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Rip It Up, Issue 243, 1 November 1997, Page 32

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Fl LA BRAZILLIA . Luck Be A Weirdo Tonight (Pork) Ough. Suits you sir. Ough. Get the Martinis out, polish up the Swingers bootleg, cos Fila Brazillia are gonna sort ya for a soundtrack of sophisticated boozing and all round mind alteration. Their last four albums have been sound as a pound of course, and let’s be honest, Mess is one of the all time classics from the realm of Pork’s mellow-beat mood transmogrifiers. But Luck Be A Weirdo Tonight is double-top shagadelic territory — this is an album that should suck in the punters that aren’t with the programme yet. ‘Billy Goat Groupies’ and ‘Do the HaleBop’ prove that naming these tracks is as ridiculous as describing them. But let it be known that these watercolour soundscapes make as much sense on a hungover Sunday afternoon, as they do when the sun has set and your gearing up for bizzo. It’s the new jazz didn’t ya know. And yes, they’ll jazz in your mouth, jazz all over your kit, and jazz upside your mind if you give them half a chance. ' JOHN TAITE SLY AND ROBBIE Friends (Eastwest) Not much to say really., The world’s best rhythm section meet with a few vocalists from the mainstream pop world for an album of basically reggae standards. I can’t help feeling, in musical terms, that almost always the original is better, and little that I hear on this album changes that view. The wonderful ‘Night Nurse’ is sung in typically insipid style by Muck Hucknall. Of course it’s hard to mess up a song like that when you have Sly and Robbie behind you — perhaps it’s just knowing the real thing? There’s more than just the reggae greats; the theme from Mission Impossible and ‘Satisfaction’, both a rhythm man’s dream, get the treatment to full and memorable effect. Friends is great for fans, but new recruits should go to the archives. JESSE GARON OCEAN COLOUR SCENE Marchlrf Already (MCA) Call it self belief, persistence, or just a fear of returning to day jobs, but Ocean Colour Scene are thriving against the odds. Dumped by their record company after their debut album turkeyed, they hacked out a few demos to become Mosley Shoals, an album vilified for its flagrant 60s parentage. So they’ve soldiered on, reinforced by the fact that Shoals sold over a million copies in Britain. Now the acid test of a second album sees them slightly less besotted by their dad’s music, and less under the influence of friend, guru, and past employer, Paul Weller. They stretch their wings to take in the reggae of

‘Half a Dream Away’, while vocalist Simon Fowler fronts up with a spanking duet with PP Arnold on the soulful ‘lt’s a Beautiful Thing’. Rock ‘n’ roll is taken care of in ‘Hundred Mile High City’, where Cradock’s guitar cuts loose, and in the staunch and sturdy Faces influenced ‘Debris Road’. The album does sag in the middle, the result of too many orthodox and predictable ballads, but overall the Ocean Colour Scene beat a steady trend —- dependable and maybe inexorable. Not a run but certainly born to march. GEORGE KAY Dance Hall Crashers Honey, I’m Homelyl (MCA) The Berkeley, California five piece Dance Hall Crashers were fusing bursts of brass and fast reggae riffs long before the current ska/punk revival took shape. And perhaps as a consequence of their history (formed 1989), they do the ska/punk thing better than most. Honey I’m Homely is the band’s fourth album, and sees them bring back the brassy sounds which were ditched for their last record, Lockkjaw. It’s a sensible decision to reinstate the brass — without it, the Dance Hall Crashers’ sound lacks pep. The twin vocal attack of singers Elyse and Karina works nicely together, while the tight rhythm section’s sound is fleshed out cleverly with the clean brass sound. It’s hardly a breakthrough record, but is a good example of how ska/punk doesn’t have to sound as unimaginative as the dross No Doubt pump out. DOMINIC WAGHORN ELEVATOR THROUGH HELL Eerleconslllatlon (Sub Pop) SUPERCHUNK Indoor Living (Merge) -. Looking like 60s punks back from the dead, skins blue under a psychedelic moon, Elevator Through Hell match the image to their sound. Playing on every fuzzed out, 60s proto-punk/motor city heavy metalschism, this trio utilise analog technology to spew up 16 tracks that alternate from spooky early Barret psych to Blue Cheer grunge, with lead vox man Rick White sounding like a Lou Barlow who’s taken too many acid trips in too short a space of time. Occasionally things fall into the bad trip soundtrack rut, but for the most part this is one magic carpet ride. Occupying totally different ground, indie stalwarts Super Chunk present their sixth album proper. Whereas Elevator Through Hell possess a certain naive charm, Superchunk are battle hardened veterans, determined to breach the next front. Compared to their last album, Here's Where the Strings Come In, Indoor Living toughens up the softer moments, and gives up a couple more anthems to feed bedroom rebellions around the world— of

