Crescent

THE SLAUGHTER RULE SOUNDTRACK

Certain rarely-heard names, such as Jo Jo Gunne or Atomic Rooster, are guaranteed to induce a nostalgia rush in men of a certain age. The fact that such ’70s semi-stars aren’t acknowledged ‘greats’ makes their very mention all the more bittersweet. In a good way. Cherry Red, who I think I must avoid meeting at all costs if I’m not to turn into a sad spotter babbling on about the hidden joys of Redbone and The Partridge Family, have taken this frisson further and asked Mark Stratford, Bob Stanley and Phil King to compile a themed album, not just of obscure hits from the era but?more insane than that?to evoke the colour, shape and sound of pop life at the time. Magpie is bookended by the voice of silver-tongued smoothie and walking cravat Peter Wyngarde (aka Jason King) and pays homage to a period of space hoppers, hot pants and possibly space hoppers in hot pants. It was a weird phase: the trippy was mainstream, and everyone bought cheap, hastily-bashed-out cover versions?”Hot Hits”, “Pick Of The Pops”?by the truckload. In this bargain-bin nirvana you’ll find “TV themes, film music, adverts, junkshop pop 70-74” and Don Fardon singing “Belfast Boy” about Georgie Best.

The memorable Magpie theme itself was written/recorded by The Murgatroyd Band, who were basically The Spencer Davis Group moonlighting. Alexis Korner’s CCS adapted Led Zepp’s “Whole Lotta Love” into the still-definitive TOTP theme. “Whatever Happened To You”, from The Likely Lads, remains inexplicably poignant, and excerpts from the movies Take A Girl Like You and Loot are brittle and affecting. A pre-fame Elton John hacks out “Spirit In The Sky” for one of those tuppenny covers sets: probably a Pan’s People clone adorned the sleeve. This is a purgatory of forgotten fool’s gold which slipped through the cracks, and it’s cracking. One for sorrow, two for joy.

With the death of bassist Leon Wilkeson during the making of this 30th anniversary album, the Skynryd line-up now includes just three original members. Vocalist Johnny Van Zant keeps his brother’s legacy alive on raw-throated redneck anthems like “Red, White And Blue”. But it’s just one of many examples of a slightly sad, shamelessly stuck-in-the-mud approach. The ham heroics of the music and the credentials-obsessed lyrics are well beyond parody. The stench of too many nights on the sour mash, dreaming of Confederate glory, looms large.

Never underestimate hip hop’s powers of transformation. Daniel Dumile began his rapping career as Zev Love X in militant New Yorkers KMD before donning a metal mask and becoming MF Doom, a comic book villain on the mic. This time out, his sci-fi fixation is stretched further still: King Geedorah is a giant alien lizard with three heads, sharing thoughtful observations of humanity. Inevitably, a few samples from Japanese monster movies fill out Take Me To Your Leader. But it’s more profound and personal than the schtick suggests, as Geedorah meditates on race, violence and sundry mortal iniquities over melancholy, RZA-style soul-jazz samples. Oddly moving.

We don’t hear much about the Asian underground these days. Those associated with it seem either to have been dropped, like Talvin Singh, or have moved increasingly overground, like Nitin Sawhney. Human is his most commercial album to date and owes as much to contemporary urban R&B as his Asian background. More song-based than previous albums, the range of voices (Sawhney doesn’t sing) is broad, from the pop stylings of Jacob Golden and Aqualung’s Matt Hayles to the Asian delivery of Natacha Atlas and Jayanta Bose. It’s all highly impressive. Yet somehow it still sounds like the kind of album that wins awards rather than hearts.

The new frontier may just be a myth from a Merle Haggard song these days. But there’s still the Australian outback. Some of the most authentic-sounding Americana around is currently being made Down Under. Kasey Chambers is a pioneer, and there’s even an Aussie label called Laughing Outlaw. But best of all are The Waifs. Led by the voices of Donna and Vicki Simpson (one of whom has the sexiest Southern drawl this side of Lucinda Williams), Up All Night’s a wondrous collection of acoustic-based country-folk songs, full of wit and rootsy passion.

