AFI Sing the Sorrow (Dreamworks)
AFI have been making breakneck-tempo gallows punk in the Bay Area since 1991, but up to now, the band's goth bent has been mostly cosmetic, literally: Lead singer Davey Havok wore heavy makeup, but his band sounded more like early Offspring than anything else. With its sixth album, Sing the Sorrow, the goth-core quartet finally has both musical command as well as the budget to realize its sad-eyed vision. The jumble of influences emblazoned across AFI's T-shirts (the Smiths, Bauhaus, Slayer, Guns n' Roses, Refused, etc.) has finally made a real impact on their music. Sing the Sorrow begins like a biblical epic: Ominous white noise crackles around buzzing guitars and lugubrious strings. A cymbal swells. A bell tolls. Toms thunder out a beat, and a chanting chorus howls: "Love! Your hate! Your! Faith lost! You! Are now! One! Of us!" Welcome to AFI's nightmare. Sing the Sorrow is a dark planet that refracts various strains of rock, from punk to hardcore to metal to mope rock, and beckons everyone to twist and shout along as the whole shit house burns. Cheery, indeed -- but somehow AFI (the name stands for A Fire Inside) make abandoning all hope sound so inviting. Co-producers Butch Vig (Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins) and Jerry Finn (Rancid, Green Day) let the band experiment with chamber strings, angelic choirs, techno pulses and fleet-fingered guitar solos but also keep the feral energy of AFI's previous work. "Silver and Cold" opens with thunderstorm sound effects and an eerie piano figure before launching into an uplifting pop-punk chorus. "The Great Disappointment" creeps in with a siren song of overdubbed feedback, pinging cymbals and a menacing bass line. And on "Death of Seasons," cellos saw away as Havok screams, "The stars go out and disintegrate!," his voice swallowed in reverb, as if from beyond the grave, or at least an underground parking garage. Sing the Sorrow begs to be listened to with lyric sheet in hand, preferably by candlelight. Havok haunts these tracks like an Edgar Allan Poe spook, laying on purple phrases such as "somber resplendence," "monolithic statues so fragile" and "chrysanthemums of white." On "Death of Seasons," he intones, "Of late, it's harder just to go outside/To leave this dead space with hatred so alive." Despite all this solemnity, the band's urgent delivery and varied attack never allow the songs to sink into torpor. "Silver and Cold" features a call-and-response hymn at a punk-rock mass between Havok and a group of ganged voices. Some of these bleak singalongs occasionally produce unintended comic results. On "Dancing Through Sunday," the group vocals have a sweet, arm-swinging quality that suggest a gothic Blink-182: "Oh-wee-oh, we dance in misery!" Not a good thing by any phantasmagorical stretch. But these moments are rare. Sing the Sorrow is not exactly a concept album, but it does have a singleness of dark purpose that builds in momentum as the disc progresses. Sorrow's two closing tracks (the last one hidden) are some of AFI's best and most ambitious work. On the power ballad "This Time Imperfect," Havok uses his last breath to gasp, "I'd show a smile/But I'm too weak." Yet the ambient sounds that follow sound familiar -- we've heard them before, at the start of the album. It's all about to begin again for the poor guy. (ROBERT CHERRY)
Everclear Slow Motion Daydream (Elektra)
Everclear's Art Alexakis turned forty last April, but in truth he's been acting older than his years for a long time now. Beginning with 1994's Sparkle and Fade, he trained a critical eye on the sort of excesses rock & roll is supposed to be all about, apologizing for his wild-ass past just as often as he romanticized it. Along the way, he became the sanest voice in post-grunge angst rock, turning the laments of divorced dads and disaffected suburban kids into tuneful, well-constructed and heartfelt songs. Slow Motion Daydream doesn't deviate too much from this tried-and-true blend of personal pain and power-chord pleasure, combining the alternately nostalgic and pissed-off family portraits of 2000's Songs From an American Movie, Vol. 1 with the guitarorama loudness that Everclear have been polishing since their more punkish days. "Volvo