealogy.  Surely the man’s learned something new in 17 years.  It just won’t be found here.

Overall: Weak

Kasabian
West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum
RCA, 2009

The tongue-twisting third effort from Britain’s Kasabian, West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum, apparently takes it name from a 19th-century mental institution near Leeds.  The name doesn’t seem to have any particular significance, beyond being longer and harder to remember than either previous Kasabian album title, their 2005 self-titled debut and 2006′s Empire.  The title does, however, hint at the psychedelic-dance contained within this album’s 52-minute running length.

Opener “Underdog” bursts out of the gates with synths, heavily processed guitars, and a slamming hip-hop beat.  The lyrics are delivered in a quazi-rap fashion at times.  The first lines uttered on this album are literally “check-one-two.”  Please, Kasabian, don’t do that again.  The track also sets a more heavily electronic tone for this album than previous Kasabian works.  This may be the stamp of fantastic hip-hop producer Dan the Automator, a.k.a. Dan Nakamura, the man responsible for producing bizarro hip-hop classics Dr. Octagonacologyst and Deltron 3030 for Kool Keith and Del tha Funkee Homosapien, respectably.  At any rate, his production style suits Kasabian well.

“Where Did All the Love Go” shifts the album into more psychedelic territory while being highly dance-able.  Comprised of a tight disco beat over faux-static and strings, punctuated by a chorus that sounds Beatles-esque as it oozes psychedelic vocal flavour, tambourines and strings, this track is a success.  The instrumental portion about three minutes in is especially fantastic, with a middle-eastern sounding melody and ominous bass surge.  The track segues quickly into “Swarfiga”, an instrumental featuring a muted bass loop, tipsy synth melody, propulsive drumbeat and vocal wail processed beyond recognition that pans unsettlingly between right and left channels.  This short diversion is capped off by a scream that sounds like a crazed Robert Plant.

“Fast Fuse” is announced by an enormous riff and some shimmering vocals.  Drums follow with a new riff and an intense and sprightly psuedo-rap vocal.  Now familiar psychedelic overtones ride the pre-chorus before it explodes into the fantastic chorus and simple but effective guitar solo.  Kasabian is a band with a proper respect for tambourines, a too-often overlooked rhythmic flair.  Next, “Take Aim” picks up gently after “Fast Fuse” quickly dies.  A slow string/horn intro swells until a bizarre, frail vocal and rough acoustic guitar start the song in earnest.  A giant synth squeal heralds the onslaught of a huge, danceable beat.  A fantastic chant-able chorus crops up to taunt the listener, saying “Yes, this song is insanely catchy, and I dare you to stop tapping that foot.”  This track duo is a definite highlight, sounding fresh and invigorating.  They exhibit the swagger that lands a song in the soundtrack to a Guy Ritchie film.

Scaling back the volume and tempo a bit is “Thick as Thieves.”  This song’s acoustic shuffle will be a grower.  On each listen, it gets more enjoyable.  Once the electric guitar crops up, sounding like a refugee from Link Wray’s “Rumble,” it’s official: you love this song.  The electric is a telling nod to the band’s outlaw image.  “West Ryder Silver Bullet” picks up with a bizarre sampled intro, followed by a marching pace.  Several guitars are layered in this composition and duke it out as the song progresses.  A female vocalist (actress Rosario Dawson) joins in to sweeten the mix.  The chorus sounds classic.  An interesting, evolving, swaying song, laden with texture.

“Vlad the Impaler” falls into the listener’s lap like a synth bomb, featuring a fantastic intro that’s followed up by a stomping disco beat.  This is another irresistibly danceable track, in the best of British ways.  A British dance party is probably cool beyond all measure, where shaggy Stella Artois drinkers live it up to this kind of quality.  The chorus’ command to “Get loose!” certainly isn’t the most original sentiment, but it gets the job done.  Vlad is swamped in synths, with a finish that recalls past Kasabian moments, like the end of “U Boat.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Roll the Dice” brings a drawling, slurred vocal and a shimmering guitar that sound like they’re coming down.  The lyrics back this up too.  Pedestrian tempo, but it fits the song, while ensuring that it’s not particularly memorable.  “Secret Alphabets” brings back the heavy psychedelic vibe.  Through headphones, the chorus feels like it is pressing on your ears.  The shuffling drums anchor the composition, keyboards dominate an extended instrumental portion two-thirds of the way through the song.  It’s a relaxing song, until the final minute, where it slows down and becomes the soundtrack to a bizarre dream.

“Fire” starts with promise, featuring with a memorable vocal melody.  The chorus explodes about a minute in, fulfilling that promise with a sing-along vocal and Asian-flavoured guitar refrain.  Another grower, this track will reward repeated listens, as the listener gains familiarity with its nuances and its tension/release composition.

Finally, “Happiness” continues the Kasabian tradition of ending with a song that builds from nothing into an epic.  Featuring a heavy psychedelic sound at first, an enjoyable vocal performance dominate the first half.  The band took a bit of a misstep after this, though, with the inclusion of an (ugh) gospel choir.  Rock bands don’t do that, especially not British ones.  Gospel choirs are pretentious with a capital P.  The adventurous idea is appreciable, but the execution is exactly what one would expect Kasabian and a gospel to sound like, and that is nothing good.  It is dubious whether any Kasabian fans were craving a gospel choir collaboration.

West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum is a solid third effort from Kasabian.  They are not content to tread water, moving in new directions, but maintaining an instantly recognizable Kasabian flavour, mostly through the vocal performances.  Also noteworthy for long-time fans is the elaborations on the band’s outlaw image, from certain tracks (most notably “Thick as Thieves”) to the cover art, which features a prisoner with a mask over his face akin to the cover of the band’s debut.  The music is generally good, featuring solid production work from Dan the Automator, but falls short of being great.  The album is a little too long as well.  West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum is a piece of work that Kasabian fans will likely love, but which probably won’t win any new fans.

Overall: Good