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Consumer Guide

Turkey Shoot 2005

Nineteen courses you'll be better off skipping at this year's musical overfeed

by Robert Christgau
November 18th, 2005 5:33 PM


BURT BACHARACH
At This Time
(Columbia)
When I ask myself which of the many horrible things about this adoringly promoted "political" record is the very worst, I'm tempted to go for broke and say the arrangements. For in truth, it is difficult to imagine circumstances under which the pop paragon's latest instrumental divertissements would signify. Chris Botti provides a few high points on trumpet—that's right, Chris Botti, high points, canceled out and then some by the anonymous saxophone soloist, who sounds to my unschooled ears like a moonlighting Kenny G. Then there are the weak yet obtrusive beats hired out to such humanitarians as Kon Artis and Dr. Dre. Rufus Wainwright doesn't really believe "Love's the answer like I said before/It's the one thing needed maybe now even more," Elvis Costello maintains a suspicious distance from "Who Are These People?" before belting it with equally suspicious enthusiasm, and both outsing—by a lot—John Pagano (?), Josie James (?), and Donna Taylor (?), who in turn outsing—by a whole lot—chief vocalist Bacharach. Who are these people? C MINUS



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BARLOW GIRL
Another Journal Entry
(Fervent/Curb)

These three Christian sisters from Illinois specialize in arena-emo love songs to that perfect Guy, who unlike so many guys forgives them when they fail Him. One exception, if I'm not mistaken—and I may be, Christian code is a motherfucker—is "5 Minutes of Fame," apparently a message song for the "secondary virginity" movement. Not that they're in need of the secondary kind themselves—they're lucky if "maybe I gave in more than I should" (for "popularity") recalls anything heavier than a copped feel. Here's hoping they meet Sufjan Stevens at prayer meeting. C MINUS



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BACKSTREET BOYS
Never Gone
(Jive)

Lest you doubted it, this is grotesque, and not just because stardom ruined Nick Carter like so many young people before him. It's more that nobody loves a man group. Blue-balled yearning becomes AJ-said-you-swallowed whining, which wasn't the formal challenge their Swedish Svengalis signed on for. Maybe they could learn their instruments and call themselves a man band, which rhymes. An album of Four Lads covers is also a thought. C



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BORIS WITH MERZBOW
Sun Baked Snow Cave
(Hydra Head)

Only innocent doomsayers willing to call someone plucking a guitar every few seconds for 12 minutes a "solo" will get to minute 38, when Merzbow makes some interesting noises that in just a few precious moments decay, like everything in this universe of pain, boredom, and surplus value. But be of good cheer. For verily, if a band named after a Melvins song thinks the world is coming to an end, it almost certainly isn't. D PLUS



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THE BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE
Tepid Peppermint Wonderland: A Retrospective
(Tee Pee)

Touted by the Dandy Warhols in the impressive Dig, Anton Newcombe gets a no doubt small, no doubt excessive cash advance to prove his genius with 38 songs the world passed on the first time. The world was right, and will be right again every time Newcombe revives. His recombined riffs rarely break the shambolic surface, and whenever two consecutive lines of lyric grab and hold, they complain. The Dandy Warhols' drones have some pull to them, their hooks some sock. They're funny, too. They overrate Newcombe because they do with panache and professionalism what he does with heroin and lies, and feel guilty about it. C PLUS



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KELLY CLARKSON
Breakaway
(RCA)

Unlike young Hilary Duff, 23-year-old Clarkson feels the responsibilities of stardom, which demand melodramatic overkill. The doctors give her stronger pills than, say, Clay Aiken—the prefab kissoff of "Walk Away," the new wave heartbreak of "Since U Been Gone," "Because of You" may just describe an occurrence, here's the verb "implode," and "There's no light at the end of the tunnel/Just a bridge that I gotta burn" could hold up its end of a bargain. None of these survives Clarkson's larger-than-life ambitions or compressed-to-oppress production regimen. But she may have a heart, and it may end up in the right place. B MINUS



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FALL OUT BOY
From Under the Cork Tree
(Island)

