Charanjit Singh, Synthesizing: Ten Ragas to a Disco Beat

This rather obscure record is worth tracking down not only for its unusual subject matter but also because it's immensely listenable and incredibly ahead of its time. A true acid house outing years before that was actually a thing, Singh took ten exemplars of Indian classical music (roughly one raga each of the ten thaats) and with Roland synthesizers under his fingers fashioned an unlikely Eurodisco merger that nevertheless rapidly transcends those disjointed origins. The tracks can sometimes sound similar to the uncultured ear, and the individual arrangements are at times less innovative than the overall concept, but the revved-up and rapid-fire beats never sa(a)g and the trilling, expansive arpeggios never falter. No one track stands out over any other but this is probably exactly the effect Singh intended. Although potentially tedious to the non-classicist, both devotees of world music and denizens of trip will find many things here they'll like in what was, in its day, an unjustifiably underappreciated gem. (Content: no concerns.)

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Yello, Stella

Everyone has heard at least one song on this album. In fact, most people have only heard one song on this album, and that's "Oh Yeah," a thematically light but relentlessly earwormy synthogroove nowadays synonymous with gluttonous indulgence (and Ferris Bueller). Indeed, this album was an attempt to get past their sometimes excessively autostimulatory early style (see, particularly, Solid Pleasure), and while for the general listening audience they only hit pay dirt once, there's certainly more here to enjoy than merely that. Yello's trademark affected spoken word musings don't wear well on this album either (especially on "Desert Inn" or "Let Me Cry"), but its strongest tracks lead off with a bang, "Oh Yeah" included but also the noirish tongue-in-cheek "Desire," the infectious "Vicious Games" (sung by Rush Winters, who reappears for the similar but no less worthy "Angel No" at the end) and the absolutely bonkers "Koladi-Ola." The second half is unfortunately less accomplished despite a credible attempt at substance: the deep philosophical thoughts of "Domingo" aren't brought out by the aggressive guitars or the spitfire lyrics, and neither the drearily overwrought "Sometimes (Dr. Hirsch)" nor the grim yet unsympathetic "Let Me Cry" have any real breakthrough moments, though "Angel No" successfully redeems itself with a welcome callback to the first side. A particular oddity of this album — possibly reflecting its original provenance as an opera — are the periodic bloodcurdling screams on many of the tracks (the startlingly complex instrumental "Stalakdrama" in particular) and the overall spare production which both give the listener the impression of being trapped in a europop torture chamber, though I really mean this in the best possible way. There's a lot here to like and a lot here to ignore, but either way you get a lot, and none of it is anything you've ever heard before except for that one song you already have. The 2005 reissue includes "Blue Nabou," the B-side for "Vicious Games" and a decent song of its own, but the other three shoveled-on remixes of "Oh Yeah," "Desire" and even "Vicious Games" itself seem more commercially cynical than musically innovative. At least early mixes have historical interest even if they suck, whereas these wreck the artistic appeal of the originals in a vain attempt to get on DJ setlists. No thanks. (Content: no concerns, though "Stalakdrama" may be a little intense for young ones.)

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Oingo Boingo, Only A Lad

I conned my mother into letting me buy this cassette purely on the basis of the poorly-reproduced halftone Boy Scout on the cover. Fortunate, since she didn't see the lobster claw or actually hear the infamous intro track "Little Girls," a rather arresting satire just this side of jailbait that was banned in Canada. That should be the hint that Boingo was anything other than your typical new wave act; Danny Elfman's intricate musical sensibilities achieved their fullest throating here, rushing madly from dystopian visions ("A Perfect System") to economic critique ("Capitalism") and social anxiety ("On The Outside") with a brass section, quicksand-like shifting time signatures and irrepressible glee. Of particular note is their remarkable cover of the Kinks' "You Really Got Me" which so successfully takes the song almost 180 degrees away from its original roots it might as well be another song entirely. The second half is less accomplished, particularly the tedious "What You See" and "Controller," but then there's that venomously barbed title track of youth gone terribly wrong and my personal favourite "Nasty Habits," their taunting and ponderously inexorable ode to suburban hypocrisy. A fair bit of Boingo's next couple albums was merely trying to equal the punch of this one, and some of the time they didn't, so you're better off with the original. It's tart and twisted and not for every taste, but Mom said it was okay. (Content: adult themes, a couple mild expletives.)

