Spoon and Rafter
MOJAVE 3
4AD
Critics seem to love crowning every quiet English singer-songwriter with a bleeding heart and an acoustic guitar the next Nick Drake. The hushed, articulate sounds of Mojave 3's latest, Spoon and Rafter, beg the same comparison, but with good reason. The acoustic guitar is front-and-center. Other instrumentation, from the harmonies to the non-ironic theremin, recalls early '70s folk music. Frontman Neil Halstead's vocals are confessional, rarely rising above conversational tone — another Drake hallmark. But where Spoon and Rafter's charm lies is exactly where it's not like Nick Drake at all. The rich, near-constant hum of analog synths and occasional glockenspiel, cello and banjo make the album sound both intimate and otherworldly. Cavernous reverb, recalling early Verve or Spiritualized, only adds to the deeply textured feel of Spoon and Rafter. What's more, Halstead and bassist Rachel Goswell's impeccable vocals (the band's not-so-secret weapon) are so heartbreaking, they could sing in any language and the point would still come across.
Halstead's lyrics are beautifully direct, noninvasive but memorable; music this ethereal shouldn't be so damn catchy. If Mojave 3 can be faulted for anything, it might be the very consistency with which Spoon and Rafter was made. At first few listens, the songs sound formulaic and similar. Instruments come and go, occasional bridges and solos (however subdued) appear, though they rarely build enough to blow any speakers. But like 12-year-olds smoking for the first time, what begins as a mild annoyance may soon turn into an addiction. At least you can listen to these guys in public. 
—MARK SANDERS
The Devil Isn't Red
HELLA
5RC
The concept of a drums-and-guitar duo conjures different images for different people, depending upon their musical tastes. These days, 98 percent of the populace would immediately envision a certain Detroit pair famous for their extremely limited wardrobe and lies regarding the nature of their relationship. The other 2 percent would immediately think of blistering, cacophonic underground noise a la misanthropic projects like Lightning Bolt. Sacramento's Hella ostensibly belongs in the latter category, though the twosome largely ignores brute force in favor of something altogether more unsettling, trebly and Zorn-like, if predictably atonal and scattershot. Spencer Seim and Zach Hill love their old-school home-videogame consoles, and luckily, that influence often burns through The Devil Isn't Red's otherwise tiresome, taxing bursts of premeditated skronk and non-jazz. The best moments here (we won't bother with song titles because, trust us, they don't matter) build an urgent tension exactly like the repetitive, climbing and somehow alien music that accompanies the inexorable erosion of time on that final bitch of a screen. When that happens, there's a purely visceral rush, making the listen wholly worthwhile. When it doesn't, Hella is little more than an endurance test — and the standout three tracks at this album's end are the prize. (www.5rc.com) —Scott Harrell
Pink on Pink EP
THE FEVER
Kemado
Mention the word "indigenous" when referring to albums and most folks will imagine African djembes and thumb pianos, or Japanese kotos and Gipsy Kings CDs. Refer to New York's indigenous rock scene, and most people won't know where the hell to begin. For new music coming out of the Big Apple, The Fever's Pink on Pink EP is a good primer. It has the hallmarks of all that makes for good NYC Post-Punk/New-New Wave/Neo-Wave (or whatever it's called this week): grindy, hooky electric guitars, sing-along choruses, mid '70s-era analog synths and more attitude than an ornery badger. Singer Geremy Jasper, who co-wrote Pink on Pink's songs with guitarist Sanchez Esquire, shouts with exasperated, bratty vocal punches. On every track, he sounds like he's running from something, giving every word a sense of urgency. The very title of the EP is a play on Dylan's Blonde on Blonde, an album that, despite The Fever's vintage-future aesthetic, hugely influenced the band. Their cover of Sheila E.'s 1984 hit "Glamorous Life" is an unexpected selection for a rock band composed entirely of men, until you remember it was a man (Prince) who wrote the song. It's almost unrecognizable here, buried under an infectiously danceable rhythm track and fuzzed-out bass line, right up to its all-too-familiar chorus. A note to any potential listeners with crappy stereo systems: either buy new speakers, or leave this album on the shelf. Because Pink on Pink begs to be played loud, but more important, deserves it. —MARK SANDERS
1000 Years of Popular Music
RICHARD THOMPSON
Beeswingt
Prolific, idiosyncratic — critically acclaimed yet relatively obscure — Richard Thompson is well known as an avid provocateur of traditional music styles, usually working within the frame of the old British folk song. So it's no surprise Thompson's latest, 1000 Years of Popular Music — expanding on a survey of contemporary "pop" music posed in Playboy — takes the timespan literally, featuring populist selections from the Crusades to the 21st century. Starting with a 13th-century round titled "Sumer Is Icumen In" (the first known song composed in English), the history lesson winds through Italian cathedral music, American folk ("Shenandoah") and even Gilbert & Sullivan. For late-20th-century selections, Thompson explores classic jump blues ("Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee"), British Invasion (the Beatles' "It Won't Be Long") and Mod rock (the Who's "A Legal Matter"). He even offers a unique take on Ms. Britney Spears ("Oops, I Did It Again") that turns the shallow pop ditty into an emotional and brooding tale of unrequited love. Recorded live with percussionist Michael Jerome and vocalist Judith Owen, Thompson adds his trademark guitar virtuosity and voice to each song with an intense sincerity. The album — available only at shows or through www.richardthompson-music.com — works to reexamine "popular music" as defined by a wide spectrum of cultural and historical paradigms. Thompson shows a good song is a good song, no matter how it is done. 1/2—James Kelly
This article appears in Mar 25-31, 2004.