Untitled

Rip It Up, Issue 236, 1 April 1997, Page 28

- LIVE

Secret Samadhi (Universal) I’ve gotta be honest, I’m a sucker for a good video. So, knowing nothing about Live, I grabbed this album on the strength of the ‘Lakini’s Juice’ vid’, or maybe it was the spectator orgy concept. Whatever. Upon listening, it seems Live are the Pearl Jam for kids who were too young for Seattle. To the under-20s they are the shit, they have all the power, the meaning, and guitar angst necessary to be regarded as musical saviours. But they seem to have slipped by everyone else. The country-curdled vocals of Edward Kowalczyk combined with an overwhelming air of frustration (which peaks on the string-assisted ‘Lakini’ and ‘Heropsychodreamer’) make him a prime anti-hero candidate. And Live themselves are the pinnacle of what American Rock has come to symbolise. Lyrically and musically, they tip their hat to wild western world weary epics. It’s the music of the loner, the drifter, the cowboy with a tale to tell and a dream he’s stopped chasing that still lingers like the ghost of a friend. Live have been there, maaaan. And in the 90s, when passion that revolves around self-absorbed pain is profitable, these guys are the current heavyweight champions of the Billboard belt. Secret Samadhi finds it’s strength in the same emotional powerhouse tunes that have seen Live rise to fame. All the other ‘growing as an artist’ tracks are more for the fans to revel in. But for the rest of us, there’s still a sign on the door saying ‘Stay Out of My Room’. JOHN TAITE HELMET Aftertaste (Interscope) Trimmed down to a three-piece core, with Page Hamilton handling all studio guitar duties, Helmet return with an overdue fourth album that could see them regain the territory perhaps lost to others like Orange 9mm and the Deftones during their absence. The Helmet of Strap it On and Meantime have now completed the transformation begun on Betty, with a looser approach and flowing movement replacing the tightly wound tension and muscular riffs that drove the dissonant, posthardcore band of old. This is not to say Aftertaste lacks the impact of it’s predecessors — as most of the songs are not built on brutally chugging chords that bully the listener into aenesthesised submission, an insidious chokehold takes grip over the course of the album. Hamilton’s songwriting is sharp and focussed (perhaps now his Guitar Orchestratype hankerings have been vented by his album with Caspar Brotzmann?), and with Stanier's drums being allowed a freer rein, the spectrum of the individual songs has widened. The latitudinal range of ‘Pure’, ‘High Visibility’, and ‘Broadcast Emotion’, in particular emphasise this aspect of the band’s maturity; and the lyrical

anger within ‘Exactly What You Wanted’, (potential single, maybe?), ‘Diet Aftertaste’ and ‘Birth Defect’ is effectively channeled with a directness that does not rely on a graceless Godzilla weight. With spit and polish provided by producer Dave Sardy (Barkmarket, Orange 9mm), Helmet have delivered on all the promises made over the years. Fans will not be disappointed. TROY FERGUSON MORPHINE Like Swimming (Rykodisc) Once you lock onto the Morphine groove (or, more accurately, once the Morphine groove locks onto you), it just won't let go. With a grip like a pitbull, the three members of Morphine seem utterly singular in their collective musical purpose. Inhabiting a twilight musical world where the bars never close and dawn seems a lifetime away, the Boston three-piece use their unique instrumentation to create a sound that is as sharply focused as it is idiosyncratic. But perhaps recognising it was also in danger of becoming formulaic, Like Swimming finds the band extending their sonic palette beyond their usual two-string bass/saxophone/drums format. The big fat synth flourishes of the standout ‘Early to Bed’ are augmented by an acoustic guitar on the title track and a ‘tritar’ (a Sandman creation — one third bass, two thirds guitar, played with a slide, apparently) on ‘Murder for Money’ and ‘Eleven O’clock’. Add in the odd snatch of mellotron and the electronic pitterpatter of a drum machine on the final track, ‘Swing it Low’, and you have a production that’s positively cluttered by Morphine’s usually barren standards. Despite this additional instrumentation, Morphine’s sound, and