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Phish, Junta

The best summation of Phish's early days is clearly this kinda-sorta-double album, first as a shorter cassette and then as the more common expanded CD issue, largely because it mixes their incredible capacity for artistically complex jams with quality studio production. "Fee," the lead-in track, is kind of a throwaway, but the magic starts in earnest with the stupendously expanded and almost 10 minute instrumental "You Enjoy Myself" with its multipart movements and textured, radiant melodies. In fact, the instrumentals are the dominant feature, at least for the first disc: other than a couple shouted accent lines, the snarky "David Bowie" (UB40) and my favourite "The Divided Sky" make up most of the runtime and well worth it. "Dinner and a Movie" is a fun novelty with its sole repeated line over multiple themes and variations, but of the other vocal tracks (the amusingly nonsensical "Golgi Apparatus" and the uninteresting "Foam") the standout is the surreal and haunting "Esther," a beautifully performed and fully realized story of a girl, a doll and avarice. I wasn't as enamoured of "Fluff's Travels," which comes off as disorganized rather than daring, though its introductory vocal libretto (of sorts) "Fluffhead" is an amusing lead-in; what rescues the second disc is the earworm "Contact" and its whimsical merger of the open road, American car fascination and basic automotive repair. An amazing surfeit of musical plenty, there's pretty much something in this album for every preference, and while it's never afraid to be weird it's never less than good. The CD issue unfortunately adds three live tracks of somewhat questionable quality, including the egregious 25-minute "Union Federal," less a jam session than a root canal, "Sanity," allegedly some sort of Jimmy Buffett pastiche that seemed funnier to the audience than me, and the (at least amusing) shaggy dog nutball closer "Icculus" ("if only our children were old enough to read Icculus"). "Go home," shouts Trey Anastasio(?) at the audience at one point, and that sounds like advice they should have taken. (Content: a single F-bomb in "Icculus.")

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The Best of the Art of Noise

This is a mildly challenging review to write not because of the music but because of the sheer number of editions that exist. In broad strokes, however, you've got a Blue and you've got a Pink (and at least one release has both), and one is clearly better than the other. As with many proto-ambient acts sometimes the quantity is just as important as the quality, and the 12" mixes on Blue — particularly the CD release — frankly deliver. While the lead-in "Opus 4" is a little underdeveloped, the big hits are mostly here, including the classic "Beat Box" (especially glittering on the long-play CD as "Beatbox (Diversion One)"), the slightly ominous "Close (To The Edit)," "Dragnet '88" (I liked it, but the music is clearly better than the movie), and my personal two favourites: the extended Max Headroom feature "Paranoimia," Matt Frewer gabble intact, and the so sumptuous it brought tears to my wife's eyes "Moments in Love," this 7 minute form eclipsed only by the 10 minute ecstasy on the vinyl of Into Battle (which you can find on the CD of Daft). Low points, but only by comparison, are eight minutes of Tom Jones trying to get in your pants ("Kiss," although I appreciate the smarmyness as contrast) and the harsh and lugubrious "Legacy;" this, plus the peculiar omission of "The Army Now" from their first EP, loses that fifth star but is still a must-have for any collector of synthopop. Pink, however, is almost atavistic in its choices, reverting to 7" mixes for virtually all the tracks. There are also some appallingly suspect substitutions, such as the complete absence of "Beat Box" (replaced by "Yebo," its world beat fusion being fun to listen to, but hardly revolutionary) and "Moments" (replaced by "Instruments of Darkness" which is just trite in its message); only the replacement of "Close (To The Edit)" with "Robinson Crusoe" is anything close to an even swap. There is still "Peter Gunn" with the wacky Duane Eddy twang, but less of it, and another version of "Paranoimia" with a slightly different script that Edison Carter fans will want to find. The rest is the same but in abridgment, and abridgment is pretty much the entire theme of Pink: a meagre compilation that only hints at luxury, but enough remains to tempt listeners back to the superior release. Will I still be perfect tomorrow? Perhaps, but only one of these two will be. (Content: Tom Jones' hormones.)

