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Boston Phoenix CD Reviews
SEPTEMBER 8, 1998:
**1/2 The Monorchid
WHO PUT OUT THE FIRE?
(Touch & Go)
When the
Monorchid broke up late last year, they left behind 25 minutes' worth of raw,
explosive demos that are now their final album. Fronted by singer Chris Thomson
and guitarist Chris Hamley (both alumni of Circus Lupus), this DC band focused
on multi-instrumental tension. The guitar parts of Hamley and Andy Cone tear at
each other like fighting cats; the rhythm section is as tightly wound as the
Gang of Four's (a clear influence), with the bass cutting out again and again
to make a more solid impact when it re-enters the mix. And Thomson's howls are
full of loathing and disgust.
None of the songs here outstays its welcome, but they're almost all variations
on the same kind of taut, atonal bounce (though "Skin Problems" substitutes
loops of taped voices for Thomson). The final track, "Abyss," has a kind of
internal melodic logic that the rest lack; it turns out to be a cover of a song
by Sort Sol. The Monorchid's strength, though, wasn't coherence in melody (or
lyrics, though some of Thomson's sound great out loud: "Sheared too close to
the bloom . . . too much static," he yelps), it was pouncing and
abrading. Who Put Out the Fire? is a pleasantly sandpapery swan song.
-- Douglas Wolk
** Mimi
SOAK
(Luaka Bop)
Somewhere outside Athens, Georgia, lurks a
cemetery containing the ashen remains of former "next big things" touched by
the hand of Michael Stipe -- the Tomb of the Unknown Rickenbacker Bar Band,
where Hetch Hetchy, Chicksaw Mud Puppies, and countless others are presumably
interred. One of the more unfortunate members of the club would have to be New
York's Hugo Largo, a drum-less, guitar-less outfit who bequeathed us two spooky
albums in the late '80s, the first of which was produced by Mr. Stipe, and both
of which featured the spectral vocals of Mimi Goese.
Now billing herself as Mimi, Goese reunites with Hugo Largo avant violinist
Hahn Rowe for some hi-tech SoHo torch-song skullduggery with help from ambient
arranger Hector Zazou (a sort of French Bill Laswell). Her hiccuppy
hopscotch delivery falls somewhere between Laurie Anderson and Jane Siberry,
with lyrics that segue from cliché to nursery rhyme to poetic within the
span of a stanza or two. On a track co-authored by Miracle Legion singer Mark
Mulcahy she muses, "What would Superman do if he were me?/He'd start running
and head for the hills." As playful as it is perplexing, Soak goes on to
offer an a cappella version of Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" that's
creepier than Cibo Matto's.
-- Patrick Bryant
**1/2 Imogen Heap
I MEGAPHONE
(Almo Sounds)
Oh no, not another one,
you sigh. Another angry chick singer with classical training. I'm sure she
hates the comparison, but it's hard not to refer to 20-year-old English pouter
Imogen Heap as an Alanis Morissette-ette, given her rankled pose, Cousin Itt
hairdo, and back-of-the-throat snarling vocals. (And on the piano-inflected
tunes, she can't help evoking fellow redhead Tori Amos.) Aside from her
anagrammatic album title, there's little verbal cleverness in the sub-Jewel
versifying (she's especially attracted to the words "ugly," "torture," and
"sleep") of someone whose limited life experience is apparent. Her songs dawdle
(at four or five minutes each) like Saturday Night Live sketches that
don't know when to quit.
And yet, and yet -- she's a genuinely gifted songwriter, a crafter of
indelibly catchy melodies, passages of delightful weirdness (her seductive
cackle on "Come Here Boy," the taunting and vengeful refrain of "Getting
Scared," the funhouse-horror breakdown in the middle of "Rake It In"), and even
moments of sublime inspiration (when the banal chorus of "Oh Me, Oh My"
suddenly resolves into a searing plea: "God, are you there/Are you out
there?"). Chops like these (and a shout that could cut glass) could someday
have listeners comparing Alanis to Heap.
-- Gary Susman
** Drain S.T.H.
HORROR WRESTLING
(Mercury)
Originally released in '96
by the now defunct EMI imprint the Enclave, Drain S.T.H.'s Horror
Wrestling is back on Mercury with three added tracks, including a throwaway
cover of Motörhead's "Ace of Spades." This all-female Swedish foursome
have a clear fascination for the darker side of metal -- heavy guitar riffing,
morbid lyrics, and Nine Inch Nails-style industrial overtones. The disc's
catchiest tune, "Someone," brings to mind Alice in Chains. Vocalist Maria
Sjöholm has a rough voice reminiscent of Metallica's James Hetfield. And
guitarist Flavia Canel shines with a soaring wah-wah-drenched solo on the Marc
Bolan-ish "Crack the Liar's Smile." What Drain S.T.H. lack is a sense of humor,
the sort of attitude and ironic edge that has helped make American metal grrrls
L7 more than just another band recycling old Black Sabbath riffs.
