Jeff Lynne's ELO, Alone In The Universe

It's a solo album in all but name and thus nowhere near as expansive (to its detriment) nor sprawling (to its credit) as ELO's traditional output. But Lynne was always the group's prime mover, and if anyone could construct a reasonable facsimile in their sumptuously appointed home studio (even depicted in the liner notes) it'd be him. The songs are too short and get a little samey ("When I Was A Boy"), the obvious drum machine is obvious, and the throwback songs ("One Step At A Time" but "Dirty To The Bone" particularly) come across as atavistic and retrograde rather than nostalgic. But it's well-produced and engineered with the same trademark harmonies the fans expect ("Ain't It A Drag"), and regardless of the hokum in the lyrics, at its best it still manages the same level of musical sophistication of the glory days ("The Sun Will Shine On You" and the best track, "Alone In The Universe"). It's not really an ELO album no matter what it says on the cover, but you'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference, and that's certainly more than many bands past their prime will achieve. The deluxe version adds three supplemental tracks of similar quality but similarly wanting length; like the main album, it should delight the fans but offers little added value to the casual interest. (Content: mild adult themes in "Dirty To The Bone," S-bomb in "Ain't It A Drag.")

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U2, Achtung Baby

If the cultural zeitgeist of the early 1990s could be etched into a disc, it would end up sounding a lot like this one. No coincidence, then, that it was recorded in Berlin and Dublin where their worldly tumults just ooze into the album's every moment by osmosis. No more the chastened Irish youth of Rattle and Hum, they now bring to their listeners the novelty and the weight of new frontiers for a generation that chafed just as much from constriction. There is introspection, self-examination, romance, regret and loss, and a just a touch of humour, but through it all the unavoidable impression that change has come with infinite possibilities that loom and bloom all at once, and the world through our eyes would never be the same. The music captures the same lyric feel as the words, the chiming guitars of "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses," the wistful musing beat of "One," the biting saunter of "Mysterious Ways" and the mournful dirge of "Love Is Blindness." Few musical time capsules are more complete: as Bono's distorted vocals correctly call out in "Zoo Station," in those heady days every single one of us was ready for what was next. (Content: mild language in "Acrobat.")

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Paul Simon

Did Lewis need Clark, or Gracie need George, or Abbott Costello? Because Simon still needed Garfunkel, and if his first solo album aimed to dispel that impression, it fails. The style evolves but Paul lacks Art's vocal range, and Roy Halee's flat production still assumes his presence to fill the aural gap. Plus, what Simon's music really lacks here is a hook. He can find it when he wants to ("Mother and Child Reunion," "Duncan," "Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard") but others drown in a morass of their own meanderings ("Armistice Day," "Papa Hobo," "Congratulations") and some otherwise promising songs ("Run That Body Down," "Peace Like A River") simply fall short for one stylistic deficiency or another; it's not that I mind the musings, mind you, but they really ought to go somewhere rather than die off into the runout groove. Everyone is permitted their transition and it fortunately didn't take him long, but that doesn't mean I'm going to give this overall muddled effort a pass. The 2004 reissue adds demos of "Me And Julio," "Duncan" and an unreleased version of "Paranoid Blues;" the former is as uninteresting as such demos usually are, but the "Duncan" demo is a rather different song and the evolution of "Paranoid Blues" adds at least some variety. (Content: adult themes on "Duncan.")

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Trooper, Hot Shots

World famous in Canada! The stench of Randy Bachman's production is all over this group but all the songs you thought American bands did and actually didn't are here, right down to the classic "Raise A Little Hell" which I've even heard variously attributed to Kiss and Twisted Sister. (Eh.) This compilation needs a better engineer — they solved the tape hiss warning on the back of the CD by apparently mastering it at half-volume — but there are solid choices such as "General Hand Grenade," "We're Here For A Good Time (Not A Long Time)" and a slightly altered "The Boys In The Bright White Sports Car," and what's not standout is still enjoyable even if it's not always distinguished. In fact, the choices are so solid it pretty much eliminates any need to buy any of their other albums, making it a wonderful greatest hits collection and a disastrously poor business choice all at the same time. Hosers! (Content: no concerns.)

