Cake, Pressure Chief

Danceability is not the typical descriptor I would give a Cake album, but this one gets your boogie bouncing. It's not just the horns and John McCrea's vocals, though those persist and flourish; it's also the newly phattened backgrounds with Xan McCurdy's heavier bass and Moogy synthesizers, all of which are so expertly paired that none of it comes across as gimmicky. The lyrics have sharpened up, too: "Wheels" captures the exile inherent in a relationship on the rocks (favourite line: "muscular cyborg German dudes"), "No Phone" could apply to any introvert anywhere desperately trying to escape, and while it's a Bread cover "The Guitar Man" paints the perfect picture of a flawed man who just wants to jam. It's still more evolution than revolution; "Take It All Away" is clearly inspired by their earlier cover of "I Will Survive," light songs like "She'll Hang The Baskets" and "End of the Movie" are really stylistic throwbacks and while "Carbon Monoxide" is sassy it's just a little too on the nose. But it's the groove and sheer exuberance of songs like "Dime," "Palm Of Your Hand" and particularly the album's finest moment "Waiting" that simply make you swing and sing, and not a track on this disc feels like a pop sellout in the end. (Content: F-bombs on "Carbon Monoxide.")

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Alice Cooper, Billion Dollar Babies

Who puts snakeskin on an LP gatefold? The same kind of man who would sing about necrophilia, that's who. But don't let that scare you off, necessarily: there's also a fabulous reworking of an earlier track as "Elected" (whose snark and brass section deserve airplay every November), tables turned with male sexual harassment in "Raped And Freezin'" and no doubt a vignette of Cooper's daily life in "No More Mr. Nice Guy," which really must be simultaneously experienced in the so-tacky-it's-great Pat Boone cover. But, yes, the creepy stuff. If you have the stomach for this sort of satire, what's notable is how, uh, tactfully it's approached: there's just enough menace in "Billion Dollar Babies" (and Donovan on guest vocals) to get the point across, just enough implication in "I Love The Dead" to hint not all is platonic. Only "Sick Things" gets a little too literal and "Generation Landslide"'s topical content gets boring and preachy. Nevertheless, do remember this album's not for everyone; there's even a song about the horrors of the dental chair, complete with groans and drill ("Unfinished Sweet"). Sir, at long last, is it safe? (Content: adult themes.)

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Rush, 2112

Given that half this album is consumed by an overwrought, hackneyed high-concept space fantasy of a hapless figure struggling (having rediscovered the guitar, no less) against priestly institutionalized oppressors, what's left? Other than "A Passage To Bangkok," an amusing if hazily transparent marijuana-fueled odyssey, and the licks if not the lyrics of libertarian fetish "Something For Nothing," not a lot. The actual music is well produced and I am the last person on earth who will begrudge a prog band an artistic excess or two in their suites. But even Geddy Lee's generally on-pitch banshee impersonation goes flat at times, particularly in "Tears," and then there's the lyrics and "2112"'s story. Didn't space rock die in 1969? (Content: sly drug references in "A Passage To Bangkok.")

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Tony! Toni! Toné!, Sons of Soul

What a revelation: an R&B act with actual instruments and actual musicship where the samples serve the tracks instead of just being them. And they built on what they learned in the tropics of Trinidad to turn out a unique album that's clearly of its genre but still stands alone in its quality. Lightfooted lead-off "If I Had No Loot" deserved all the airplay it got, and the throwback soul moments of "What Goes Around Comes Around," "Tell Me Mama" and "Leavin'" brilliantly fuse styles both old and new, yet there's no shortage of new jack swing ("Dance Hall," "Fun") and slow jams ("I Couldn't Keep It To Myself" and the knowingly corny "Slow Wine," with honey-on-biscuits vocal advising "let me explain") to round out the cycle. Some aspects aren't so positive: "My Ex-Girlfriend" is misogynistic schadenfreude with a beat, "(Lay Your Head On My) Pillow" is just a little too transparent, the drudgerous "Tonyies! In The Wrong Key" is probably on the wrong record too, and the otherwise dazzlingly smooth "Anniversary" and its 9-minute running time exemplify the album's other collective flaw, that it drags on just a little longer than it ought to. But most of their contemporaries were content to rely on overproduction and undercreation, and many still do, so let this be the analogue antidote. They're truly the offspring of the magic of soul, and I suspect soul overall is pretty darn proud of them. (Content: adult themes.)