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Pink: 🌟🌟🌟

Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here

The band's famous elegy for Syd Barrett, their then-faltering former bandmate, studded with some of Hipgnosis' best photographic work and a slightly harsher edge. Though it is beloved, it is by no means perfect: the sprawling "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" overflows half of the album and practically smothers it, and its meandering feel is something I used to listen to when I was a moody teenager to make me even moodier. Indeed, one of the few good things about A Collection of Great Dance Songs is that they substantially cut this down and merely in doing so made it better at the same time. On the other hand, the other three songs are excellent: the brooding "Welcome to the Machine," full of ominous, unsettling synthesized effects, and the gentle fan favourite title track with David Gilmour's murmuring guitar and that inspired "car radio" introduction. My personal favourite, however, is the slyly arresting "Have a Cigar," atypically featuring guest vocalist Roy Harper, full of cheeky caustic satire, later to be covered by numerous lesser bands unsuccessfully aspiring to that level of tarty wit. Wish You Were Here's elevated ethereal sensibilities make it really the last Floyd album to maintain the fluid ambience and floating mood of their earlier works which would fade as Roger Waters' influence was exerted more strongly. In that sense, it is an elegy for the band's early days as well, their old space-rock roots now fully shed for the tumultuous years that would follow. The "Experience" deluxe reissue includes the unreleased Household Objects demo "Wine Glasses," interesting historically to the completist, but by its nature even less developed than the "Shine On" suite it inspired. (Content: no concerns.)

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Talking Heads, Fear of Music

If you looked upon its diamond plate steel cover and thought this must be David Byrne's version of Metal Machine Music, you would be dreadfully wrong, for this album is far more coherent and much more developed than that aberrant Lou Reed headscratcher. Admittedly, starting off with the gibberish but funky "I Zimbra" (that's ee zimbra, sports fans) would not be a great way to dispel the comparison, but the laid-back and saucy "Mind" with its simmering changes in metre and keys ("what's the matter with you?" mutters an offhand Byrne between verses), the oblique "Paper" ("see if you can fit it on the paper" might apply to either Rolling Stone or your dog), the throwback "Cities" which could have easily come off one of their prior albums, the cheerfully ominous single "Life During Wartime" and the grim gritty solipsistic musings of "Memories Can't Wait" all make for a strong first side. I wish I could say as much for the second side, however: "Air" has a fun little beat but unless it's an obscured reference to smog I don't get the lyrics, and "Animals" and "Electric Guitar" are both paralysed by perverse rhythms and inscrutable, sometimes inaudible vocals. On the other hand, "Heaven"'s thoughtful depictions really make you ponder the actual mechanics of eternity (the melody doesn't really go anywhere, but that may be a musical commentary in itself), and the exceptional, ethereal production of "Drugs" coupled with its ambient musical backing and Byrne's almost primal shout feels like the most mind-altering musical acid trip you've ever taken. (Um, I'm told.) Virtually every track is listenable at least in some fashion, and while it certainly pushes the stylistic envelope in some places it never yields anything most ears would fear. In that sense the cover of this enjoyably adventurous album is inaccurate for both listener and musician, and that's probably exactly the effect the band intended. The CD reissue adds the previously unreleased "Dancing for Money" with the unintelligible vocals of Byrne in one channel and Brian Eno's on the other, plus alternate versions of "Life During Wartime," "Cities" and "Mind." As is typical for such bonus tracks, there's good reason why they weren't used. (Content: an S-bomb in "Animals.")

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David Bowie, Black Tie White Noise