approach to music making, remains unmistakably their own. Like Swimming swings with a natural ease that is hard to fault, and the album stands as the fullest realisation of their vision to date. MARTIN BELL SICK OF IT ALL Built to Last (Warners) A sturdy vintage truck bearing the legend Built to Last adorns the sleeve of the latest album from these dedicated New York hard-core survivors, and within you find a heavy duty powerhouse of an album too. Sick of it All’s unflagging commitment to being a motivating and unifying force in the worldwide HC scene gives them a universal currency that is non-specific enough to be equally relevant anywhere, or to anyone who’s interested — old school, new school or no school. Of course, not a lot has changed musically since 1994’s breakthrough, Scratch The Surface, with foundations still firmly rooted in the 80s era that spawned them, and even rock producer du jour Garth Richardson fails to put too much of an imprint on it. But that is the point of Sick of it All —- a defiant celebration of purpose in the face of apathy that is as unchanging as it is uncompromising. Vocalist Lou Koller hollers his positive and life affirming lyrics while holding a tune quite admirably, and in case you don’t get it the first time, the whole band chimes in on shouty backing vocals for most tracks. Though this rhythmically-driven material is designed for mosh pits, no deficiencies of musical ability are evident through the benefit of recorded clarity — a rarity in the world of message-based punk rock. Well-executed with an impassioned attitude, this would be ‘happy hard-

core’ if the term hadn’t already been appropriated by a style of dance music light years away from the fire of Built to Last. TROY FERGUSON REDD KROSS Show World (Island) Eighteen years since their inception by the brothers (one pre-teen) McDonald, Jeff and Steve, Redd Kross continue to ROCK. Now, really they don’t care how where or for any of those trivial matters, ROCK comes first; Ciccone Youth raved on The Whitey Album about Redd Kross’s rockin passion. When Redd Kross rock these days it’s usually in doses of epic glam or pop punkers. 1984’s Teen Babes From Monsanto was and remains their principal achievement in ROCK, punking out glam in prePussy Galore style (no spandex). Here in the immaculately packaged Show World, Redd Kross are content to alternate the two styles and it’s the punk that works. ‘Teen Competition’ (with it’s buzzsaw riff and soaring chorus) excels in the punk field, and joins ‘Get . Out of Myself’, (with it’s ‘Ticket To Ride’) references as the shining exceptions on an otherwise ROCKing album. The rest of the time Redd Kross are content to be an American (and improved) version of Manic Street Preachers. Sadly, Redd Kross remain a singles band unless you really do like KISS. " v MAC HODGE f ' BODY COUNT Violent Demise — The Last Days (Virgin) The first gunshots are fired before even a minute is up, and the scene is set for an hour of Ice T and co.’s sledgehammer subtlety, containing all the violent imagery and tough guy shit-talking swagger you. expect from albums tagged with the ‘parental advisory’ warning. Like the action movie genre Ice moonlights in, Body Count constantly revisit a familiar, proven formula, innovating only as far as it doesn’t interfere with the clenched teeth, white knuckle heaviness of their game, which works just fine if you suspend disbelief and enjoy the ride. ’ . Essentially, the song remains the same: ‘You’re F**kin’ With BC is a wordy update of ‘Body M/F Count’ (itself a reworked ‘Body Count’s in the House’), and the rampant stupidity of ‘Strippers’ is even thinner now than on the debut album’s ‘Evil Dick’; but the great second vocalist on ‘My Way’ adds an adrenalin charge to the hardcore/rap/metal fusion, creating something , as cool as previous crossover outings by 800-Ya or Onyx. Satire is never far away — the humourous approach to the ‘OJ is guilty’ verdict of ‘I Used To Love Her’, and the kill-me-Kevorkian sentiments of ‘Dr K.’ testify to this — and