which the opening ‘Unbelievable Things’ is a sterling example. While not a patch on 1991 sNo Pocky for Kitty, Indoor Living is a welcome addition to a fine legacy. . MAC HODGE LORI CARSON Everything I Touch Runs Wild (Restless) When is a Golden Palominos record not a Golden Palominos record? When it’s Lori Carson’s Everything I Touch Runs Wild. This album from the Golden Palominos’ vocalist, features telling contributions from many of her bandmates — including Palominos’ head honcho Anton Fier. But make no mistake, while the album’s personnel makes the Palominos an obvious reference point, Carson has substituted the Palominos polished precision for something far more organic. . Recorded in her New York City apartment, Everything I Touch Runs Wild\s as intimate as it’s possible to be, without Carson physically, sticking her tongue in your ear. Sung over spare acoustic arrangements, Carson’s lyrics sound like whispered confessions. Autobiographical or not, their effect is captivating and hauntingly beautiful, if hot a little claustrophobic. This is particularly so during the album’s middle stages, when the mood gets noticeably morose. The tension is broken by the penultimate track — a relatively breezy version of Todd Rundgren’s ‘I Saw the Light’, which helps lighten the mood somewhat. A compelling listen then, Everything I Touch Runs Wild is not so much wild, as potently serene. MARTIN BELL FLUKE Risotto (Virgin) SUPERCHARGER Wall to Wall Moustache (China) Fluke. Remember the name. You might know them from ‘Atom Bomb’, their chargin’ Wipeout 2097 pacer. Or you’re more likely to pick up on them with this year’s ‘Summer of Cricket’ anthem, ‘Absurd’ (remember what happened to ‘Firestarter’). Whatever, their name is about to be dropped all over the place. While the rest of the world seems to be peeping in to see who’s in the house, Fluke are taking an electrodance look at things, where the smoother the ride means the better the journey. Think Leftfield and you’re on the right track. More groove, less sweat. And when Jon Fuglar’s vocals drift in like a sinister Dieter Meier (Yello), you’re off down a different beaten track to darkness. As for Supercharger, well, cool album title. The wave of big-beat Chemical Brother/Prodigy variants is flowing out the UK in torrents at the moment. The ‘New Grunge’ they should be calling it. Supercharger are head and shoulders above most of the rabid record company signups. Comparable to the mad bonkers, Bentley Rhythm Ace, Supercharger run the gamut of breakbeat sample.styles, not so much carving niches with an indi-

vidualistic stamp, more following closely and magnifying the highs that have proved party starters. Not fresh, but good, is what I’m trying to Say I think. And, er well, points off for a track called ‘We Rock’. JOHN TAITE THE SUNDAYS The Static and the Silence (Partaphone) I used to hate this band. They represented to me the epitome of late 80s, English wuss-pop — bland, forgettable songs about nothing. Well they haven’t changed much, but perhaps I have cos I found myself quite enjoying their bland forgettable songs' My attention span must have improved also, as I was finding undercurrent genres swimming below the surface of their softly melodic songs. ‘Homeward’ has the slightest flavour of country & western; a lilting, lovely swoop of melody, disguised within the cold and steely corners of the Sundays less than passionate songs. ‘Folksong’ is a revisitation of the 70s ‘cocaine cowboy’ genre. It’s almost warm, almost comfortable, you almost want to hear it again; . , , . • JESSE GARON CORDS Hearl Seel Feel I Tastel (Shock) What do you do with an album by a band you’ve never heard of, that boasts a singer who could be Kim Gordon (but isn’t) and the kind of balls usually rubbed in your face by the likes of Seven Year bitch? Tell as many people as you can to buy said album right now.