The new Bowie hit when I was in college. "Jump They Say," they hissed at him, his musical output dwindling, his artistic influence shriveled. "The Wedding" of him and Iman was the last shred of the old Bowie, they gossiped, and there was nothing left in him to pour forth. And they were very wrong, for the new Bowie was very very good. "Jump They Say" is the track that got the most airplay, and deservedly so from its smooth production and solid blend of ambient and dance; ostensibly it was his feelings for his schizophrenic half-brother who committed suicide, but it could just as easily be interpreted as reaction to the demons whispering "has-been" in his ear. A non-trivial amount of instrumental gives the album a symphonic texture ("The Wedding" leading off but also the ominous "Pallas Athena" and "Looking for Lester") as much as the loosened, liberated lyrics of "I Feel Free" and his marital joy in "Miracle Goodnight" provide it uplift. The title track is nothing special and there are possibly more covers than there ought to be, but they are handled as competently as the rest, especially the wonderfully schmaltzy rework of the Morrissey track "I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday" which was itself originally a homage to Bowie's Ziggy Stardust. Fresh, fearless and fascinating, this transformational album more than anything proved he could self-reinvent and reboot, thus setting the tone for the personal renaissance that followed. The original CD issue included three bonus tracks, two rather slight remixes of "Jump They Say" and "Pallas Athena," and the whimsical "Lucy Can't Dance" which truly deserved to be on the main album. The later 10th anniversary disc keeps that last but replaces the others with still other alternate remixes, including three different versions of "Jump They Say," two of "Black Tie White Noise" and even an Indonesian version of "Don't Let Me Down & Down." I suppose it's interesting for comparison but it's questionable how much it would be for listening. (Content: mild profanity.)

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Magma, Attahk

If you're going to pull the lyrical stunt of singing in an incomprehensible bespoke conlang, and remember that my own undergraduate degree is in actual linguistics, man, then make it worth listening to. And this is! Holy crap, it is! The style of the nearly unanalyzable tracks lurches from hard rock to rock opera to art rock to acid jazz and even gospel (the wonderful "Spiritual"), but the jams are all exceptionally performed and arranged with a minimum of meandering, and while you won't understand a word they're singing their eye-widening vocal range powers the most incredibly emotive vocables I've heard this side of Clare Torry. Backed by full instrumentation and a choir that's just as crazy, you get trilling, bubbly high-notes, growly scatting (was that a belch I heard on "Maahnt"?), resonant kabuki and even a faux vocal kazoo, and the delightful musical surprises and sudden stylistic left turns just hold your listening attention like a vise. It's an exquisite effect: all that apparent gibberish means everyone must experience this album in some unfamiliar language not their own, leaving the listener to intuit and discover its meaning which by design is never made plain. I don't know what he's singing about on "Dondaï," but baby, with a solo like that sending chills down your spine, I sure can feel it. The first track ("The Last Seven Minutes") is a little tedious at times and the grotesque H. R. Giger cover art with monstrous safety pins through piggish noses creeps me out, but otherwise this entire album is an unalloyed breath of fresh air. I have no idea what on earth I just listened to, and this most approachable of their discography is still going to be too weird for some listeners, but I gotta say: I really liked it. (Content: your guess is as good as mine.)

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George Harrison, All Things Must Pass

I find it a truism that double albums infrequently justify their length, triple albums even less so. I've written that in less diplomatic terms on less distinguished outings, but this is George Harrison, and the thoughtful Beatle does deserve a thoughtful listen. Less a true triple album than a double with some odds and sods (which Geo. termed "Apple Jams"), it's as if Harrison, freed of the songwriting tyranny of Lennon-McCartney, just let out every jam line and melody he'd trapped inside himself from the last decade. For a change, however, this is not necessarily to say that the quality is overshadowed by the quantity, with Phil Spector returning as producer (Let It Be) and his Wall of Sound to make every track, even the lesser ones, meaty and memorable. The first record is super-strong, with the heavy but irresistable "Wah-Wah," syrupy but endearing airport chant "My Sweet Lord" (Hare Krishna never sounded so good), the rollicky "What Is Life" with full Spector brass and that famously grabby guitar hook, and the pensive musings of "Run of the Mill" and the plaintive, luxurious 7-minute "Isn't It A Pity." Even the lesser entries aren't bad: "I'll Have You Any Time," "Let It Down" and "Behind That Locked Door" don't do much for me but certainly don't make me think my time was wasted. This is not nearly the case by the time we get to the second record, though. "Beware of Darkness" is a strong start but the obnoxiously folksy "Apple Scruffs" feels like a session castoff from some lesser effort, and it certainly doesn't set up the glorious depths of "Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp" that follows it. It happens again with the weak, embarrassingly trite "I Dig Love" kicking the legs out from the wistful title track that precedes it and the "Wah-Wah" of the second disc, the grim and insistent "Art of Dying," that follows. The stripped-down and foreshortened "version two" of "Isn't It A Pity" feels like a ripoff, and "Hear Me Lord" is a cloying and unsatisfactory conclusion. This fall-off leads very neatly into the third record, the Apple Jam, which is pure instrumental and pure tedium, lots of noodling in various genres that doesn't seem to have a point (though "Thanks for the Pepperoni" and "Out of the Blue" are at least compelling, at least for a little while, until the repetitiousness dooms them like the others). That sort of useless musical tack-on would ordinarily be an argument for three stars, but there's so much incredible musical and compositional talent on the first disc and even at times on the second that the appeal of this otherwise overwrought album cannot be denied. Another double album truism I have is that making some of them half as long would make them twice as good. In this case, though, I'm not sure that assertion holds: there are certainly tracks I can do without, and the entire third disc is a near total throwaway, but even cutting out all that you'd still be left with a darn good double album that few will surpass in its production quality or stylistic variety. All things do indeed pass as he says, even truisms. The various CD reissues add the beguiling "I Live For You," a perennial bootleg that really should have been included on the original pressings, three alternate mixes ("Beware of Darkness," "Let It Down" and "What Is Life") that even as historical artifacts don't contribute much, and the disgustingly overproduced 2000 remix of "My Sweet Lord" done for the 2001 remaster. However, I like the faux gatefold and the mini-sleeves of the 2014 version, and it's definitely never sounded so good. (Content: no concerns.)

