The Randy Newman Songbook, Vol. 1
RANDY NEWMAN
Nonesuch
Randy Newman's success as a composer of film music has somewhat overshadowed his achievements as one of America's most accomplished and idiosyncratic singer/songwriters since the late '60s. This set strips a one-of-a-kind artist's music to the bare essence: Newman singing, in that braying soul croon of his, 16 of his own songs, accompanying himself on piano (with a couple of his most famous instrumentals, "Ragtime" and "Avalon," included as brief interludes).
The renditions are brief and to the point, with no piano solos. Listening to Songbook is akin to sitting with a very clever friend who regales you with stories and observations that brim with wit and insight. And irony. Lots and lots of irony. On the hilarious "Rednecks" (1974), he begins by savagely mocking Southerners who "are keepin' the niggers down." Then in the last stanza he turns on Northerners. "Now your Northern nigger's a Negro/ You see he's got his dignity/ Down here we're too ignorant to realize that the North has set the nigger free," he sings, and then busts into a jaunty coda, "Yes, he's free to be put in a cage in Harlem in New York City/ Free to be put in a cage on the South Side of Chicago," and so on, naming various cities up North. Rednecks and racism, he's saying, are everywhere. On "Sail Away," an absolute hoot, he pitches the New World to potential slaves: "In America you'll get food to eat/ Won't have to run through the jungle and scuff up your feet."
Newman also eviscerates imperialism ("Political Science," "The Great Nations of Europe"), greed ("It's Lonely at the Top," "It's Money that I Love") and religion ("God's Song [That's Why I Love Mankind]"). He leaves a little room for tenderness as well, with simple love laments like "Living Without You" and "Marie," and an old-fashioned sex romp ("You Can Leave Your Hat On"). Newman's panoply of styles, a melange that includes show tunes, classic pop, saloon ballads, rhythm & blues, rags and more, is pure Americana. Americana with attitude. 
—ERIC SNIDER
Lambhouse
Unsane
Relapse
Where scores of other experimental/post-punk/noise-core bands cluttered the '90s with everything from wiry minimalism to impenetrable arrhythmic cacophony, New York's Unsane stayed close to rock's essence while simultaneously creating the most visceral and instantly recognizable sound in underground heaviness. Working with two of rock 'n' roll's basest elements, rhythm and the drums/bass/ guitar trio format, it pushed loud, angry, organic music further into the realm of the industrial than Ministry ever could. With its roaring bass, off-time lockstep grooves and barely human vocal purge, Unsane sounds like nothing so much as a robot-age Frankenstein's monster, a pained creation loose and turning on the society responsible for its existence.
Lambhouse — named for the place where guitarist/vocalist Chris Spencer got the animal blood that showed up on the cover of almost every Unsane album — compiles a lot of the band's output up through '98's Occupational Hazard. There are 24 tracks. All of 'em sound an awful lot alike, but anybody who's gonna buy this record knows that's part of the point. Unsane is as much a sound as it is a band — the jagged, unstoppable aural signature of urban futility. There's an accompanying DVD with a few videos and far too much live footage (they were a great live band, don't get me wrong, but who wants to watch them re-create their albums exactly, through a crappy club P.A. and only semi-professionally recorded?). It's an iffy bonus, but it's nice to actually own a copy of the legendary nothing-but-skaters-biffing-hard clip for "Scrape." DVD or no, however, Lambhouse is mandatory, an extremely powerful listen for folks who value music's ability to convey emotions — especially negative ones. Hey, it's cathartic. —Scott Harrell
Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Sixty-Six Seconds: A Short Cut to Teenage Fanclub
TEENAGE FANCLUB
JetsetOn
Spin magazine's best-of-'91 list, Nirvana's Nevermind finished No. 2 behind Teenage Fanclub's Bandwagonesque. It goes without saying that, given the benefit of a dozen years of history, the two albums would at the very least switch places. Yet Glasgow's TFC certainly deserved kudos then, as they deserve them now. Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Sixty-Six Seconds compiles 21 songs released on six albums from 1991 through 2000, plus three formidable new tunes. Above all, the disc is a large, lovingly-crafted helping of classic power pop, at turns slightly grungy (the earlier material, like "The Concept"), jangly and even singer-songwriterly, but always radiantly melodic, with vocal harmonies warming every grabby chorus. The band has always worn its influences like badges — The Beatles, The Byrds, Badfinger and Big Star (The Big B's, if you will). On occasion — "I Need Direction," for instance — the group could be so frothy as to conjure up images of The Association's "Windy." Because TFC were never really bandwagonesque, they couldn't compete commercially with the '90s "alternative" movement, and quickly fell out of fashion. Yet the band is still together, making new songs: "The World'll Be OK," is sunny, propulsive and unforgettable; "Did I Say," has an epic feel, a bit like Simon & Garfunkel meets early Moody Blues; "Empty Space" begins with a simple piano lick, which is joined by '60s fuzz guitar and builds into a beguiling slice of dream-pop. This troika proves that Teenage Fanclub is about as fine as they come in the realm of power pop. —ERIC SNIDER
The Best of the Pablo Solo Masterpieces
ART TATUM
Pablo
This single disc is culled from a box of all Tatum's Pablo Records solo material. Seventy-seven minutes proves a long-enough time to linger in a state of breathless awe — the entire seven-CD set could prove a weapon of mass delirium. What makes this jazz piano legend's magic more appealing is that here he works it on a score of mostly familiar standards, blowing off the dust of disinterest with gusts of creative genius up and down the keyboard, wielding ornamentations with a speed and intricacy simply inaccessible to most players. Despite some misapprehensions of the man, Tatum is not just a show-off. Like his contemporary Thelonious Monk, who seemed to share Tatum's love for the American popular songbook, Tatum lays down strong stride when he feels like it, swings magnificently and is capable of gentle (and ornate) approaches to ballads such as "Stardust" and "Mean to Me." Tatum neatly guarantees that neither he nor any of these chestnuts will ever decompose. —JEFF KALISS
This article appears in Feb 5-11, 2004.