Hear! See! Feel! Taste! is as cool as a well-loved car you ain’t afraid to take off-road — highly polished, but as dirty as a mud wrestling match. It’s everything from a wailing shebeast blinded by beauty on ‘Singin’ Bird’, to a snippet of the B-movie loonies on an untitled track six. It’s a bitchin' behemoth you should be glad to let come crashing through your walls — but look out for its impending arrival so you can steer it around the power lines running that all-important juice to your sound system. BRONWYN TRUDGEON GUITAR WOLF Planet of The Wolves (Matador) Japanese garage monsters Guitar Wolf — a scorching rock ‘n’ roll noise explosion with the barely-con-trolled intensity of the MCS (at their best), and the delinquent ferocity of good boys gone bad — are back with another white-hot blast of sonic fury, following up their Less Than TV classics Run Wolf Run and Missile Me, with their big(gish) label, international debut. Except this album’s recorded in a (ahem) studio, with (gasp) engineers, but fear not — it hasn’t diluted the hydrochloric essence of Guitar Wolf’s musical savagery much at all. Neither have the trio made any drastic readjustments to their style — the howls, shrieks and amp-torturing of their 10-10-fi stuff remains in the molotov-accelerant mixture on Planet of the Wolves. , Here they fire out their latest trash masterpieces, and swoop onto

songs by Teengenerate, Oblivions, and the Stones’ (‘Satisfaction’), mauling them into Guitar Wolf shape. And even with English lyrics helpfully provided, you still don't stand a chance of making head or tail of what this is all about — just let this rock ‘n’ roll attack rip into your soul. TROY FERGUSON SOUL II SOUL Time For Change (Island) Well Jazzy B’s changed alright. He’s not completely crap anymore. And it’s probably not the thing to bring up Club Classics these days, but man, they were the kings back then — when ‘a happy face, a thumpin’ bass for a lovin race’ meant something. They were moment defining and now they’re not. Now you kind of wish they’d change their name. Time for Change is a good album on its own merits — a mellow jazzy collection that stands up after repeated listens — but it’s not littered with hits and there’s too few tunes that distinguish it from the deluge of Ronny Jordan-esque cafe residents. Okay, on the up side, it’s a damn sight better than their last tragic piece of toe curling awfulness. JOHN TAITE THE LETTER 5 Unnatural Selection (Independent) Richard James’ Letter 5 have been around. Their EP You Are Here was released by Flying Nun in 1991. Since then, the name Letter 5 and James himself have remained, while the live and recorded duties have been filled on a who’s available, revolving door basis. Nevertheless, over the ensuing years the Letter 5 have continued to release indigenous indie pop of a high compositional standard, complete with Mr James’ trademark wry, smirkingly cynical, lyrical swipes. With this cassette you too can own the entire Letter 5 discography in one tidy package, complete with moray eel in glorious 2D! Seek it out now. — MAC HODGE THE GRYPHONS Alice In Gryphon Land (Independent) Mini-album from Christchurch three piece. Competent and calculated. The concentration is far too great on sonic dynamics and concerted display of skill, no real feeling comes through the disc. Passionless and predictable. The songs are carefully divided up into rock, pop, and slower, melodic tunes. The former sound flat and come through the wash with an uninspired feeling; the guitar breaks arriving on cue and adding very little to the song expect an extra 45 seconds that need not be there (see ‘lnto Light’ for the example). The slower numbers rumble with amateur stage anger, and the band comes away sounding like a poor rip off of Live.

JESSE GARON