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The Best of The Free Design

A delightful yet inexplicably obscure late '60s band that had a remarkable brief resurrection in 2000, to call them merely "sunshine pop" would probably be unkind and certainly unsatisfactory. Entirely a family affair for eight core albums between 1967 and 1972, this exceptional collection of their brightest and most beautiful outings hits almost all the high points of their surprisingly large discography. Don't write off the band's airy ambience as insubstantial; even for lyrically uncomplicated songs like "Kites Are Fun" and "Bubbles," the soul-soothing feeling of gentle innocence can penetrate the heart of even the most cynical listener, while solid and mature pieces like "Never Tell The World," "Love Me," "Tomorrow Is The First Day of the Rest of My Life" (a song that went endlessly through my head on my wedding day) and — the album's peak — "Butterflies Are Free" inspire delight and melancholy in equal measure with their complex harmonies, moving lyrics and impeccable production. An unerring musical talent on par with Brian Wilson at his best, but far more consistent, this album is nevertheless not for everyone: listeners desiring a harder edge in particular from their music will find this indefatigably smooth album exasperating, the flower and rainbow stylings don't always age well, and the track selection is also occasionally suspect with lesser works such as "Love You," "Daniel Dolphin" and the flatly meandering "Love Does Not Die" maintaining the same level of quality but failing to reach the emotive value of the other, more superior tracks. Their inadequacy is merely by comparison, however, throwing the witty words of the band's frustration in "2002 A Hit Song" into sharp relief: "We’ve done it all right and sealed it with a kiss/There’s just one fact that we can’t quite shirk/We did all this last time, and it did not work!" Unfortunately it still didn't work in the real 2002, and the saddest thing about their lovely music gems is that no one seems to remember their brilliance. (Content: no concerns.)

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Parliament, Funkentelechy Vs. The Placebo Syndrome

Of Parliament's sometimes uneven output, an inevitable symptom of one band trying to maintain two identities, there are bright spots in the discography and this may well be one of their brightest. If Funkadelic's political aspirations made it the heavyhanded conscience of the P-Funk collective, Parliament's party atmosphere made it the funky soul, and right around 1977 or so was just about when the two personalities' artistic expressions were at their most individualized and distinct. Is it any coincidence, then, that this album was recorded right around that time? More developed and musically accomplished than The Clones of Dr. Funkenstein and far more intelligent (and much less puerile) than Motor Booty Affair, this is some of their best work as the end of the disco funk era came in view. We start getting funky with "Bop Gun (Endangered Species)" and point it right at "Sir Nose D'Voidoffunk" complete with bizarrely twisted nursery rhymes and even a Warner Bros. cartoon sting backed by a blissfully luxuriant full funk band. The standout track is "Funkentelechy," a clever subversion of psychobabble and corporate sloganism ("You might as well pay attention," intones George Clinton, "you can't afford free speech") backed by over ten minutes of beat and bass and bounce. Even the minor tracks are excellent, including the beguiling "Placebo Syndrome" and the amusing if slightly out of place "Wizard of Finance" in which the vocalist describes his love for his lady in terms of diversified financial instruments. Other than the ridiculous cover art, though, the only unforgiveable thing about this album — and boy is it a whopper ("have it your way!") — is closing with the cheap-out 5'46" album mix of "Flash Light" instead of the almost 11 minute 12" single. A classic P-Funk groove, its quality is best appreciated in its quantity, requiring modern completists to buy the Tear The Roof Off 2-disc retrospective to enjoy it in the expanded runtime it deserves. (Content: oblique drug references, "funk" as thinly-veiled alternative expletive.)