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Cock Sparrer, Shock Troops

Oi! The most your typical Septic has ever heard off this album is admittedly its best, the knowing "I Got Your Number," run sped up in Jackass 3D while the team commits hijinx and at least one bodily injury in the exhaust from a private jet. But the punk is fun and the quality isn't suss, and if they lack some of the political awareness of their contemporaries that also means they lack some of their obnoxiousness (and outlasted them too, as "Where Are They Now" did prove). That doesn't mean they won't take prisoners in the process ("Take 'Em All") and it doesn't mean they fail to be topical ("Working," "Secret Army"), but if they're smart enough to know revolution is just replacing one type of oppression with another ("Watch Your Back") then they're smart enough to be more than attitude. As proof, at the end and out of left field comes the atmospheric, almost meditative naval story of "Out On An Island" that easily matches the best output of more outwardly cerebral bands. Even if that didn't sell many records to any audience, this one's still a keeper. The later reissues correct its chief flaw of brevity with even more great tracks; most, including the easily available Captain Oi! CD release, include "Argy Bargy" and the wacky B-side version of "Colonel Bogey" (with a spoon solo!), but the 18-track Taang! release throws in five more as well. All the contemporary reissues also include their only other notable single "England Belongs To Me," which became infamous as an anthem for skinheads who mistook its pride of country for white supremacy. These guys just can't catch a break. (Content: S-bombs on "Take 'Em All" and "Droogs Don't Run.")

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Judy Collins, Wildflowers

Willowy, waiflike and insubstantial, a vocal portrait of its singer, it's still got its charms even if the hoity-toity folksiness comes off as more condescending now and then than quaint. The Joni Mitchell tracks ("Michael from Mountains" and of course "Both Sides Now") are the best, with baroque flair and strings like a chamber trio in the summer sun and Collins' voice suggesting the very flowers you know are woven through her hair. Her own tracks are more morose and melancholic, however (though "Since You Asked" is nicely arranged, at least the verses), and the three Leonard Cohen selections ("Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye" in particular) just go breezily nowhere. The oddest conceit is the actual baroque Middle Ages fifth track, which apparently topped the Billboard charts in the 14th century. I suspect she aspired to high art; I suppose there are worse things than ending up high-falutin' instead. The Elektra reissue pairs it with the immediately following "Who Knows Where The Time Goes" which is itself hardly perfect, but maintains all the best musical attributes of this album while managing to be better produced and better written besides. (Content: no concerns.)

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Daft Punk, Random Access Memories

In the aftermath of the electronica duo's breakup, let's look at their last, probably greatest work. There's something inexcusably pretentious about liner notes that prominently state "Starring (in alphabetical order)" and not all of those guests are the album's high points (Paul Williams' "Touch" disappointingly in particular), and the obvious pop single moments are fatally obvious pop singles ("Lose Yourself to Dance" and the Pharrell Williams hit "Get Lucky" are cute but ultimately disposable). But the shift to richer orchestration and a more expansive style really delivers, with real meaningfulness here in a genre generally fixated on throwaway beats. I have never heard a more heartfelt, human vocal out of a vocoder than "Within," I enjoyed the U2 feel of "Instant Crush," "Fragments of Time" adds wistful nostalgia without being cloying, and while "Beyond"'s orchestral lead-in is a trifle overwrought it's still thrilling. However, while there are many such quality instrumental interludes, the album's three official instrumentals are its finest moments and indisputably the best tracks they've ever done: "Motherboard" and the tingly wonderous glow of first "Contact" deliver a solid punch, though it's their interview with disco deity Giorgio Moroder that hits it out of the park, rendering his insightful, introspective self-summation of his career and life over a wonderfully realized throwback beat in "Giorgio by Moroder." This album may be almost eight years old now but it is so suffused with atmosphere it will forever be timeless. Perhaps they took Fatboy Slim's advice: if this is the greatest, why try harder? The deluxe edition adds "Horizon," a fourth prog-styled instrumental as strong as the three on the main album and well worth picking up. (Content: mild adult themes on "Get Lucky.")