while seriousness is usually at a premium, it could be the real Ice opinion on racism expressed in ‘Last Days’. While this album neither floats like a butterfly nor stings like a bee, play it at your parents’ next dinner party and watch ’em drop like flies. TROY FERGUSON ZAP MAMA 7 (Virgin) Marie Daulne, prime mover behind Zap Mama, named her album 7 after the number of senses Pygmies believe people posess: the extra two are emotions and the power to heal. With such global information at the base of the music, one might feel inferior in its presence — for is it music at all, or something of greater importance? Something socially political? But we should reject this thought, in favour of just listenting to each song and taking it on its own merits, rather than assessing the album’s contribution to making the whole world hold hands. So, does the album work? Yes, as a fusion of Euro-jazz, blues, and Third World rhythms; but there are times when the band try too hard in their cross-cultural motives, throwing everything from a reggae beat to didgeridoo into the mix. The songs bounce when required, are sultry when needed, and are a vital accompaniment to the lentil patties when your ‘aware’ friends come around for their support sessions. The highlight is Michael Franti’s Barry White impersonation in ‘Poetry Man’ — hey, even the global village has a pick-up joint.

JESSE GARON

AEROSMITH Nine Lives (Columbia) The major ordeals of making this first recording since re-signing with Columbia have already been well documented but thankfully after all that it still sounds like good ol’ Aerosmith. If anything it’s a return to the harder blues-based kick-ass rock they cranked out in the 70s as opposed to their two previous more commercial productions. Therefore Nine Lives probably won’t win them any new fans, but should amply satisfy those still into Aerosmith. From the rip-roaring title track onwards, Steven, Joe and co. demonstrate that there’s plenty of life left in them yet. The horny ‘Falling in Love’ is the first single, and while there’s not a lot of obvious radio-friendly material here, the gutwrenching power ballad ‘Hole in My Soul’ could be a contender (it resembles their first hit, ‘Dream On’). Album tracks vary from the folky ‘Fallen Angels’, with dulcimer and orchestral backing, to the brilliant Middle Eastern flavoured Page/Plant style number, ‘Taste of India’. Later things get weirder with some real deranged and strung out rock ’n’ rollers (‘The Farm’, ‘Crash’) which pretty much describe how Aerosmith used to be. Guitarist Joe Perry gets his usual one song on lead vocals

with ‘Falling Off, and on ‘Something’s Got to Give’ he whips out the slide for some full on treatment. He and Brad Whitford retain their preference for the classic sound of Les Paul Gibsons on full volume, and Steve Tyler is his usual hyperactive rhyming slang-man self. As the album artwork suggests, all the trials and tribulations it took to make Nine Lives are just another part of the bigger Aerosmith picture. This band still rocks'. GEOFF DUNN FILA BRAZILLIA Old Codes: New Chaos (Pork) FILA BRAZILLIA Maim That Beat (Pork) FILA BRAZILLIA Mess (Pork) Before now, all we ever got to hear of these English dance masters were the occasional remixes (Lamb’s ‘Cottonwool’, the Orb’s ‘Toxygene’, Fluke’s ‘Tosh’, etc.), and every one of them used to make you sigh like a schoolgirl with an unobtainable crush. So, before we get started, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, Flying In, for picking up their label and bringing home the bacon. Everything about Fila Brazillia sounds pristine and pure. You’ll treasure every album, listen to them forever, and show them off to everyone you meet. Even the packaging elevates CD design to an artform. And inside are these opulent audio galleries you can experience but never truly own. First up, Brazillia’s debut, Old Codes: New Chaos, could be one of this year’s smoothest, most infectious dance albums. Only, it came out in 1994! They were so far ahead of themselves this still sounds utter-

ly relevant — the slower beats with samples that pave the way. ‘Serratia Marcescens’ talk of LSD experiments on soldiers is right up there with Little Fluffy Clouds in the classic ambi stakes. (Buy it second.)