Whether he’s pondering the Machiavellian moves of music industry players or describing his own lack of sartorial style, Lewis is unflinchingly honest. This second batch of acid-addled confessionals from the NYC anti-folkie is less heroically basic than his first (he now plays with a drummer, plus brother Jack on bass and vocal harmonies), but just as tender and funny. The stream-of-consciousness delivery still dominates, but whether working up a barrage of punky noise (“Arrow”) or adding whale cries to a lo-fi sea shanty (“Sea Song”), his muse has charm by the skip load.

As Lucinda Williams proved on World Without Tears, recording live-from-the-floor can be scintilating. John Hiatt’s 18th album (the first on which The Goners get a joint credit) was recorded in such fashion in just eight days. Sadly, it contains none of the finesse that made his last album, The Tiki Bar Is Open, such a joy. They sound like they’re playing in a roadhouse on a Friday night. Which is fine in its place. Out of context, it just sounds a mess.

The pulling powers of this Magnet fellow?known back home in Bergen as Even Johansen?became evident during the last 18 months. His preceding EPs?Where Happiness Lives, Chasing Dreams and The Day We Left Town?left listeners scurrying for comparisons. Such names as Thom Yorke, the inevitable Jeff Buckley and Air meets Glen Campbell were polished and dropped.

But the old sounds-like parlour game doesn’t account for On Your Side’s delights. Scandinavian by design, Magnet is not sidetracked into any post-new acoustic genre. He specialises in space- and light-filled atmospheres that seldom quit dangerous middle-of-the-road ground. And Johansen doesn’t waver from his course. Ballads, lullabies and epiphanies are used with dynamic intelligence.

The stately “Everything’s Perfect” sets him up. Vocal strength lies buried among quivering trumpets. “Last Days Of Summer” increases the attack with a gentle touch. Vibraphonic chords and a careful use of echo maul you, drawing you to his method. It’s like being pawed and jawed by a drowsy country-loving cougar.

This sense of a velvet-clad mugging, strings courtesy of High Llama man Sean O’Hagan, continues whenever Magnet slips in his Moogs and Mellotrons. Celtic chanteuse Gemma Hayes adds counterpoint to a version of Bob Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay” that is more subtle than sexist, as if those Air-men had entered into a non-aggression pact with Scritti Politti and Pierre Henry. Elsewhere, shadows of The Beach Boys flit across “Overjoyed” and “Smile To The World”, the deliciously understated finale offering wish fulfilment on an epic scale.

Forget that “quiet is the new loud” mantra and concentrate on Magnet’s less-is-more philosophy. He’s on your side, but he’s tapping you on the shoulder. It would be foolish, if not downright rude, to ignore the invitation.

Americana puritans beware. Those seduced by Califone’s wonderful Quicksand/Cradlesnakes, released in May, may have trouble assimilating this collection of instrumental soundtrack pieces. In the absence of traditional song forms, the collective’s creaky ambient and percussive tendencies dominate: lengthy improvisations like the three-part “Fireworks” take the atmospheres of old folk and blues, with few of the melodic signifiers, rather like fellow travellers The No-Neck Blues Band. Compelling stuff, nevertheless, and the courageous will be rewarded by some crepuscular funk towards the end of “Salome”.

Invoking the legacy left by the Heat’s deceased founder members Al Wilson and Bob Hite, this is the first album from the outfit reincarnated by survivors in 1999. Predictably enough, the album is a safety-first nostalgia exercise with help from past associates including Taj Mahal and the late John Lee Hooker. Stylistically it covers the blues waterfront, from Dallas Hodge’s breezy “Bad Trouble” to the firecracker revival of “Let’s Work Together”. It is not an unqualified success?Greg Kage’s insipid “That Fat Cat” pales against the seasoned favourites, and the single “Getaway” is an ill-advised excursion into radio rawk. All told, a good-natured but not particularly impressive salute to their past.