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FFS

FFS, it's FFS. I'm not sure if that sentiment was what Franz Ferdinand and Sparks had in mind with the name of their alleged supergroup, but may I say that my statement was meant in the greatest regard? Sparks fans like me will be elated that this album is on balance more S than FF (though for the same reason I don't mind saying FF fans are in for a treat as well), but the amazing thing is that the whole really is incontrovertibly better than the sum of the parts. Russ Mael and Alex Kapranos braid nearly perfectly as united vocalists, and while every song obviously sports pencil-stached Ron Mael's surrealistic stamp, it's a blend of Ferdinand's more modern sensibilities with Sparks' studious musical syncretism that truly works. Plus, as one would expect from a Sparks production, the subject matter runs the gamut all the way from crafty references to the Norks ("Dictator's Son") to police brutality ("Police Encounters") to erotomania ("Johnny Delusional," the lead track that immediately lets you know you're in for something great) to nerd supremacy ("The Man Without A Tan") to Japanese girls with Hello Kitty Uzis ("Soo Desu Ne"). Most everything is listenable and quite a bit is uncontrollably danceable -- look for some or all of these tracks in a knowing DJ's setlist near you. Low points are brief and relative, with "Things I Won't Get" being probably the song I got the least, and "Little Guy From The Suburbs"' hollowly manufactured drama comes off as disagreeably hipsterish instead of playfully witty. But who can hate on an album that by contrast features such deathless prose as "I gave up blow and Adderall for you" ("Call Girl"), or the rude, zany and shout-it-from-the-rafters closer "P*ss Off"? On the penultimate track, Kapranomael croon in dueling intentionally vapid librettos that collabourations don't work, they don't work, they don't work, but if you have the right set of minds and the right range of creative lunacy, they sure can, they sure do. The deluxe edition adds four additional tracks that are almost as good as the rest, including the somber yet lyrically stark "A Violent Death." (Content: infectious rudeness, mild drug and sexual references.)

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Yellow Magic Orchestra, Solid State Survivor

Anticipating Kraftwerk's Computer World by years were those wacky guys in YMO who embraced the technomusicological possibilities of early electronic synthesis early and often, and Solid State Survivor is by far the best work they've ever done. Unlike many albums trying to push the boundaries of musical styles, YMO doesn't forget (at least on this album) to ground it in what came before. "Technopolis," its vocals growled and shouted through a speech synthesizer, maintains some of the funkiest funky funk this side of Funkadelic while making its cuts minty fresh and ultra groovy. "Rydeen," which I remember from computer games and arcades, is even better in its original form, a deliciously sugary pop track that blends galloping horses and thumping beats over its ringing, sparkly melody. Other standouts include "Behind The Mask," recently resurrected as a long-unreleased Michael Jackson cover with its vocoder vocals adding spice to the R&B backing, and a truly insane cover of "Day Tripper" whose breathless Engrish vocals and electroboopy backing bring the Beatles classic into the wacky computer age. It won't be everyone's cup of tea, but the solid grooves and innovative stylings make this an outstanding fusion of future and past at the dawning of an incredible new era. (Content: no concerns.)

