albums

Rip It Up, Issue 178, 1 May 1992, Page 28

albums

NICK CAVE AND THE BAD SEEDS Henry's Dream (Mute) The latest offering (yes, quite possibly in the sacrificial sense) from the folk hero for kids too young for Cohen, carries on in the vein of the last two albums: a kind of macabrely over-stylised MOR whose only other living practioners are Lynch I Cruise / Badalamenti and perhaps the

over-rated Cowyboy Junkies. The idea is that now noise is a familiar

household accessory the only way to be really unsettling is to take the

mannerisms of sentiment so far toward real despair that they're no longer

comfortable to be around. Recognition of the genre gets the listener's defences down, then the bleeding-heart orchestrations, minor chord overload and Cave's voice

(attempting remarkably successfully to approximate a thunderous sob) go in, as it were, for the kill. It works but when the songs slow down so far you think they'll never go away, as on 'Christina the Astonishing' and 'Loom of the Land' and in the all too rare moments when the absurdly lush strings that

dominated 1990's The Good Son' take over from Mick Harvey's

whiplash-percussive rhythm guitar. The lyrics continue to reflect Cave's desire to revitalise the elements of the country / blues narrative tradition that deal in socially unacceptable quantities of male passion. It's overstated (another 'Sweet Sally') but it has to be, it's about hysteria, not mild irritation.

The edge all artists live on is that of ridiculousness, not oblivion. So yes, if the old(ish) curmudgeon has ever seduced you before he'll do it again this time, but I can't help wondering when he'll realize he's Nick Cave, he doesn't have to be Hank

Williams as well. MATTHEW HYLAND

MANIC STREET PREACHERS Generation Terrorists (Columbia) Rock 'n' roll is getting old; into its fifth decade and it's lost the power to shock anymore. Eyes bleary and senses dulled from the MTV palliative and its teeth in a tumbler by the bedside, rock 'n' roll has wearily surrendered to the corporate entertainment industry. Presley, the Stones and the Sex Pistols were all part of that industry, but

they at least were instrumental in drop-kicking successive generations into an anti-complacent lather. And now fresh from the valleys of Wales with their articulate retro-snot, the Manic Street Preachers try to inject some bile into an ageing and

obsequious patient. Using shock tactics as a means of drawing attention and reinforcing credibility in the face of cynics, guitarist Richie Edwards slashed his arm with the slogan '4 Real' after a discussion last year with the NME over the band's

sincerity. Seventeen stitches later this demonstration seemed to carry more impact and honesty than the Stone Roses' 'renovation' stunt, but it drew less publicity. Trying to jolt the current generation tranquilised by easy thrills and bad

politicians into some state of self-realisation is a brave and almost conceited task for a band whose fusion of punk, glam, Iggy and mid-American thunder is at the wrong end of originality. Labouring under a "seen-it-all-before” tag, this band kick against the pricks on Generation Terrorists and when they succeed it's like a familiar grenade exploding in your skull.

"It's not that I can't find worth in anything I it's just that I can't find worth in enough" sums up their credo of world depravity in 'So Dead'. 'Slash n' Bum' is the anarchic solution, an;; . < opening fury to contrast with the pessimism and resignation of the grinding futility of the closing track, 'Condemned to Rock 'n' Roll'. In between they cast a vitriolic stare over patriotism on 'Repeat (Stars and Stripes)' and 'Repeat (UK)', go gooey over the meaninglessness of life on 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and come up trumps with the self-loathing of You Love Us' and 'Methadone Pretty'. Generation Terrorists justifies the hype, but it's not going to wake up a generation or spawn a host of imitators. To remain true to the ideal plot, the band, with their manifesto delivered, should now split up before they become a self-parody. GEORGE KAY SOUL II SOUL Just Right Volume 111 (Ten) Soul II Soul were the sound of a few years back, you couldn't escape their languid grooves in any dance music. Everyone used that beat and Soul II Soul seemed to have an endless string of hits themselves. After a disappointing follow up that didn't really seem to go anywhere new they've come back with Volume 111 and redeemed themselves perfectly. The hip hop and reggae feel that featured so strongly in the past has been toned down a lot. Jazzy B has obviously been paying attention to the Young Disciples, Brand New Heavies et al and the strongest sound here is one of classic 70s funk. There's a horn section floating around in Jazzie's usual lush mix, and a couple of tracks even feature that most 70s of instruments, the flute. 'Mood' takes this approach to a real extreme, being a very 'cool' instrumental track But the 90s thread isn't abandoned completely. The whole English dance groove is happening here, right down to some of Jazzie B's laconic raps and the patented Soul II Soul big dance beat. It's the vocalists that make it all though, there's the usual floating crew