Album two, Maim the Beat, is the sounds of Messfs Cobby and McSherry branching out — an escape route from the pacey pigeon holes that were chasing them. It starts with some jazz fusion, wanders through African tribal calls, Kraftwerk lounge music, and mindfucked funk. They sound like seven completely different groups going through a dance life crisis, but they keep it all togethr with their genius minds in overdrive. The ambition verges on self-indulgence, but it’s an important step into a bigger world of instrumental componentry and beat style. And it’s also more than enough to drop you to your knees and make you drool like a bastard. (Buy it third.) Which brings us to Mess: the most crucial recording on the Pork label to date; all things to all people, and definitely the album you should experience first. It opens with a breath of drum and bass, and quickly turns into a Sgt. Pepper of a trip, as they straddle jazzy hip-hop, trance, jungle, trip-hop, ambient, and back again. Example: they’ll take a BBC

film review theme and turn it into a Rhumba soaked beer mat. There are hints of Archive (‘But Momma’), Aphex Twin (‘Laying Down the Law on the Lard’), the Orb (‘Wavy Gravy’), as well as the best from their own memory banks (‘Soft Music Under Stars’ and ‘Hairy Insides’). They’re regurgitating their contemporaries and reinventing their own various pulsating tastes. It’s Fila Brazillia becoming the Borg, assimilating and gaining power from everything their ears have consumed. And it’s the most crucial piece of dance listening this year. Fila Brazillia are as important as your DJ Shadows and Doc Scotts. They put Pork records up there with Mo Wax and Ninja Tune with their crucial innovations. And these three amazingly varied, influential and important albums are begging for your attention. JOHN TAITE GHIDRAH Invincible Deluxe (Kafuey) As denizens of the local hard-core underground, Ghidrah may not be as recognisable as Balance or Sommerset to the casual observer, but nor is their flat-out chaotic craziness as accessible as those band’s more linear takes on musical form. Self-recorded late last year on (mostly) eight track, Invincible Deluxe is an insanely fast and busy album, having almost as much in common with free noise and free jazz as it does with punk rock. Even at the warp-drive speed Ghidrah usually operate at, a coherence of structure is maintained, and it’s still open to occasional sample, saxophone and percussive elements being included in the cacophonous mix. When they play it (slightly) straighter, as on the rhythmically conservative ‘Beat ’im Up’, the urgency wanes; but the creativity at work on highlights such as ‘lke Like Trike’ and ‘Wall of Infinite Pain’ indicates what this band are capable of when they ignore set patterns. Throughout Greg Broadmore sings like a man engulfed in napalm,

and he and his bandmates seem possessed by a maniacal fury that may or may not be related to their obvious interest in fighting games of the Mortal Combat ilk. Ghidrah are unorthodox and intense, and Invincible Deluxe is a challenging record you ought to check out if you are interested in extremes. TROY FERGUSON VARIOUS ARTISTS Music From the Motion Picture: Jerry Maguire (Epic) Another movie, another soundtrack. This one’s aimed at the going grey MOR market: songs from the Who, Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Nancy Wilson, Elvis, Rickie Lee Jones and Dylan. All good songs; great Sunday afternoon listening. But the big question is: What’s the point? Surely soundtracks should only really be an event if music is an integral part of the film, or it’s the original score. In the case of Jerry Maguire it’s neither.

Hey, let’s make a stand on this. Instead of buying the Jerry Maguire soundtrack, why don’t you go out and get The Who Sell Out, or Blood on the Tracks, or Darkness on the Edge of Town, or The Sun Sessions, or, for that matter, any other ‘real record’. JESSE GARON YELLO Pocket Universe (Mercury) I don’t really know if we needed the musical equivalent of Red Dwarf. But Yello have gone and done it anyway. Pocket Universe is a new phase for them: sci-fi electro. A dark, floating slave colony dancing through space on some industrially decorated colosseum. Huge pulsing star destroyers fizzing high voltage effects all over the place, and a weightless cleanliness to the sound. This might be the album to make them hip again. With Deiter Meyer’s hypnotic monotone being ripped off by groups like Fluke, its about time

they claimed some hard earned beat booty. The tracks are full of techno fodder, though they’ve spiced them up with the usual array of sound selections from the weirdo zone.