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Brass Construction II

Their first effort, innovative as the jazz-funk fusion might have been, was indelibly marred by their intentional use of words solely as colour to yield an album both musically sophisticated and thematically sterile. Good thing they didn't make the same mistake twice. For sure there's no ambiguity about the themes this time around, such as "Screwed (Conditions)" and "Get To The Point (Summation)," and the slightly charged "Sambo (Progression)," but for however affected or blunt the titles and exhortations are the message of social improvement is solid and the music is funky. The stylistic variations don't distinguish the tracks as much as I'd like and a couple overstay their welcome a bit, but the disco bridge on "Screwed" livens it up, the album's single slow track ("Blame It On Me (Introspection)") is a welcome groovy change and the party atmosphere runs all the way through to "What's On Your Mind (Expression)" at the end. Still, as good as the other songs are, the standout is the incomparable "The Message (Inspiration)," ignominiously familiar to younger generations as the core sample for N.W.A.'s "I Ain't Tha 1," whose unmistakable piano bassline, horn flourishes and honeyed vocals remind us through nearly five minutes of pure joy that "everything is going to be all right." The second time around is always better. (Content: no concerns.)

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Snowy White, Goldtop

Shed a tear for the session musician whose voice is not their own, but while he deservedly kept great company his output in his own right frankly disappoints. Although White's skill is considerable as a guitarist it's less so as a songsmith, meaning the most compelling part of this compilation is not the solo work which represents the majority of the running time. While "Highway to the Sun" is competent enough, "The Time Has Come" and "Love, Pain And Sorrow" are slow and maddeningly flat, and his almost cookie-cutter blues tracks (both solo and as Snowy White's Blues Agency) largely lack any special hook or style; likewise, of his brief time with Thin Lizzy, only "Renegade" really cooks while "Memory Pain" is just as dull as the rest. The remaining small number of tracks are remarkably variable in their breadth as well as in their quality: a Richard Wright instrumental selection ("Drop In From The Top"), one of the weaker pieces from the interesting but commercially stillborne Wet Dream, two underdeveloped rehearsal (!) Peter Green tracks, two live Al Stewart pieces ("Dark and Rolling Sea," "Carol") both undermined by flaccid production, and the sole gem, the previously 8-track-only extended "Pigs On The Wing" (from Pink Floyd's Animals) with White's clarion guitar bridge between the halves unheard on any other format. It's quite a curio for fans, but you'll pay a price to get it, and there's little else to recommend the rest of what's here. (Content: no concerns.)

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REO Speedwagon, Hi Infidelity

A furious, freewheeling arena rock masterpiece, formulaic themes, by-the-numbers melodies and strictly perfunctory licks and solos notwithstanding, the performance is flawless, the execution is seamless and the result is peerless. While "Follow My Heart" falls relatively flatter than the rest, "Tough Guys" is just plain fun, "In Your Letter" and "Shakin' It Loose" mix in a little doo-wop for stylistic variety, and "Don't Let Him Go" and "Take It On The Run"'s gentle touch on human imperfections may be hackneyed but still comes across as mature and thoughtful. And despite the title, the wistful closer "I Wish You Were There" still makes us long for that forever relationship just out of reach. I've never wanted to skip a track and I've never wanted to miss a moment. Sure, call the production cynically commercial pablum, but since when was giving the customer what they want a sin? (Content: S-bomb on "Tough Guys," mild adult themes on "Someone Tonight.")

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Phish, A Picture of Nectar

It's worth it to read the band's dedication to Nectar Rorris, the album's namesake beverage(ur), in which they gratefully acknowledge he "was happy to give us a gig despite our lack of experience, organization, or a song list long enough to last two sets." All that is true, and all that is reflected here with the possible exception of the latter. Indeed, this hippie gemisch of nonsense vocals and multi-instrumental brilliance ("whatever you do, take care of your shoes") doesn't really cook until somewhere into the third track ("Cavern," named for no good reason) and then it just takes off. Exceptional moments: the smooth, skillful guitar jam leading "Stash," the scatty imprecise jazz of "Magilla" b/w hot guitar licks and sweaty tropical rhythms in "The Landlady" (!), and rhyming "tweezer" and "freezer" in (what else?) "Tweezer" and its closing encore. On the low end, besides the first two weaker tracks, "Glide" is pretty dumb and the mercifully short "Faht" and "Catapult" just feel shoveled on to fill out that second set, but they're all balanced out either by the beautiful juxtaposition of graceful keyboards and agonizing drug withdrawal in "The Mango Song" ("your hands and feet are mangoes, you're gonna be a genius anyway") or the hard-driving indictment of how badly the educational system serves berserkers in "Chalk Dust Torture." Nectar was onto something. They were on something. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it? (Content: S-bomb in "Poor Heart," drug references in "Stash" and "The Mango Song.")

