The Word
The Word
While not quite the transcendent effort that this dream project promised on paper, The Word is nevertheless a worthy addition to the pantheon of roots/instrumental music. Budding friends John Medeski (keyboardist for Medeski Martin and Wood) and Luther Dickinson (guitarist for the North Mississippi All-Stars) discovered a shared passion for an obscure collection of slide-guitar based devotional music called Sacred Steel. They made tentative plans to cut a gospel record, which came together after they discovered pedal steel wizard Robert Randolph, who until then had only played in a church in northern New Jersey.

With NMAS bassist Chris Chew and drummer Cody Dickinson rounding out The Word, the quintet cut an album of jam-intensive, gospel and blues tunes. The revelation here is Randolph, whose steel work is far removed from the twangy, slurring feel of country music, and is instead a crisp, blues-inflected, chops-heavy blend the likes of which you've never heard. In fact, Randolph sounds like nothing so much as a slide guitarist, and in that respect it's easy to get him mixed up with Dickinson, a brilliant slide ax man himself. During the smoldering intro to Without God, Randolph plays blazing staccato runs that seems beyond the realm of the pedal steel (so much so that I called the label publicist, who confirmed that it was, indeed, Randolph's playing, as was 80 to 90 percent of the solos herein).

It's difficult to pinpoint why The Word comes up a little shy of great. The project is ultimately too polite and orderly; the guys play with fire, but don't quite reach the level of reckless celebration that would've made the music thoroughly essential. At its least effective — as on the perky opener Joyful Sounds or the funky Waiting on My Wings — the music comes off like rootsy Joe Satriani, or, on other occasions, like rehashed Allman Brothers. The Word fares best when it takes a breath and homes in on true gospel feeling, evidenced in the unassuming I Shall Not Be Moved or Blood on that Rock (on which Medeski plays what sounds like a melodica).

These complaints aside, The Word is an absolute must for fanciers of slide, and a fitting introduction to a truly remarkable new instrumentalist. (Ropeadope, www.ropeadope.com)

—Eric Snider

The Faint
Danse Macabre
There is always a danger inherent in a band's endeavoring to update its influences. Take hard, dark synth-pop, for instance; if it ends up sounding like Orgy, well, you've got a problem. Fortunately, The Faint manages the trick of balancing an obviously dated point of departure with fresh execution quite nicely. Nobody's going to say Danse Macabre doesn't remind them of the best Old Wave Night they can barely remember, but it's got its own personality as well, a gritty shadow that many of its predecessors couldn't cast without sounding trite. The keyboard-drenched tracks here somehow attain depth, as opposed to bouncy, Casio-driven superficiality. Maybe it's the live-sounding drums (sometimes); perhaps it's the preoccupation with minor keys (but who, from New Order to the Pet Shop boys, didn't give that shit a shot?). Of course, it could just be that nobody's heard songs like these that they didn't know word for word since before Clinton was president. (Saddle Creek, www.saddle-creek.com)

—Scott Harrell

Various Artists
Music From and Inspired by the Film Songcatcher
Sometimes experiencing sadness vicariously can be quite soothing. Just ask Aristotle, who dubbed the phenomenon catharsis after crying through a production of King Oedipus 2,500 years ago. The British settlers who sailed west to dwell in the similar landscapes of the Appalachian Mountains found their cathartic release in ballads dealing with such uplifting themes as God, murder and betrayal. Songcatcher is a collection of these ancient hymns of woe. They are sad, damn sad and full of the kind of beauty only found in places such as Asheville, N.C. Oh, yeah, and they are all sung by women. Household names such as Emmylou Harris and Roseanne Cash share disc space with relative newcomers Alison Moorer and Sara Evans to form one of the finest groups of siren voices ever assembled. Listening to these ladies breathe life into music as old as the wind is like listening to a choir of angels fill the hall of a Venetian cathedral. The songs resonate with as much force today as they must have 200 years ago when being used by mothers to warn their daughters of well-dressed rounders. The larger-than-life Dolly Parton (still just a little Tennessee mountain girl at heart), Nashville star Patty Loveless and the underrated Julie Miller offer compositions of their own that blend amazingly well with the other time-tested ballads. There is not a blemish on this collection; it is as soothing as it is sorrowful, a must have for anyone left in this postmodern world with their soul still intact. (Vanguard 2001)

—Wade Tatangelo

David S. Ware Quartet
Corridors & Parallels
It's hard enough to keep a jazz band together, let alone an avant-garde unit. Tenor saxophonist David S. Ware has managed to keep a quartet intact — the core of which includes avant-luminaries William Parker (bass) and Matthew Shipp (piano/keyboards) — for a decade. This seasoning is readily apparent on Corridors & Parallels, an effort that combines free-jazz rambles with intensely grooving forays and meditative musings. As a rule, free jazz efforts stumble when they end up as little more than undisciplined instrumental slugfests with virtually no pacing and dynamics. Ware and company handily avoid this pitfall. After a brief opening, the album's first two compositions engage in the kind of grooveless improvisational roam and pummel that was the standard during free jazz's nascent '60s period. Shipp exclusively plays synthesizer on this disc, lending some fresh tonal colors. During the second song, Jazz Fi-Sci, he trades R2D2 noises with the ensemble's assaults. The ensuing Superimposed provides a welcome left turn in the form of Guillermo E. Brown's insistent tribal drum groove, over which Ware ladles his raspy, sleazy tenor lines. His solos come in shards and bursts, accentuated by honks, squeals and smears. In his hands, the tenor is as much a sound generator as a musical instrument. The disc's other corridors include the drone-based Sound-a-Bye and Mother May You Rest in Bliss, with an intro of anguished lyricism akin to Gato Barbieri. In all, Corridors & Parallels is a satisfying slab of challenging music. (AUM Fidelity, www.aumfidelity.com)

—Eric Snider