These guys have been churning out their dance for nearly 20 years. They’ve kept ahead of the mutating, fickle movements as best they can, getting swamped in recent times. But Pocket Universe is the best electronic feast they’ve turned out this decade. And they even got Carl Cox to work with them. So, give them another chance, eh? JOHN TAITE FOUNTAINS OF WAYNE Fountains of Wayne (Atlantic) Imagine Weezer without the humour. Wouldn’t be much fun at all, would it? Well, that’s pretty much what Fountains of Wayne are. The New York based four-piece tread the same sort of slightly geeky, alt-pop road as Weezer, but don’t pull it off

nearly as well. Fittingly, one of Fountain of

Wayne’s two main songwriters Adam Schesinger wrote the title track to the recent Tom Hanks flick, That Thing You Do. The Fountains of Wayne sound nods heavily towards the sugar sweet pop of 50s America, and Schesinger and Chris Collingwood string together some fine harmonies on this record. In fact, there’s no doubt Fountains of Wayne can effortlessly churn out song after song of nice, safe rock and roll, but of course, that’s never going to be enough. It’s all too smooth and polished to be of any real effect and in the most, Fountains of Wayne come off sounding disappointingly dull. DOMINIC WAGHORN VARIOUS ARTISTS Infocity Overground Wellington Compilation (Kato)

Sometimes I write down strange little things when I’m listening to new albums. On this occasion the Sourpuss song ‘Convince Me’ had me jotting down the lines, ‘John

Wayne Bobbit goes to hell, cuts off Phil Spector’s penis and starts singing into it (this is, for us, a good thing).’ The album’s opener from Dome gave me an interesting impression, thus these lines poured from the pen: Tn a life-raft in the North Sea — cold and frightening, but you can’t wait to tell your friends about it.’ And ‘The Kelp’ from the Letterbox Lambs had me writing down: ‘Fun and angular, like a rubber sword.’ Perhaps my vision has been blurred because I’ve seen all these bands live, and on their day — with the right song, the right moment, the right drink — I can believe them all to be the best in history. You might not, but then again, you might. Just remember what I said about Baconfoot’s sublime ‘Molestation’ — it reads, ‘Fantastique!!l But I sorta hate it.’ If that doesn’t tell ya what’s what, I don’t know what will.

JESSE GARON

MUNDY Jelly Legs (Sony) Mundy is a young, brash, Dublin singer/songwriter called Edmund

Enright, and Jelly legs is his first | album. As a writer he’s instinctive, | which often means he sounds a little l| too much like those other Irish I blokes (U2,. although Mundy’s ears R have also clearly wrapped themselves around the Waterboy's and Neil Young), but it’s the album’s playful arrogance which is its saving grace. Producer Youth probably had something to do with that, so despite the heart-in-mouth title, Jelly legs comes across with a sly, boots-on-desk confidence. If the songs themselves aren’t yet up to much (and Mundy’s already penned his share of clunkers —.‘My love for you’s better than diamonds,’ etc., etc.), Mundy’s breathless, bottled-up enthusiasm is infectious, which almost makes you forgive him . the closer, ’Munderland’(l). GREG FLEMING SPACE Spiders (Gut) Word has it Michael Hutchence (of INXS fame) is a big fan of these ' ■; guys, but don’t let that put you off — Space aren’t actually half as bad as this recommendation suggests. The Liverpool four-piece tell anyone who’ll listen they refuse to tow the Brit-pop line. Instead, Space are more interested in experimentation, quirkiness and doing things a little different to everybody else. This is, of course, ridiculous, since every band since, well, INXS, has claimed they are actually the ones taking music into new territory. There’s a definite wacky element which holds the Space sound together. From the nouveau-lounge sound .of ‘Female of the Species’ and the electro-pop of ‘Me & You vs. the World’, to the electro-strings of ‘Noone Understands’, and the outright techno of the closing track ‘Growler’, Space, do indeed try things out. Sure, this experimentation doesn’t always pay off, but in the most, Space prove they have a wealth of ideas and a good collective sense of humour. Promising.