-- Chris Parcellin
*** Chocolate Genius
BLACK MUSIC
(V2)
Marc Anthony Thompson, the
singer/songwriter behind Chocolate Genius, is the closest thing to an
African-American Mark Eitzel this country has so far produced. Smoky,
ragged-edged vocals, somber, downbeat melodies, intense, self-lacerating lyrics
dealing with alcoholism and other illnesses -- Thompson does it all on Black
Music. For further edification, just catch a few of the song titles -- "A
Cheap Excuse," "Stupid Again" -- and note how "Hangover Five" is immediately
followed by "Hangover Nine."
What Thompson has over Eitzel is a greater sense of stylistic contrast. On the
first three tracks alone, the mood shifts from acoustic Beatlesque pop with
dotty Mellotron backing ("Life") to organ-driven mid-tempo Tom Petty-ish rock
("Half a Man") to slow smoldering soul worthy of Isaac Hayes ("Don't Look
Down"). The cause is aided by stellar sidemen, including guitarists David Torn
and Marc Ribot, bassist Melvin Gibbs, and keyboardist John Medeski. It all adds
up to an outstanding 11-song collection. But be warned: "My Mom," about a visit
to an Alzheimer's-afflicted parent, may be the most heartbreaking song you'll
hear this year.
-- Mac Randall
*** Barry Adamson
AS ABOVE SO BELOW
(Mute)
To hell with empire
building. With a few deft turns of arrangement and studio mastery, former
Magazine and Nick Cave bassist turned rock composer Barry Adamson can create
whole universes built around his whims of interest. His past solo recordings
(The Negro Inside Me, Oedipus Schmoedipus) have mostly explored
issues of identity. Here he adds God and the Devil, morality and sex, to the
mix. And what a mix it is! Lounge jazz tangos with electronica. The rumble and
hum of industrial rock purr up to sweet acoustic/electric textures. Big beats
ease into transcendent melodies. But at the center of it all beats a dark
little heart full of Adamson's witty, cynical observations and his natural
inclination to use shades of black as his primary musical colors. On tunes like
"Jazz Devil," his smooth-guy intonations come off as a '90s update of Ken
Nordine's "word jazz" hipsterism. Those who paid attention to Adamson's
soundtrack work for David Lynch's Lost Highway will know the score.
Otherwise, this album's a vivid introduction to an inventive rock auteur.
-- Ted Drozdowski
*** Actionslacks
ONE WORD
(The Arena Rock Recording Co.)
You can count
on one hand the number of rock critics who've parlayed their obsessions into
life in bands -- among them former New York Rocker scribe Ira Kaplan (Yo
La Tengo) and Big Takeover honcho Jack Rabid (Springhouse). Hard to say
which came first -- band or 'zine -- for Tim Scanlin, vocalist/guitarist for
Actionslacks and publisher of San Francisco's tasty Snackcake, but
One Word is one promising disc. This handcrafted gem boasts delicious
juxtapositions of power-trio noise pop, genteel guest cello, violin and piano,
incidental home tapings, and Scanlin's writerly talents. He's incisive and
sassy on "Self-conscious Spiel" ("We have so much cred/It's all I can do to get
out of bed") and reflective on "Gentry" ("It's not strength, grace or
poise/It's just melancholy noise"). With able backing from drummer Marty Kelly
and bassist/vocalist Mark Wilson, Scanlin's made an album that's as
meaningfully fun (hidden cover of the Minutemen's "This Ain't No Picnic") as it
is funny (indie anthem "Hate L.A.") and as poignant (the Paul Westerberg-like
"My 83") as it is powerful.
** Ace of Base
CRUEL SUMMER
(Arista)
Ace of Base's happy fast-beat
music, clean and blond, found favor among fans of Nordic disco. Sadly, there's
little in their third CD to remind would-be Vikings what all the club fuss was
about. Where once the band looked to the much too twirly music of Abba for
inspiration, Cruel Summer looks to Bananarama, the emptiest of
disco-influenced girl groups, and to fellow Swedish star Robyn, the most
prefabbed of new-jill girls, as it hip-hops and girl-groups its way from one
radio-friendly cliché to another without pushing the envelope of a
tempo, lyric, or riff. Not until "Don't Go Away," the disc's sixth cut, do we
encounter a club-music secret (the chant line "Please don't go," from Double
You's cover version of a K.C. & the Sunshine Band nonhit). Not until "Tokyo
Girl," the disc's 10th song, do we encounter fast-fast Eurodisco. And "Tokyo
Girl" sounds self-satisfied next to the nervous cuteness of a true Euro hit
like Paradiso's "Bailando" and "Bandolero."
-- Michael Freedberg

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