Quite what makes a 21-year-old from Macclesfield reinvent a bunch of traditional English folk songs with beats is an interesting question. But Sweet England makes you very glad he did. Cleverly mixed by the Afro-Celts’ Simon Emmerson, Moray’s inventive rearrangement of such familiar ballads as “Early One Morning” and “The Raggle Taggle Gypsies” may just be the most significant new development in English folk music since Fairport Convention’s Liege And Lief. There are some clumsy moments. But it’s a bold signpost that moves far beyond the trad revivalism of the likes of Kate Rusby.

Jazz guitarist Metheny here puts aside his electric for an acoustic baritone guitar and a special tuning which he explores over a series of gentle ruminations recorded in a late night session alone in his home studio. Originally done for his own pleasure, these pieces certainly warrant release, and anyone who enjoys acoustic guitar excursions in reflective mood will be drawn to this album.

Boston-based miserabilists Staind have made a career out of providing a musical outlet for angry white males and social misfits. But for music fans outside this demographic their habit of picking at emotional scars smacks of self-indulgence. On their follow-up to 2001’s Breaking The Cycle, Staind offer little relief from neo-grunge’s vapid whining and automated guitar angst. The upbeat “Yesterday” could secure them a hit while “Zoe Jane”, a tribute to singer Aaron Lewis’ daughter, manages to stay the right side of mawkish. Still, with 14 tracks lasting over four minutes each, at times this album seems interminable.

Every so often a voice emerges from the world music scene with an indefinable ability to cross over to a wider audience. Bebel Gilberto was the most recent example, and Portugal’s Mariza is set to follow her. Singing the mournful, blues-like music of her country (called fado), she combines a spectacularly expressive voice with stunning looks and a charismatic presence that lies somewhere between Grace Jones and Maria Callas. Her music is deeply rooted in tradition and yet somehow it also sounds totally modern. If the last world music album you bought was Buena Vista, make this the next.

Lisa Gerrard, spiritually intense wailer and ex-Dead Can Dance member is, we’ll wager, no close relation to Steven Gerrard, the Liverpool midfielder. But you never know. She’s gone all Maori on us here for a New Zealand indie film, and aren’t they the fellas who do those scary war-dance routines before playing thug-ball, or rugby, or whatever it’s called? Lisa, after working on Gladiator, Ali and others, is now a big Hollywood soundtracks player, which is comically absurd but blissfully reassuring. “Very low, very dark Maori shell flutes” have been used here, and “traditional female Maori vocals”. Just this once, I’ll admit to cluelessness concerning the genre.

More wonder and thunder from down under. Mick Harvey’s extensive track record (Bad Seeds, PJ Harvey, Crime & The City Solution) more than qualifies him to score a coming-of-age issue movie set in “a small coastal town in Australia”. Interestingly, the debuting director, Paul Goldman, shot the videos for Boys Next Door’s “Shiver” and The Birthday Party’s “Nick The Stripper”, so he and Harvey have been communing aesthetically for a while. Harvey’s been getting award nominations already for this, and it seems there’s little he can’t turn his hand to these days. The sooner he dumps that one-trick Cave charlatan the better. This is a grower, a heat haze.

The Pastels always seem to find their wheelbarrow positively overflowing with acclaim, though some of us have struggled for over a decade to remember what they actually sound like. Here they wibble along, inoffensively enough, through a 25-minute accompaniment to the recent Brit road movie directed by David Mackenzie. It climaxes, if that’s not too bold a word (it is), with a Jarvis Cocker collaboration, “I Picked A Flower”, a parody of a pop hit which demonstrates that Cocker used up all his parody power a while ago. A limp cover of Sly Stone’s “Everybody Is A Star” is physically embarrassing. For diehards only.