with really nice contributions from Caron Wheeler and Richie Stevens on Take Me Higher' and 'Joy' respectively. It's this ability to pull it all together, the vocals, the beats, the feels, that really make it happen for Soul II Soul, and this time it has most definitely happened. KIRK GEE SIRMIX-A-LOT Mack Daddy (Def American) Seattle has more to offer than just a heap of grungy hair-wagging acts. There is, for instance, Sir Mix-A-Lot. Hopefully you won't remember his earlier stuff, as the likes of 'Posse On Broadway' were pretty dire and nowadays he's being helped out by the übiquitous Rick Rubin which must count for something. Mix-A-Lot still raps in a strange singsong style, but the beats he uses are much more together and the - whole style is a lot heavier. 'Swap Meet Louie' is a pretty good example, . the feel is pretty heavy, not much short of a gangster rap, while the lyrics are pretty dumb but funny, a warning against purchasing your Louis Vuitton ‘ at the swap meet. You can't help but like a man who can write a couplet like "The whole swap meet went crazy 1 1 was bustin' more fools than Patrick Swayze". It's good old-school style rap that tells a story and moves the feet. In places Mack Daddy doesn't quite pull it together, there's moments of bragging rap that sound really dated, like bad Kool Moe Dee, but generally the beats save Mix-A-Lot, along with some pretty nifty samples — Prince in 'Lockjaw' and some clever drops from 'Hellraiser' pop up too. Cool stuff really, and it's good to see Mr Rubin can still get things happening with rap acts as well as rock ones. KIRK GEE BODYCOUNT Body Count (Sire) . A while back, some black guys were fooling around with music and wound up inventing something that became known as Rock 'n' Roll. (Okay, so that's simplifying things a bit, but you know what I mean). For a brief time before the mainstream blanded it down, this new music had two major. ; 7, t characteristics. Firstly, it was morally unsound in a major manner arid secondly, it was chronically macho to the point of parody. These rough A’ edges were quickly rounded to make rock into something the whole family can enjoy (and purchase), but every so often they reappear and offend the

hell out of everyone. Which brings us to Body Count. They -ire Ice T's side project, a black metal group with all the downright nasty attitudes LA tough guys are so famous for. On a musical level they're pretty damn good, very fast and hard and although they do tend to veer into cliched rock territory, I've certainly heard worse. Mr T's lyrics, however, are in a class of their own. This has got to be a piss-take as we are talking real bad in a lot of places. I'm not going to quote them here as it's unfair to take them out of context of the music. Oh what the hell:"Don't sleep alone, don't sleep alone, don't sleep alone, / don't . sleep/ alooooooooooooooooone I Evil dick, evil dick I Evil dick, evil dick" (from 'Evil Dick'). You get the picture. There's an album's worth of this too, 'KKK Bitch', 'Momma's Gonna Die Tonight' and so on. It's all good fun and some tracks like 'Body Count's In The House' or 'Cop Killer' are really fine, good nasty rock. Maybe not the sort of record everyone will dig, but as far real hard metal goes, it's certainly a contender. KIRK GEE BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN Human Touch (Columbia) Lucky Town (Columbia) Bruce is now working for a new boss: Sony. Two albums have rolled off the production line at once and like Henry Ford's cars, they come in one basic colour. But there are two sizes: big and not so big. There's more Bruce here than you can shake a fist at; 100 minutes of angst, passion and sweat. Bruce shakes his fist a lot too and that's the main problem. The battle is between the bellowing icon of Bom In The USA or the tender intimacy of Tunnel Of Love. The icon wins, swamping both albums with faceless stadium rock. The story goes that after nearly five years, Bruce was only one song short of completing Human Touch. So he . returned to the studio and quickly produced enough new tracks for another whole album. I'm dubious. These records don't have separate identities, both have the gentle, confessional songs that made Tunnel such a surprising album. It's still satisfying listening, years after USA and the others have burnt out. But it's the generic rockers — like leftovers from The River cranked up to - in-your-face levels — that dominate, and let down, both these albums. The rhythm section is as relentless as a piledriverand still a funk-free zone.