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David Gilmour

A not-bad first-solo effort by Pink Floyd's guitarist during the interregnum between Animals and The Wall, which would be a good description of the style as well. The album photograph comes off particularly low-effort for Hipgnosis, however, and the gatefold spread of personal snaps feels like a party you weren't invited to. For that matter Gilmour was never much of a lyricist either; the tedious "So Far Away" in particular sprawls thematically for the better part of six minutes. But even "So Far Away" has good musicship going for it and not just guitar — he also appears on piano and organ, with a couple session mercenaries in for drum and bass, and as befit the prog rock fashion of the day there are also several instrumentals, all strong (though "Mihalis" and "Deafinitely" are the standouts). Of the vocal tracks, "There's No Way Out Of Here" (which he didn't write) and "I Can't Breathe Anymore" (which he did) are good, solid, pensive rock and the others at least please melodically. If he wanted just to see if he could do it, I've heard worse. The 2008 remaster lengthens most of the tracks, a blessed improvement over the usual practise of including alternate takes, but the differences will be too subtle for most to appreciate. (Content: no concerns.)

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The Best of Walter Murphy

If Mason Williams was too staid for you, then I guess there's this. Like most 1970s novelty acts — see also Meco — he's strongest doing disco retreads of the music you know ("A Fifth of Beethoven," "Flight '76" with Rimsky-Korsakov, and especially his gloriously gauche arrangement of Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue," which could rehabilitate United Airlines' soiled reputation all by itself if they ever put it in an ad). His original material, however, never quite matches up: none of it is incompetent (and "California Strut" is even fun), but none of it is special or genre-busting, and the vocals at times ("Keep Dancing" as the worst example) get incongruous. The problem is that's most of this disc. The moral of the story is always give the customer what they want, especially if you're United Airlines. (Content: no concerns.)

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The Manhattan Transfer, Vocalese

I have fond memories of this album as a kid because my local library had it on cassette. (You know, those places with books that people visit now for the free Wi-Fi.) It's not aged wholly without tarnish — the synths and drum machines are definitely products of its time — but the hook of vocalists singing those florid stratospheric jazz solos, squeals and squeaks intact (sometimes together with the very instruments they're mimicking), never gets old. And not just vocables and scatting, though there are some, but the witty, wacky Jon Hendricks lyrics sung to their usual high quality by the members and an ensemble cast of guests including Hendricks himself. While you'll get the joke better if you know the originals, as a fascinated young listener who didn't know a Grammy from my granny I did know the sounds in my headphones were gold. The songs are less compelling when they're less formed (particularly "Another Night in Tunisia," with guest Bobby McFerrin beneath his talent), and it loses its fifth star for being a cover album at its core, but good golly, man, what covers. It would have almost been worth the fine to keep the tape. (Content: no concerns.)

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Brass Construction IV

The last of this funk band's Roman numerals (though not their last numeric album: that would be Brass Construction 6), it's not as nakedly idealistic nor high quality as their first two, but the shift in conventionality is hardly fatal. While the aspirational messaging remains a thing here and there ("Perception (What's The Right Direction)" and "Help Yourself" in particular), there's also more typical funk ("Get Up") and a bit of disco ("Night Chaser"), and although the latter bunch of tracks might not be as sophisticated they're still a lot of fun. My favourite track, however, is the wistful procastination of self-improvement in "Starting Tomorrow," sung to smooth '70s style R-and-B with an almost Zappaesque doo-wop bridge, and one of the band's best tracks yet to appear on any of their collections. The weakest part of this album, besides the pedestrian mating ritual of "One To One," is that it's just too short. EMI tried to get you covered here by pairing the reissue with the inferior Brass Construction III, more of the vulgar and less of the clever, but my CD-R (made to order) has a screwed up first track and weird artifacts on IV's "Sweet As Sugar." Heaven forbid they should do their back catalogue any favours. (Content: mild adult themes on "One To One.")

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Mumford and Sons, Sigh No More

Is the title true? This album's strict folk aesthetic, broken up occasionally by ornamental piano and the odd organ and brass, could be one big sigh, really. It's very well executed ("After The Storm" the artistic peak) and the guitar and string instrument work in particular is really super ("Roll Away Your Stone" and "Timshel" especially). But its indefatigable minimalism is its greatest conceit and its gravest flaw: largely bereft of percussion, and barely a rhythm section to speak of, it never gets going much and it mostly ends up sounding the same. The lyrics are also a mixed bag, running hot and cold over romance and religion, as determinedly unresolvable as the style. Their Celtic bluegrass fetish is relentless, but I like their technical skill and I like the flourishes, and I salute their truculence in defence of their ambiguity. For me it ends up an album for the quiet evenings when I need something murmuring on that I don't have to pay attention to. So, sigh, but only a little bit. (Content: F-bombs on "Little Lion Man.")

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