Rubber Factory
THE BLACK KEYS
Fat Possum/Epitaph
Maybe there's hope for the blues after all. Maybe all it took was a few youngsters to come crawlin' out the garage, or, in the case of The Black Keys, a couple of white boys to blast out of Akron, Ohio, with a guitarist who likes his axe on 12 and a drummer who beats the skins like he holds a grudge against them. And with tunes, too. The third Black Keys album shows growth in singer/guitarist Dan Auerbach's songcraft, while not sacrificing any of the grime and visceral punch that earned the duo a burgeoning cult rep.
For Rubber Factory, Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney convened to the second floor of an old General Tire factory (hence, the title) in a bleak, industrial section of East Akron, where they piled in a bunch of second-hand equipment and proceeded to record these 13 songs over the course of about four months (compared to 12 hours for 2003's Thickfreakness). Hell, they even overdubbed some guitar parts.
The result is a fuller sound that in no way comes up short on mayhem. Some of the guitar licks call to mind Hendrix and the Stones — "Girl on My Mind" even evokes Nirvana — but Auerbach plays them with a recklessness that renders them anew. His pointed solos barge their way into the songs, always giving them a goose, whether he punches the wah-wah, grinds some slide, maxes out the fuzztone or spews a squall of feedback.
His singing — a tuneful, black-cat moan — is perfect for these riff-heavy songs that delve into obsession, loss, sex, murder, the dark corners of love, and general bad behavior. Like most good blues, the cryptic lyrics burst with attitude and explore the baser crevices of the human psyche. "You kill me/ And thrill me/ Don't you know I will be/ Callin' on you everyday/ Until I get my way," goes one particularly salacious chorus. "Stack shot Billy/ .45/ Billy laid down and died," goes another.
As crunchy as the music is, though, it's not without dynamics. "Act Nice and Gentle" introduces a country lilt; it's a well-constructed tune with a chorus that's (dare I say?) pretty. "The Lengths" is an acoustic ballad that calls to mind Exile-era Stones. But the meat-and-potatoes here is uptempo blues, dredged from Mississippi, fortified with rock riffs, doused with punk and dragged through the basement. 
1/2
—ERIC SNIDER
The New Danger
MOS DEF
Geffen
Folks who like their hip-hop in nice, digestible helpings will likely find Mos Def's The New Danger more than they can chew. After five years spent mostly in the acting game, he's dropped an album that breaks all the rules and covers a lot of ground. The disc both benefits and suffers from it. For all of its anti-formula, The New Danger ultimately lacks a clear focus. You end up sifting for high points (most of them produced by Minnesota): "Ghetto Rock" pulses along on a booming groove, all lean and nasty; "Blue Black Jack" is a shuffle blues with tight and tasty guitar licks by '70s cult icon Shuggie Otis; the funk of "Sex, Love & Money" (produced by Warryn "Baby Dubb" Campbell) rolls with a clamoring bass drum and horn stabs reminiscent of an old cop-show theme. Mos Def sings and raps, gets into spacey R&B ("Modern Marvel," with spectral Marvin Gaye samples in the background), rocks out with big guitars (courtesy of his band Black Jack Johnson); delves into old-school rap and soul; he drops gangsta-isms, political-isms, playa-isms and generally does whatever the fuck he wants. The effect is a bit too diffuse, but I'll take it over a cookie-cutter radio-rap record any old time. 1/2
—ERIC SNIDER
Couture, Couture, Couture
FRAUSDOTS
Sub Pop
It took a lot of quasi-recognizable L.A. fringe-rock veterans to make this sub-par collection of dated, self-consciously posed Old Wave retreads. Frausdots principal Brent Rademaker — formerly of notable under-the-radar acts Further, The Tyde and Beachwood Sparks (and Tampa scenester from way back) — dreamed the project up with musical partner-in-crime/girlfriend Michelle Loiselle (claim to semi-fame: sang on Use Your Illusion, Pt. 2). Then he enlisted every Los Angeles musician he knew in order to help make their conspicuously timely, derivative, fashionable vision a reality; Rooney, The Cure, Velvet Crush, Matthew Sweet and Brian Jonestown Massacre are all represented by at least one band member, along with a couple of Rademaker's former Beachwood/Tyde cohorts. That's a lot of talent, and even more cred. But Couture, Couture, Couture never lives up to its pedigree, and instead plods faux-gloomily along. Of the 10 tracks, only the urgent "Fashion Death Trends," the strummy "Current Bedding" and the grand, hummable closer "Tomorrow's Sky" are even mildly interesting. Everything else just mopes by stylishly, a succinctly L.A.-fied mish-mash of synth-y '80s drama-pop influences and posturing. Consider this the first salvo from what's sure to be an army of well-dressed throwbacks prancing in the footprints of Interpol and The Killers.
—SCOTT HARRELL
Money Is a Major Issue
PITBULL
TVT
Crunked-out Cuban-American Lil Jon protege Pitbull's faultless flow is something not even those of us who despise quasi-mainstream rap's stagnant blingy bounce can deny; the kid is good. And it's evident from the South Florida MC's Money Is a Major Issue (Get it? M.I.A.M.I.?) that he's got designs on being more than just another anonymous, hardcase Dirty South whoremaster — the disc showcases both knowledge of myriad regional styles and a refusal to stick with just one of them. But while it's harder, more eclectic and bilingual than most Southern-fried-booty-playa-gangsta albums, it's still just a Southern-fried-booty-playa-gangsta album, albeit one boasting an extremely talented mouthpiece. Except where Latin percussion is occasionally employed ("Culo," "Toma"), the beats and production are uniformly familiar. And lyrically, the disc sticks to the beyond-tired "my boys and I are hard here, in the coolest city in the world, so don't mess with any of the millions of bitches that want to get with us, or we'll fuck you up, then keep on rocking the club" formula. Oh, and Lil Jon's monosyllabic shout-out idiocy is all over the damned thing. There are some highlights, including the hard-as-nails opener "305 Anthem," "Culo," "Dirty" and "Back Up" — Pitbull's just too capable to let an entire album side wallow in generica. But overall, his vocal ability is about the only thing that saves his debut from that fate. 1/2
—SCOTT HARRELL
This article appears in Nov 3-9, 2004.