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Modest Mouse, The Moon & Antarctica

If all the Moon and Antarctica have in common is being lifeless and difficult for humans to inhabit, then that's this album too. The low points begin early with "3rd Planet," a grimy disheveled mess obsessed with "f*cking people over" (possibly the listeners), but later on also the atonal, cacophanous "Tiny Cities Made of Ashes" and the interminable "The Stars are Projectors." There are flashes of talent: I liked the introspective "The Cold Part," though mostly for the musing harmonies and overdubs and not much else, the solemn if moronic "Gravity Rides Everything" with its Radiohead-style distortion, and the clever "Paper Thin Walls" which might have sprung fully formed from the head of David Byrne. A couple tracks like "Dark Center of the Universe" and "A Different City" even get up enough verve to groove to. Still, Isaac Brock's snarly navel-gazing is as tedious as the affected clang association lyrics, and the quality of the production doesn't generally match its erratic composition. The band nevertheless thinks more of it than it deserves, as evidenced by the 2004 reissue/remaster with four tracks as reworked for BBC Radio 1; though actually longer than the originals, they're tighter, and potentially proof this band's got something more to offer after all. (Content: F- and S-bombs, violent imagery on "Wild Packs of Family Dogs.")

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The Beatles, Let It Be

Stop it with the gauzy historical revisionism: Abbey Road was truly their last album, and this is just the flotsam that washed up after. Lennon was gone by then and the remnant, coasting on their own formidable narcissism (including George Martin), finished up a batch of half-hearted live noodles and jams and dumped it all on Phil Spector to deal with. So he got out the Wall of Sound, and for his controversial efforts polishing their turds into sequins, he was excoriated by three of the four (Lennon, ironically, the only one to get the joke) and half of all the record critics across the universe. For my money, it's still the same pretentious crap it was in the bootlegs, it just sounds better (which Let It Be... Naked, McCartney's ill-advised anti-production remix, likewise misunderstood). Now, being the Beatles, it's still a good album and stands the test of time, and I still love the schmaltz. But don't you dare think for a minute I'd tolerate this kind of laziness from anyone else. (Content: no concerns.)

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The Greatest of Pleasure

Even (or perhaps particularly) obscure bands resurrect; Pleasure's original keyboardist, now a prosecuting attorney, brought back a new incarnation of this Portland soul-funk group in 2019 after disbanding 38 years prior. Fans trying to turn back the clock, however, will find a lot of flaws in this retrospective collection: their 1975 début and 1982 swan song are completely ignored, the Afrofuturist "Future Now" comes across as me-too and helplessly dated, cookie-cutter later singles "Yearnin' Burnin'" and "Take A Chance" don't impress and while "Glide" was indisputably their biggest hit we certainly didn't need three versions of it (not least leading off with a limp rap remix overdubbed by Psycho). Fortunately the good singles made it here too including sublimely rich "Ghettos of the Mind" and the insistent sax solos on the superfunky "Joyous," but the best outings are the sensually lyric "Sassafras Girl" (with its softly hooting primal intro yielding a gauzy tropical feel) and my favourite track, "Get to the Feeling," mixing husky vocals, infectious beat, strong horns and an unerring baseline that's never off point. (So funky, in fact, that they basically ripped it off for "The Real Thing" and nearly as good, so we'll forgive it.) Add on the boisterous "Let's Dance" and "Foxy Lady" and you've got a real party. We wish their revival luck because they'll have some big shoes to fill: while this album proves their discography wasn't always distinguished, more often than not it still delighted. (Content: no concerns.)

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10cc, How Dare You!

An exemplar of prog rock taken to a possibly illogical extreme, it's still a nearly unmitigated marvel to listen to. Complete even with overture, every single track is practically an operetta in miniature: laments of the bullied ("I Wanna Rule The World"), the mentally ill ("Iceberg") and harassed parents ("Rock 'N' Roll Lullaby"), wrapped up in boyhood sexual awakening (the bluesy "Head Room") and a layer of nostalgia ("Lazy Ways"). Any regret of the album's sole weak track (the desperately witty but monotonous morality play "Art For Art's Sake") is quickly dispelled by two more of exceptional skill: the saucy yet studiously formal "I'm Mandy Fly Me" featuring a remarkable bridge instrumental between the two halves of a shaggy stewardess story, and the absolute best of all, "Don't Hang Up"'s tale of a relationship on the skids, with heartfelt performance, perfect orchestration and knife-sharp wordplay ("when the barman said whatcha drinking, I said marriage on the rocks"). The subject matter may occasionally be a bit startling (how dare they, indeed!) but its originality never falters and neither will your interest. The CD reissue adds the lightweight "Get It While You Can," not of the same studio quality or level of wit as the rest of the album, but a worthy track all the same. (Content: adult themes.)

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