Stuck between pretentious young purists who believe catchy love songs betray their hardcore heritage and eager younger fans who believe catchy love songs fulfill their teenthrob destiny, these Warped Tour cover boys aren't terrible, but are they ever ordinary. Only their record company would claim that emotional vocals, dramatic dynamics, poppy-punky tempos, and not actually all that catchy tunes add up to "their own sound." They have some talent, they're cute, and they work hard. Thus they get to pretend that "Douse yourself in cheap perfume it's/So fitting of the way you are" is a lyric for the ages, a/k/a next week.
C PLUS



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SEU JORGE


Cru
(Wrasse)

There's a reason rhythm—and not the subtle stuff: beats stated and elaborated, on percussion instruments per se or string and electronic instruments deployed percussively—looms so large for us in the music of darker-skinned foreigners who don't sing in English. Romance of the primitive not required—rhythm is where the music is, and the meaning. For non-Lusophones, this brave Brazilian favelado—who has a record out here because he's a beguiling musical presence in the minor The Life Aquatic, not because he's a commanding dramatic presence in the major City of God—is selling timbre even when he sings an Elvis trifle in the original Leiber, and timbre isn't enough. The one keeper is a Serge Gainsbourg trifle consisting of proper names and the word "suicide." And it too needs its rhythm track. B MINUS



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RAY LAMONTAGNE
Trouble
(RCA)

I admire LaMontagne, who's had nothing handed to him. But it bodes ill that the Stephen Stills album that moved him to quit his factory job was a '90s one. Just as we live in a world where some radio stations get on Stills's latest, we live in a world where some record buyers suck up folk-rock verities—to which LaMontagne adds nothing but a backstory. Since his admirers bring up Van Morrison, it is my duty to report that he lacks Morrison's voice, poetry, Gaelic soul, and r&b feel—in other words, everything that once made Van worth bringing up. Nothing lasts forever, folk-rock included. C PLUS



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NICKEL CREEK
Why Should the Fire Die?
(Sugar Hill)

Of course they're still "really" "newgrass," but mainly they're a prog-pop band accessorizing their chords with mountain sonics. One effuser goes so far as to claim "a younger, better-scrubbed Dave Matthews Band minus the blowhardiness, a rootsier Ryan Cabrera," while a tradder fellow adduces Bill Evans and Debussy. For some of us, unfortunately, all those loose-lipped compliments are negatives-- Kind of Blue aside, we don't even like Bill Evans. Nor would I advise any three prodigies to reduce a James Joyce story to 54 words and rather more notes. The young-prodigy-tries-to-love title tune is a winning exception, and "Doubting Thomas" intimates spiritual struggles that arouse one's curiosity. But like most schmoograssers they're committed to virtuosity for its own sake, and like most young musos they've been too focused on technique to learn much about how music interacts with life. C PLUS



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MATT POND PA
Several Arrows Later
(Altitude)

With pleasant tune and steady groove standing in for pellucid prose, Pond's songs are the alt-rock equivalent of what used to be called New Yorker short stories: subtly realized domestic epiphanies often involving tame nature imagery. At least they're shorter on quiet desperation. B MINUS



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QUEEN + PAUL RODGERS
Return of the Champions
(Hollywood)

Where Freddie Mercury was a true queen, Paul Rodgers is a big disgrace. And that's not even counting the Bad Company cover, the Free cover, or, facts is facts, the HIV song. D PLUS



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SLIM THUG
Already Platinum
(Geffen)

Screwed-and-chopped-esque rather than actually screwed-and-chopped, but representing the Black Sabbath tendency in rock-based musics nonetheless: Slim:Ozzy::screwed-and-chopped:grindcore. Jesus, does that mean screwed-and-chopped will last forever too? Scary. C



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STELLASTARR*
Harmonies for the Haunted
(RCA)

What gave Shawn Christensen and his botched tonsillectomy the idea of joining the exalted ranks of Robert Smith and Simon Le Bon? This is pop music, not the Special Olympics. I mean, at least the Interpol guy is from England. Christensen's from Pratt. C



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THREE 6 MAFIA
Most Known Unknown
(Hypnotize Minds/Sony Urban Music/Columbia)