DOMINIC WAGHORN

VARIOUS ARTISTS Howard Stern Private Parts: The Album (Warners) Howard Stern, ‘controversial shock jock’ (read: ego-driven loudmouth bore), has attained stellar popularity Stateside with his daily talk show, TV specials and best-sell-ing books. Lately, the self-appointed ‘king of all media”s royal duties have included selecting songs for the soundtrack of the movie based on his autobiography, Private Parts, (which, judging by the between-song excerpts, will be about as funny as a heart attack). Having considerable sway in industry circles, Stern has attracted some hefty names to the

project. Flavour of the month nasties Marilyn Manson parade their unpleasantly enjoyable shock rock shtick; and soundtrack stalwart Rob Zombie’s offering, (a thundering slice of cartoon metal rather than the usual lacklustre out-take), is only partially spoilt by Howard’s vocal presence. Porno for Pyros contribute the superb 'Hard Charger’, a gargantuan return to form for Farrell —

with three quarters of the sadly missed Jane’s Addiction in attendance. Dave Navarro shows up again with his fellow Red Hot Chili Peppers Flea and Chad Smith, providing an undistinguished track that is only saved from oblivion by guest vocalist LL Cool J; and also on the collabora-

tion rip, Ozzy Osbourne and goth metallers Type 0 Negative reconstruct Status Quo’s psychedelic flavoured ‘Pictures of Matchstick Men’ as a sweeping gothic epic (though why did Green Day bother with a virtual laser copy of The Kinks’ ‘Tired of Waiting for You’?). Some good moments, but even if Van Halen, Cheap Trick and Deep Purple represent Stern’s early radio work, couldn’t less obvious songs have been chosen? TROY FERGUSON VARIOUS ARTISTS Check This Out Baby (Onefoot) On this 18-track compilation of the Onefoot punkers to date, you get it all: speed punk, metal punk, ska punk, god punk, pop punk, straight edge, skate punk, etc. and so on, ad nauseam. No posi punk, old school hardcore, second wave, new wave, art punk, surf punk, acid punk, minimalist or Goth. Just endless rat pedals rifting out. The Blitz Babies do their glam/Blondie thing, which is okay but the number of Green Day clonings obviously present on terra firma is astounding. Don’t these people realise they disappeared along with Offspring, straight after massive success, for a reason. The secret here is passion, conviction to the cause, I don’t doubt the best humanitarian values and animal righteous-

ness of most of today’s punks, but hey, isn’t that what hippies espoused? Holy cross dressers batman, that’s gotta be the biggest transformation since the King of pop became white. Most of these tracks here are devoid of humour or real intelligence, some of punk’s finest moments are witty/dumb statements on inane shit that parallels life's irony, now I wanna sniff some glue! Only one track here makes the ‘memorable’ grade (not always a positive standard), and that’s the stupid fest of Migraine’s ‘Venus Sex Fiend’: ‘She took me to a date in outer space... she tried to rape me and sit on my face... she had three vaginas and 17 breasts,’ have to be up there with the all time worst lyrics in history — truly worthy of exception, but not worth purchase. MAC HODGE SUSANNA HOFFS Susanna Hoffs (London) Judging by the stellar supporting cast lending their talents to this album, it looks as though I’m not the only secret member of the Bangles Appreciation Society. Amongst others, Mark Linkous (Sparklehorse), David Lowery (Cracker), Jon Brion (the Grays) and Jason Falkner (Jellyfish) make telling contributions to an album that seeks to pitch Hoffs back into the public eye. The opening ‘Beekeepers Blues’ signals Hoffs’ intentions for the album and confirms the rediscovery of her melodic, jangle-pop roots. A sterling cover of the Lightning Seeds’ ‘All I Want’ follows, but a couple of songs on, it becomes apparent that Hoffs is still trying to have a bob each way. Despite sporting lank, centre-parted hair like an angry young Alannis wannabe, yawn-inducing ballads like ‘Darling One' and plodding rockers like ‘King of Tragedy’ suggest Hoffs hasn’t completely worked the top 40 pap out of her system. Just when you think the sting has gone completely out of the album, the final brace of tracks, including a cover of ‘To Sir, With Love’ and hidden bonus track ‘Stuck In The Middle With You’, turn things around, provide Susanna Hoffs with a much-needed kick in the tail. MARTIN BELL BUILT TO SPILL Perfect From Now On (Warners) Emerging from the bustling Boise, Idaho underground scene, Built to Spill is a band based around the remarkable talents of one Doug Martsch. Doug’s a do-everything kind of guy, one of those people who can sing, play guitar and bass, dabbles in drumming and can probably