Bruce plays all the guitar and it's unremarkable. Tunnel of Love gave us a welcome rest from the E-Street

Band, but here you miss their dynamic shifts and varied colours.

At an hour long, Human Touch is the least humane of all. But shouted down by the stadium clunkers are songs that quietly communicate genuine passion: the finely honed title track; 'Man's Job', an Orbisonesque slow burner that wails "hit", the purist tributes to Woody Guthrie. There's even a humorous ode to suburbia in '57 Channels' in which the Boss drives a Japanese car and shoots his TV. Lucky Town is more user friendly. The emotions are more credible — probably because the album was done quickly — but it's still no Blood on the Tracks or Bring the Family. 'Living Proof has the big rock sound, but its anguish is real, you can feel the tears. And 'lf I Should Fall Behind' and 'Book of Dreams' are both warm, human-sized ballads in the Tunnel style. Springsteen devotees may care to rearrange the songs and come up with two albums of consistency. There is some excellent material here, almost enough for one very good record. The biggest disappointment is the lack of judgement shown by Bruce and Jon Landau, his usually astute, sensitive manager. The two-album strategy recalls the overblown excess of the live box set; it's as though more thought

has gone into the marketing than the music. Bruce may get a bigger cut and there's one less album to fulfill his contract, but I think he's let himself down here. Not to mention his fans. CHRIS BOURKE THOUSAND YARD STARE Hands On (Stifled Aardvark Records) Thousand Yard Stare. The name given to the vacant look of horror that befell battle-shocked and fatigued soldiers. And a name chosen with a fair amount of irony by these four rustics form just outside Slough. More at home in the local pub with lyricist / singer Stephen Barnes knocking out songs about football and the village green preservation society, Thousand Yard Stare are the antithesis of urban rock, but what they lack in street cred they make up for in English guitar exuberance and a mock rural innocence borne out by the obvious signs of the ochre packaging. Cunning, but anyone with the wit and invention to elevate love to a soccer analogy on the hyperactive 'Nil-All At Extra Time' and put green in a malevolent haystack setting in 'Comeuppance' are minds to be reckoned with. The instrumental, scene-setting 'Junketing' builds and pares the way for 'Nonplussed' as inspired offspring of Teenage Fanclub's 'Star Sign', a rush to the head soothed by the lovely philosophy of 'Absentee'.

Part of the English invasion of itself, Thousand Yard Stare may be more borrowed than original, but the snap, crackle and pop here is the sound of genuine guitar grits and mock agrarian goodness. GEORGE KAY THE FALL Code Selfish (Cog Sinister / Fontana) In an age of rampant platitude and compromise (if only we'd known that "breaking down the barriers" meant Push Push on BFM and a Hollywood movie starring Matt Dillon as the singer of Pearl Jam...) we need people like Mark E. Smith (if indeed there were any people like him) more than ever. His asceticism, his work ethic and his misanthropy are more "real" and certainly more passionate than the love, lust, loss and whatever else most people's heroes pretend to be

overwhelmed by. And, of course, there's more wit and intellectual rigour here than in 90 per cent of English novels, or in a lifetime of what TV

companies call "quality British drama". There are far too few rock lyrics in the world featuring the words "prurience", "abject" and "vermin" and Smith is on a one-man mission to right the balance. The music for this part of the crusade continues the themes of the first two albums: almost pastoral guitar pop defiled by the slur and sneer and miraculously unfunky collisions