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Art Garfunkel, Breakaway

I cut my musical teeth on a set of Simon and Garfunkel albums my parents bought for me, and after Bridge Over Troubled Waters spelled their official end it seemed to me that Art Garfunkel sort of faded away then, down the memory hole as one of those trivia questions that comes up in party games. On one of my trips along the Sierras years ago I picked up a copy of "Breakaway," the first Art Garfunkel solo album I'd ever listened to, in a record store as something to hum along with in the car. And like Paul Simon went onto his own kind of solo greatness, at least for a glimmer (plus-minus its follow-on, Watermark) the duo were even better apart than they ever had been together. Garfunkel was not a songsmith, and wisely sings other people's material, but his earnest, clear voice makes up for it: you could easily dismiss songs like his stunning redo of "I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever)" as the most obvious sort of cheap schmaltz if it weren't him singing it. Driving through the endless high desert, miles from nowhere, his shining voice brought back ex-girlfriends ("Looking For The Right One") and promises of someone to come home to one day ("99 Miles From LA"), of endless love lost and regained, of knowingness and emptiness all the same as he looks at the camera somehow together and separate from the wine, women and cigarettes on the cover. If there are two low spots, they are "Disney Girls," which only the Beach Boys original did well, and only once, and peculiarly "My Little Town," whose grimness contrasted okay on Paul Simon's solo outing but not here as the naïve heartache of the other tracks clashes with its depressive cynicism (and a marvel of inter-label cooperation that Columbia and Warner Bros could sell us the same song twice). Every time I listen to this album, I am in the backwaters again, miles of road ahead, miles of road behind, a voice ringing out through the ages to remind me that the next time I love, it will be forever. (Content: no concerns.)

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Head East, Flat As A Pancake

Two words went through my head while listening to this: "hippie Rush." Start with the lead track, "Never Been Any Reason," which got enough airplay to pique A&M's A&R; Roger Boyd's deft and swoopy Moog sounds like Geddy Lee, and later on John Schlitt easily threatens Lee's vocal range particularly in "Love Me Tonight" and "Fly By Night Lady" ("Fly By Night," you say? not a coincidence, I say) -- come to think of it, "City of Gold" could even be a less-weird "Xanadu" in miniature with a better beat. The ever-present Woodstocky undercurrent gets overt in the almost mismatched final tracks "Ticket Back To Georgia" and "Brother Jacob," so jarring they might have come from another band entirely, but if you ever wondered what Rush might have put out in the mid-1970s if it hadn't succumbed to Neil Peart's terminal art rock navel-gazing this album is the closest you'll come. Fortunately, pancake flat or not, this enjoyable album stands very well on its own, thank you: the synthesizer adds accent, but wisely doesn't try to take over the music, and every track (even the last two) is solidly produced, well-paced and musically rich. No one's relying on any one riff for too long, the solos are skillful and there's enough shifting rhythms and harmony to keep a careful listener delightfully occupied. Schlitt later found Jesus and stored up greater treasures in heaven with Petra, but this album is an interesting counterpoint to his later output and probably this otherwise obscure band's best outing overall. (Content: mild innuendo.)

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The Dead Milkmen, Beelzebubba

Never mind the Sex Pistols, here's the Dead Milkmen, determined to out-Rotten John Lydon and out-Clash Joe Strummer, but you would be wrong to be dismissive. The band's earlier efforts were admittedly uneven, some high points here and there, but finally on this one they actually bring together decent production values, consistent jams and some amusingly offensive, truly inspired songwriting. Do you find other punk bands bland? How about one that grinningly dives into fraternity excess ("Brat in the Frat"), domestic violence ("RC's Mom"), homophobia ("Stuart," probably the album's satiric peak, with such deathless lyrics as "Have you looked at the soil around any large US city with a big underground homosexual population? Des Moines, Iowa, perfect example!"), prostitution ("Sri Lanka Sex Hotel"), suicide ("Bleach Boys"), income inequality ("Everybody's Got Nice Stuff But Me," laying the groundwork for the 99% in 1988), public broadcasting telethons ("Born to Love Volcanoes"), armed rebellion ("Ringo Buys A Rifle") and death ("Life Is Sh*t"). This kind of commitment to controversy makes the album's popular single "Punk Rock Girl" seem unforgivably anodyne by comparison, when really it's merely the lighter track among heavier ones, leavened with a heavy dollop of smirky snark and unapologetic shock value. Heck, they namecheck Bob Crane in "Life is Sh*t," for crying out loud, the final track, which amazingly manages to be both incredibly poignant and callously insensitive all at the same time. This album is not for everyone; take "RC's Mom" as a for-instance, as the horns and the bass boogie and Rodney Anonymous howls, "Gonna beat my wife! Gonna hit her with a 2-by-4!" If that made you stutter and fume, you should find something else. Meanwhile, the rest of us will be finding out what the queers are doing to the soil. (Content: stylized violence, explicit language, sexual and drug themes, incredibly amusing bad taste.)