do the Macarena really slick-like well. But, cleverly, he does know his limitations so when recording time comes around, a string of buddies and muso acquaintances are called in to help out. This is Built to Spill’s first foray into the world of major labels, and if their music is anything to go by, the transition has been pretty seamless. On this album, the songs are longer and given more time to work than on previous BTS releases. The sparse, country-tinged, 10-fi tunes aren’t at all the types which leap out at you on a first listen. But with time and patience, there are real gems awaiting discovery. Go find ’em. DOMINIC WAGHORN

VARIOUS ARTISTS

Excommunicated: A Palmerston

North Compilation (Celibate Monks Collective)

Palmerston North has long had a reputation for rock ’n’ roll of gut-rip-ping intensity — a fiercely indpendent rejection of commercial-friendly music. This collection carries on that tradition, but it is the broad range of styles represented which makes this album different from others representing the ‘Palmy sound’. Sure, there’s the tighter-than-tight sledgehammer sound we’ve come to expect; notably from Vargas Grell, whose ‘Fishes Mouth’ explodes with blistering menace; and ‘lnnocence’ from Reign — although this song tricks the listener into thinking the Manawatu has been invaded by softsinging folkies before it kicks out the jams.

Master Cheese Maker display fast, fun, pop punk, with a big nod towards the Dead Kennedys (‘Penis Fly Trap’ even has an undercurrent of Biafraesque paranoia. The blessed spirit of Wayne Elsey lives in Pushkin, and thrives in the rebel yell choruses. ‘She Was' from Phallus is an avant garde drumless dream sequence, where grey angst meets the beat poets. And Wholesale Drainage do Jaz Coleman better than the real thing ever has. Eleven bands here, 22 songs. Some more compelling than others, but all rock with a method far removed from the average Coca-Cola Video Hits mentality. Contact Celibate Monks at PO Box 124, Pamerston North.

JESSE GARON

RUNT Thirsty (Elysium) ‘Legendary for their impactual live performances [mass indolence], and technical credibility [textbook rock], Runt are largely a bass-driven and precision mechanism [nice metaphor]. Seemingly small in both name and structure [they’re a threepiece], the Runt sound is a massive [weeny], enigmatic [unfathomable] and indefinitely eccentric animal [a la Nixons/Eye TV]. Renowned for their phlegmatic [not easily excited/unemotional disposition] approach... [Thirsty] is intended as a unique delivery [a thing KFC do] for those receptive [bending over] and appreciative to items of peculiar

substance [drug reference?]’. Like Thurston Moore once said, “Don’t listen to that, dude!” This Dunedin band are symptomatic evidence of the population drift north. Lose the thesaurus and loosen up, guys,

maybe even heed your own advice from Drained, ‘try everything once and learn from the experience’, ’cause if this is the second album and it’s only possible to sound derivative, maybe it’s time to move on. MAC HODGE GLENN TIPTON Baptizm of Fire (Atlantic) Judas Priest are still in a state of limbo several years after vocalist Rob Halford left them, so band member Glenn Tipton got a bit tired of hanging about and decided to venture out on his own. Since Tipton is the main songwriter and guitarist for the leather-clad studded ones, it isn’t surprising this resembles their sound quite considerably, although he sings only about as well as he can spell.

The scorching title track is far and away the best thing on here, with Billy Sheehan really cutting loose on the bass (more than he ever can in the pop confines of Mr Big). If only the rest of the album was this good! Cozy Powell also contributes his trademark powerhouse drumming on a few songs but at best the remainder is only mildly interesting. Wonder if Glenn realises Baptizm of Fire has the same initials as ‘Boring Old Fart’?

GEOFF DUNN