Driving Soccer Mom," Daydream's first single, typifies the no-frills character of the album's sound and the detail-oriented compassion of its lyrics: Between thunderous, dirt-simple riffs and an oft-repeated chorus, the titular soccer mom, who used to smoke pot and "got gangbanged in the bathroom at my high school prom," wonders, "Where do all the porn stars go when the lights go down?" Mellow moments abound, with gentle strings and pseudofolky melodies seeping into the mix, but most songs bank on the winsome charisma of the chunky guitars and Alexakis' grief-tinged Northwestern drawl, both of which manage to sound simultaneously cathartic and hook-y. The mood veers from foreboding (the John Ashcroft-dissing "Blackjack") to teary-eyed ("TV Show") to gently sentimental ("New York Times"), but the pop-friendly directness of these twelve songs suggests in no uncertain terms that old man Alexakis really believes the words of hope he offers to an anonymous buddy on "Science Fiction": "You need to remember/Life is always getting better." (CHRISTIAN HOARD)
Ben Harper Diamonds on the Inside (Virgin)
Even as he invokes folks such as Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix, Ben Harper turns rock cliches inside out until they mean something new again. The Black Crowes-damaged title track of Harper's fifth studio album -- a lush sweep of twelve-string and pedal steel guitars -- is sweeter than ninety percent of the cock rock that it echoes. Often, when Harper seems to be singing about some spangly rock chick, he's crooning about the Queen of Heaven -- at least that's the case with "When She Believes," a lullaby that's all accordions, harps and fuzzy-blanket chords. Harper works out of a tradition that is older than rock: the African-American church and its more secular members' tradition of blending gospel righteousness with pop grooves. "Brown Eyed Blues" is good wah-wah funk, but it's Harper's quavering, weak-with-lust vocal that makes it irresistible. He understands that pop music isn't just a parade of brand-new things -- it's about reinvention, too. On Diamonds on the Inside, Harper does better than that: He blows up like an inheritor and improves upon his influences with a few jewels of unique and exquisitely tender rock & roll. (PAT BLASHILL)
Ani DiFranco Evolve (Righteous Babe)
Pop tunes have never been Ani DiFranco's strong suit or intention. From her punk-folk beginnings to her recent jazzy jam-band excursions, the still-indie boho icon excels at energetic streams of observant, often strident lyrics. Along the way, she's accumulated considerable acoustic-guitar skills, and her picking has grown ornately angular as her vocals have softened and amassed subtleties. This aesthetic journey has alienated longtime fans missing the concise, angry Ani while attracting newbies charmed by her chops. Evolve speaks to both camps with a succinct summation of her experimental side, here focused and more refined. "Second Intermission" adds deftly arranged, harmonically complex woodwinds, and the feisty title track simplifies, heading back to DiFranco's free-spirited, nearly scatting cry and tense guitar. More inviting melodies could help this mellowed firebrand evolve even further. (BARRY WALTERS)
Jesse DeNatale Shangri-La West (Jackpine Social Club)
Nighttime isn't just the right time for San Francisco troubadour Jesse DeNatale; it's the only time. The characters that populate his lyrically dense songs walk out of streetlight shadows just long enough to introduce themselves before taking their seats in some dark, romantic corner of the bar. And DeNatale delivers their tales with a voice part raconteur, part old-time bluesman, but equally wise. Whether it's the nightclub jazz of the album's opener, "Twilight King," or the simple Van Morrison-like declaration to love, "All in the Name," DeNatale doesn't try anything too fancy. He prefers the anonymous drift of a few standard chords on acoustic guitar with a burst of organ for seasoning and a sturdy drum for punch. Turning every-night situations into lasting myth has its difficulties -- "Bohemian Ghosts" is, perhaps, too obvious -- but when the self-consciousness fades, he proves he's got what it takes to make it 'til morning. (ROB O'CONNOR)
The Be Good Tanyas Chinatown (Nettwerk)