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Earth Wind & Fire, All 'N All

Slap a UFO on that publicity photograph and you've got Mothership Connection -- and heck, when I saw those pyramids I thought immediately of Parliament's hilariously overwrought "Prelude" from Dr Funkenstein -- but Maurice White continues to provide R&B of uncompromising quality even while studiously adopting Geo. Clinton's syncretic showmanship. This is funky without being stupid ("Serpentine Fire," "Magic Mind"). This is thoughtful without being superficial ("Be Ever Wonderful"). This is sensual without being phony ("Love's Holiday," "I'll Write A Song For You"). Every hook and groove is skillful and fast, the horns dance, the bass gets down and bouncy. The downside is the instrumentals; the little interludes are well-crafted, but they drag me out of the exultant place the vocals take me and disturb the album's flow like rocks in a great honey river, and "Runnin'"'s otherwise competent performance succumbs in spots to overly gratuitous experimentalism. These are, however, only small quibbles against the greatness of a true soul music landmark fusing R&B and samba into something greater than the sum of its parts, just as the album name might imply. The reissue adds three tracks, including a beguiling demo version of "Love's Holiday" that's actually good for something, but the original mix of "Runnin'" adds little and it's rare that I find a live version I like better than the album (and that goes double for "Brazilian Rhyme"). (Content: mild sensuality.)

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Kraftwerk, Trans Europe Express

Musical minimalism is too often used as a substitute for substance, and the first listen through I was ready to slap two stars on and be done with it, which would have been an injustice. TEE is not a perfect album, but it's a beguiling one that rewards the listener who invests in deeper study as well as realizing probably the best concept album idea they'd ever had. Having shed most of their krautrock roots by this point, TEE is the gateway to their late 1970s symphosynthotrilogy, and given their later output is probably the peak. "Europe Endless" was what finally won me over on the second listen, not only melodic and subtle and adding just enough sweetening on the theme and variations to avoid sounding repetitious, but also aspirational and hopeful — the continent enduring, the cultures mixing, forming the album's central symbolism around the now-defunct Express which might be a nice theme song to play when the EU Parliament starts getting uppity. I also found I enjoyed the refreshing wit of "Showroom Dummies," sitting around "exposing ourselves," offering some additional lyrical dimensions for a change that escaped me on a superficial scan. While the title track has some interesting quasi-musique concrète ideas (the train track motif especially) but ultimately overstays its welcome, overall TEE avoids sounding as dehumanized as some of its contemporary Eurosynth albums do because it has two things they don't: vocals, and a refreshing imperfection. If the music is formless and abstract, it sounds alien. If the music is programmed into a sequencer and unleashed on demand, it sounds robotic. The little flubs, the changes in tempo and the wavering voices all remind us there are real people singing, real people performing and real people playing, uniting themselves both body and soul in a grand idealist vision of what they hoped Europe could be. (Content: naïve European nationalism.)

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U2, Zooropa

Zoo TV, the inspiration for Zooropa, was supposed to be an exploration of sensory overload and I am relieved to report that the actual album is nothing of the sort (well, maybe the ghastly album art is, but not the music itself). True, stylistically it picks up where the highly experimental Achtung Baby left off, but it develops it and makes it more refined rather than just wallowing in it. Part of that is no doubt the expertise of Brian Eno and Flood, but part of it is also an increased understanding of how to merge their past with the future: they may have thrown it in for laughs, but the classic vocals of Johnny Cash on the final track backed by a marvelously artificial bogus cowboy riff pretty much represents the album in miniature. "Stay" and "Some Days Are Better Than Others" could have come off an earlier work, but with a little sweetening and stylistic assimilation they slot right in. They also add new tricks to their audio repertoire such as drowning The Edge's vocals in the drony mix of "Numb" to impressive effect, and while Bono's falsetto will never reach Russell Mael's it's a fun little counterpoint on that and "Lemon." Good bands mature, but great bands evolve. (Content: no concerns.)

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