Spins

Cup of Sand
SUPERCHUNK
Merge
North Carolina band/indie-rock institution/D.I.Y. touchstone Superchunk has been at it for nearly 15 years now, long enough for not only a buttload of albums, but also three, count ’em, three collections of B-sides and assorted obscurica. As any diehard fan will point out with alternately engaging and annoying detention to detail, the band has made numerous stylistic side-trips, flirting with different elements and dynamics over the course of its career. But at the same time, anybody with ears and even a bit of familiarity with the Chunk can tell you that their strongest and most immediately recognizable musical asset — the ability to turn some quasi-dissonant guitar riffs, unaccomplished vocals and energy into compelling, infectious snarls of idiosyncratic rock — remains at the heart of virtually every tune they pen. And by going back beyond both of their previous anthologies of one-offs to document the entire history of rarities not yet collected, Cup of Sand ably and repeatedly reinforces that notion.

Plus, it’s almost as good as the best among their proper albums, at twice the length.

All of the band’s facets are represented, from slamming, raw and punky (“Her Royal Fisticuffs,” “Dance Lessons,” “Beat My Guest,” a ton of shit) to slow and emotive (“A Small Definition,” “Never Too Young to Smoke”) and all points in between (the fabulous opener “The Majestic,” the throbbing No Wave exercise “Scary Monsters [and Super Creeps]”). Many of these tracks seem more sinewy and alive than material on recent full-lengths, as if they were recorded in a hurry, or relegated to non-album status before being fleshed out.

There’s something about that vibe that’s inherently endearing, particularly coming from a band as competent as Superchunk. The tunes are loose, a bit more playful, executed as if nothing other than the band’s enjoyment is riding on the take. Not everything here completely scores, but the filler (“Reg,” “Becoming a Speck,” “A Collection of Accounts”) is minimal, considering we’re talking about a 25-track double-disc of songs that never made LPs.

In all, this is a must-have not only for Superchunk obsessives, but for just about anybody who loves those few marvelous rock “n’ roll bands great enough to become standard-bearers for doing things their own way, and consistently doing it well. —Scott Harrell

Comin’ From Where I’m From
ANTHONY HAMILTON
So So Def/Arista
There’s very little “neo” in Anthony Hamilton’s soul sound. The 30-year-old singer, whose recording career had been in stall for a number of years (he made ends meet as a background singer for D’Angelo), breaks out with an engaging collection of smooth, modern R&B that harks back to the golden era of the ’70s. The Charlotte, N.C., native, now a denizen of Harlem, wrote or cowrote all of the tunes on Comin’ From Where I’m From, a mix of lush soul ballads and sensual mid-tempo numbers. He can play the between-the-sheets seducer, but can also convey deeper feelings and ideas. On the album-opening “Mama Knew Love,” his voice quivers through the thoughtful lines, “Up bright and early/ Scrambled eggs, swelling in your legs, bills on the bed/ Still you manage to show me a smile/ Then to walk to work about two or three miles.” Hamilton’s voice has a number of gears: a brassy soul croon (at times evoking Bill Withers), a raspy shout, a sexy falsetto, a hushed whisper. The disc’s production is appropriately subtle. While a terse drum machine keeps the beat, the sound is fleshed out with wah-wah guitars, churchy organs and splashes of horns. The sound breathes, making it the ideal backdrop for this gifted vocalist. 1/2—ERIC SNIDER

It Still Moves
MY MORNING JACKET
ATO/RCA
When heavily hyped Louisville, Ky., psych-roots quintet My Morning Jacket moved up from the burgeoning underground folk/singer-songwriter/Americana scene to Dave Matthews’ ATO imprint, many wondered if the group’s eccentric sound would emerge intact. Well, it has — the endless down-tempo mood-building, reverb-soaked vocal melodies, and clever, trippy clean-guitar signatures remain stylistic trademarks. And therein lies the problem with It Still Moves, and, in this fan’s opinion, every My Morning Jacket release. While they arguably make a gorgeous, panoramic sound, after only a few cuts it turns into an interminable one, largely unconcerned with dynamics or even distinguishing one song from another. There are exceptions, which in this context comprise the standouts: the taut, better-than-Skynyrd “One Big Holiday”; the comparative rave-up “Easy Morning Rebel”; the epic, regretful “Run Thru,” with its about-phase breakdown; and the placid “Just One Thing.” But beyond the aforementioned highlight tracks, It Still Moves bleeds so seamlessly and benevolently into one long camera shot of the same pretty view that even the most appreciative listener might be tempted to walk away in an attempt to find something else to look at. 1/2 —Scott Harrell

Mothership
LARRY YOUNG
Blue Note
In a jazz context, the organ has rarely been a hip instrument. It’s usually been used for grits-and-gravy soul-jazz, and its top purveyors have been prone to cliches. The late Larry Young gave the Hammond B-3 some progressive cachet. He was pal and jam partner of John Coltrane, and later a member of Tony Williams’ Lifetime, one of the earliest and most vital fusion bands. Mothership, cut in early 1969, was the organist’s last recording for Blue Note. It explores the sonic possibilities of the organ with a wide sense of dynamics and tones, ranging from lush to harsh. Young wrote all of the tunes, most of which swing but veer melodically just outside the standard post-bop milieu. Drummer Eddie Gladden provides a constant sense of propulsion, while trumpeter Lee Morgan and tenor saxophonist Herbert Morgan (no relation) swagger through their solos. The best part of a Larry Young album, though, is Larry Young’s organ playing, which is always full of twists and surprises. —ERIC SNIDER

Muddy “Mississippi” Waters Live (Legacy Edition)
MUDDY WATERS
Epic/Legacy
Muddy Waters was one of the few blues artists who died a legitimate star. In 1978, five years before his death, the legendary singer/guitarist cut Muddy “Mississippi” Waters Live, which stands up as one of the great live blues albums of all time. In his 60s at the time, he was arguably at the peak of his powers, his voice a fine, rousing bellow, his guitar work imbued with a crude sting, his on-stage charisma in full effect. Sony’s Legacy division takes the original album and effectively doubles it by adding a second disc of previously unreleased songs. Disc 2 is a nice bookend for the original LP; it’s looser, more freewheeling. Waters charms his nightclub audience with bits about young women and the benefits of marijuana. The whole shebang has been carefully remastered, delivering crisp, warm sound. 1/2—ERIC SNIDER

This article appears in Oct 23-28, 2003.