The pull of their gut-rumbling brew of dark keyb riffs and viscous rhythm under unison vocals isn't absolute, but it's there, distinct and original. Unfortunately for connoisseurs of the saturnine, however, it comes with rhymes that are part of the aesthetic experience. As a putative cocaine magnate, rival flava-of-the-year proprietor Young Jeezy enjoys privileges that include triumphalist fanfares, yes-man cheering sections, and a relatively abstract level of brutality. These Memphis lifers sell "street," eventuating in quite a bit of put-your-foot-up-they-ass, knock-the-black-off-your-ass, ransack-your-home, and rape-your-bitch-cause-she's-stacked. It isn't original to point out that the reality this worldview represents is a bully's reality, one that most of those who are stuck with it scheme to avoid. But originality isn't everything. Bully reality can be musically compelling, no question. But jones for it and you risk brutalizing yourself. B MINUS go to next article in music ->

[GehVorbei]

Well, Christgau was always a "hater". This is his review of "The Look Of Love" box from 98. He´s the sort of R´n´R establishment type that keeps Dionne from being inducted to the Hall of Fame:

THE LOOK OF LOVE: THE BURT BACHARACH COLLECTION (Rhino) Now it's official: Dionne Warwick and Burt Bacharach were the best things ever to happen to each other. She's a bore without him, and he brings out the best in none of the other singers here. If anything, his fancy hackwork diminishes them—whether it's starters like the Drifters, the Shirelles, and Dusty Springfield or second-stringers like Gene Pitney, Jackie DeShannon, and end-of-the-bencher Chuck Jackson, all sound about as good as you'd expect and all peaked elsewhere. Then there are Lou Johnson, B.J. Thomas, Bobby Vinton, and the hapless Bacharach himself, not to mention horrid one-shots by Richard Chamberlain, Bobby Goldsboro, Trini Lopez, Jill O'Hara, gad. It's enough to renew your faith in Elvis Costello.
B MINUS

[GehVorbei]

And one more from 1972:

Dionne [Warner Bros., 1972]
"Hasbrook Heights" is no "Walk On By," but it is an ambitious, honest song about the pleasures of the suburbs, where her chosen audience resides. Unfortunately, it's outnumbered by ambitious, dishonest songs directed at the same audience. Whether Hal David takes care of the liberal pieties himself ("Be Aware") or passes them along from Jacques Brel ("If We Only Have Love") and Lesley Duncan ("Love Song"), he's selling lies so blatant and boring that even his chosen audience must know it. And while Burt Bacharach's four arrangements (unlike those of Bob James and Don Sebesky, who get three each) are more tart and surprising than ever, too often he underlines "meaning" with the little dramatic touches of someone who'd like to get into something classier than the record business, like the Broadway stage. C+

[mark]

I've actually been a big fan of Christgau for a long time, but GehVorbei is right on the money in calling him a "r 'n r establishment type." He has a well defined ideology of rock that he measures everything against, and a good portion of that ideology comprises his perception of rebelliousness, avant garde artistry and vernacular authenticity. Unfortunately, his position is excludes the appreciation of certain artists he considers to be establishment or highly conventional or otherwise in the service of The Man. If you look at, say, early '80s Rolling Stone Record Guide reviews of Bacharach solo albums versus early '90s Rolling Stone Record Guide reviews, you can clearly see a re-evaluation of Bacharach's solo material. Christgau, however, seems to stick to his fundamental appraisal of Bacharach solo.

That said, despite his lukewarm review of Dionne, Christgau does consider Dionne Warwick's classic work with Bacharach-David to be part of the essential rock and roll library.

And for what it's worth, I agree with a few elements of this review. The generically jazzy, "anonymous" sax reminds of Kenny G. too, unfortunately. I'd have preferred a different sound, one with fewer muzak associations. And I do think some of the lyrics are trite. But I don't think Christgau gives Bacharach credit for the originality, complexity and beauty of the arrangements.

[Sundance30]

Who is the homeless man walking in a bombed out bronx, on the cover. Too depressing. I turned the cover inside out. From Porkpie hat to rapper baseball cap, worn sideways. Anyway: Burt, is such a sensitive composer, you can always feel it in his melodies. Clearly, this is an important project for him, his twilight song, I suppose, where he laments a world he might be leaving soon. Needless to say, he has created some pretty music here ( Where did it go and In our time specifically), but in general, the project left me wanting. To me, his music has turned into a generic formula, I've heard it before, in better albums like Woman. You can never question Burt's sincerity and the beauty of his musical landscapes, but on At this Time, it just isn't enough to give weight to what he is trying to do. Also. get rid of elvis costello"