between dance machinery and garage ultra-primitivism. It's un-natural, it's anti-social, it's got to be good for you. MATTHEW HYLAND ZZTOP Greatest Hits (Warner Bros) It's difficult to recommend greatest hits compilations. You should really know whether you like ZZ Top by now and I doubt that my critical comments, no matter how incisive they are, will change that opinion. I can tell you, however, that if you're a fan of ZZ Top then this is a pretty good effort, featuring what could be called essential material from the third album Tres Hombres on up. There's also two new tracks, a brilliantly deadpan reading of Pomus and Shuman's Viva Las Vegas' which is up there with the Elvis and Dead Kennedys versions, and the somewhat pedestrian 'Gun Love'. If you're uncertain about such things, don't write 72. Top off on the strength (or weakness) of tracks like 'Legs'. Early on in the piece, before they discovered synthesisers and computer generated drums, 12 Top had a real big sound. Stuff like Tush' is pretty cool, booming drums and big chunky guitars with the feel lifted wholesale from the very great Jimmy Reed. Good fun, especially when played loud. KIRK GEE KENNY KIRKLAND G.R.P. BRANFORD MARSALIS The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born (Columbia) Both these musicians were members of the quintet which, by the mid-60s, had established the Wynton Marsalis group as the great new hope of jazz. But when they took a sabbatical to play in Sting's Blue Turtles band, Wynton, ever the purist, gave them both the sack. Since then Wynton has steadily retrenched into neo-conservatism and it's been his older brother who's shown the willingness to explore and experiment. Now Kenny Kirkland is too.

Surprisingly, Kirkland's eponymously titled album is his first as leader, despite the many years of providing beautiful keyboards for other artists. Unsurprisingly, he's used it to

demonstrate the breadth and range of his talent, and in settings from duos

through to quintets he explores an extraordinary variety of styles. Moreover, while the emphasis remains on acoustic instrumentation, Kirkland is

not afraid of electronics, whether they be harnessed by percussionist Don Alias or his own highly intelligent (ie subtle) synthesizer work. Kenny Kirkland is an album which, in subsequent tracks, takes us from a busy Caribbean-influenced interpretation of Bud Powell to a conventional piano trio, to a fiery quartet rendition of Ornette Coleman, to a cosy cocktail lounge. Despite his drawing on several jazz giants for material, Kirkland's original pieces more than hold their own. For example, 'Revelations'performed, incidentally, by four current or ex-Wynton sidemen — is a plaintive ballad featuring gorgeous soprano by Branford Marsalis. Although Branford appears on five tracks of Kenny Kirkland it's on his own new solo set that we hear him really . stretching out. After the rich variety of Kirkland's album, the 78 minutes of The Beautyful Ones makes austere listening. No keyboards, no overdubs, just the trio of sax, bass and drums in uncompromising exploration. And no matter how dynamic the contributions of bassist Robert Hurst or drummer Jeff Watts, the bulk of the responsibility remains with the sax player. He is equal to it. On soprano or tenor, furiously uptempo or slow and mournful, he is always worth attention. Nonetheless, there are times when one longs for a little more instrumentation and the guest appearances on two tracks are welcome. Fellow saxophonist Courtney Pine engages Branford in a ferocious tenor battle in homage to Dewey Redman. Then, on 'Cain & Abel', Branford's warm interplay with ‘ Wynton's trumpet demonstrates that, despite the track's ominous title, the Marsalis brothers are definitely communicating again. PETER THOMSON AXEMEN Peter Wang Pud (Flying Nun) It was easy to ignore the version of the Axemen presented by student radio: the vaguely drunken pop songs 'Hey Alice' and The Wharf With No Name' and the odd brilliant interview. It became difficult not to want to avoid them after learning of their association with profoundly evil R&B band Shaft. But Peter Wang Pud, a compilation whose existence on CD is a consumate insult to the industry-con format, would ’ convert the most hardened doubter. For one thing most of the music is

nothing like the radio hits. There's pop, jazz, noise, dub, psychedelia, W-3 samples and just about everything else