Those thirsty for real backwoods hooch to chase the mass-market Zima of recent "roots-influenced" chart toppers should take a swig of the Be Good Tanyas. On their second release, Chinatown, the British Columbia trio offer up invigorating versions of traditional tunes, like "Reuben", as well as sweet-and-dirty originals such as the lush "Ship Out on the Sea." BGT are strongest on the darker songs, like Townes Van Zandt's haunting "Waiting Around to Die" ("Well one time friends I had a ma/I even had a pa/He beat her with a belt once cause she cried"). These knotty-pine girls sound like no one else -- and no one else would sing two songs about a dead dog. (ROBIN AIGNER)
The Aluminum Group Happyness (Wishing Tree)
Brothers John and Frank Navin are unique in the art-pop world -- they border on the avant-garde without ever lapsing into pretension. Happyness, their fifth album, is the ultimate contradiction: a cheery-sounding album about such not-so-cheery things as drug abuse, love gone wrong and battling inner demons. You couldn't tell from the music, however, which is an unholy cross between Steely Dan, Elliott Smith and Air. The Aluminum Group dress up a plaintive indie sound with layers of horns, strings and electronic flourishes, and the Navins' songwriting achieves a clever, left-of-center manner. "Pop goes another friend/Because you're too stoned to listen," begins "Pop," with easygoing harmonies and an insistent groove. Being down and out has never sounded so good. (PETE GLOWATSKY)
Bishop Allen Charm School (Champagne School)
If Modest Mouse spent a year in a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit, they might emerge sounding like the delightful Brooklyn quartet Bishop Allen. That's not to say that these indie-poppers aren't a serious band. On their debut, Charm School, the foursome blend sharp, jangly guitars with catchy melodies and big choruses. Songwriters Justin Rice and Christian Rudder write cheeky lyrics and layer their tunes with handclaps ("Charm School") and singalongs ("Ghosts Are Good Company"). And the band's carefree attitude, along with their musicianship, make Charm School as addictive as it is playful. Add drummer Margaret Miller and bassist Bonnie Karin, and they enter indie elite. Karin's ethereal backing vocals complement Rice's perfectly -- propelling already memorable tracks into charmed harmonic bliss. (BENJAMIN FRIEDLAND)
The 88 Kind of Light (EMK)
Yes, 88 singer/guitarist Keith Slettedahl channels Ray Davies remarkably well, but Kind of Light is more than a simple Village Green Preservation Society redux. By mixing sun-fried Hollywood sensibilities and a debt to the Band into a rich, orchestral sound, the 88 deliver an accomplished debut. Guitars, pianos and sunny vocal harmonies compete for attention on the elegantly bright "Elbow Blues," while "Afterlife" turns woozy and watery with slide guitar and rhythmic swagger. Plenty of English groups have drawn liberally from American R&B and soul. But with its strong roots in Americana and an eye toward both the Sixties and Nineties British Invasions, Kind of Light shines as an assertion that turnabout is fair play. (MARK WOODLIEF)
Dan Bern Fleeting Days (Messenger)
Dan Bern has grown up. The man once obsessed with Tiger Woods' balls has traded in most of his one-liners for breakup songs that don't sting, and folk-gospel numbers that don't preach. Take the opener, "Baby Bye Bye," where Bern sings, "You're gone, it was time to fly, and all that's left is the fact we tried," over a bright chord progression that refuses to submit to depression. In his trademark nasal delivery, you can hear the sound of a man at peace with himself. On the driving "Crow," he lets the world know it can piss off and keep its awards -- "If that's what's meant by confirmation, I don't even want the nomination." The bluesy "Fly Away" warns of the disconnection that comes from "checking e-mail too much." His capable road band, the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy, returns to help the songwriter rock out, as it did on 2001's New American Language. Together they get intimate on "Soul," the album's mission statement posed as a question: "Are you gonna follow your soul, or just the style of the day?" (EVAN SCHLANSKY)
(March 10, 2003)