Cellar Door
JOHN VANDERSLICE
Barsuk
Let's hope that John Vanderslice has a fertile imagination, because if the first-person narratives on Cellar Door are even close to true, we might want to start worrying about him. We need not fret, however, about the quality of his latest CD, which is unimpeachable.
Cellar Door is that rare pop album where the stories and characters are as important as the hooks, grooves and playing. Vanderslice writes, usually in cryptic poetry, about death, madness, depression, despair, oppressive families, hocking his mother's TV, and blowing a bluebird to bits because he "can't figure out if he brings me luck/ or if he's trying to tear me down." Some of this is quite funny in a macabre sort of way, but more often the songs are sad, harrowing and, at times, unnerving.
"They Won't Let Me Run" is an apt example of a Vanderslician mini-movie. Playing the misfit in a powerful small-town family, he impregnates a girl, is forced to marry her and has two sons. When he tries to escape, the local constabulary tracks him down and, "they dragged me home/ And the family sat me down/ They kept me cuffed up and they roughed me up and said/ "We'll never let you run."
Vanderslice's angular melodies, with their odd contours and unsettling transitions, perpetuate this sense of unease. Adding to the overall tension is his voice, a kind of yearning, tightly wound tenor that portends trouble. Cellar Door may not be pleasant, but it is thoroughly captivating.
Vanderslice, who spent more than 400 hours recording the disc in his all-analog San Francisco studio, fleshed out the tracks more than on his previous three solo efforts. His core instrument is a rhythmically propulsive aggro-acoustic guitar, which he augments with analog synths, small string and horn sections and an array of percussion. Sometimes, the sonic accoutrements can evoke a swirling psychedelic patina; at other points, the music carries a whiff of '80s New Wave. But as far as slotting John Vanderslice into a genre or lumping him with other artists — that just can't be responsibly done. www.barsuk.com, www.johnvanderslice.com. 
—ERIC SNIDER
Strange Liberation
DAVE DOUGLAS
Bluebird
How to move jazz forward without casting aside the traditions and forms that make the music logical, digestible? For answers, I can think of no one better to turn to than trumpeter/composer/bandleader Dave Douglas. His new album (due Jan. 27), Strange Liberation, takes the tried-and-true small-group jazz format and injects it with imagination and new blood — without discarding the handbook or resorting to pure iconoclasm. To pull off such a feat, it takes great vision and imagination, uncommon talent, and a group of musicians who are up to the task. Strange Liberation has all this — in spades. And it doesn't hurt to have an extra-special ringer in tow. For this disc, the Dave Douglas Quintet — which includes Chris Potter (tenor sax, bass clarinet), James Genus (bass), Uri Caine (Fender Rhodes) and Clarence Penn (drums) — is joined by nonpareil guitarist Bill Frisell, a musician who, like Douglas, excels at boundary stretching.
The sextet is in full telepathic mode, navigating Douglas' complex, shifting (but tuneful) pieces with a sure-handed blend of boldness and grace. Strange Liberation is so rich in detail that your mind might wander away from the solo to Frisell's atmospheric underpinnings (especially on "Mountains from the Train"), or a ringing electric piano fill, or the sensitive massage of a certain drum groove, or the bracing slap of an acoustic bass string against wood. And when you home in on the solos, they're uniformly vibrant, without being wantonly showy, jazz-rooted without being hackneyed.
Strange Liberation breaks the tether from swing-based rhythms. There are hard-hitting rock beats, space-dirges, ballads, splashes of Latin, funk and more, all shape-shifting effortlessly. This diversity of groove renders a fast bop section, like the one in "Rock of Billy," that much more scintillating. All told, such a breadth of texture opens new vistas with each listen. An album that seduces you immediately, and then has staying power. 'Tis a rare thing indeed. —ERIC SNIDER
Big City Sin and Small Town Redemption
Roy
Fueled by Ramen
Conceived as an outlet for the lower-key styles that its members couldn't showcase in their histrionic, better-known posthardcore acts (Botch, These Arms Are Snakes, Harkonen), Roy has quickly evolved into one of the most original roots-pop acts around. Big City Sin, their first proper full-length, is a nearly flawless concoction of Americana influence, quasi-dissonant indie jangle, offbeat imagery and individual personality. Through slightly countrified rave-up ("Don't Overdub My Heart," "They Cut The Cord," "Anytime Now"), maudlin mountain lament ("Better Head North") and beautiful comedown ("Prescription Drugs"), the quartet remains fresh, avoiding any and all of the cliches that normally crop up when punkers go all alt-country. Colorful, unexpected lyrics abound, referencing obstetrics, gay marriage, the death of the cowboy, and "mine-seeking dolphins bred for the war," to point out a few highlights. The anthemic "Rebel Hymn" might be a standout track, but it's tough to tell when everything else is right up there. The production is engagingly warm, loose and lively — intricate, perfectly toned guitar parts of every shade come and go, occasionally augmented by piano, without ever reverting to simple open-chord C&W staples. "Everything sounds so contrived," they sing in the dynamic anti-mainstream meditation "Gold Rush," while providing the exception to the rule. This is mandatory listening. (www.fueledbyramen.com) 1/2—Scott Harrell
Dancing in the Dark
TIERNEY SUTTON
Telarc
A jazz singer's love letter to Frank Sinatra. Sutton did not rely on the obvious material. She barely touches on any of the Chairman's hits (a tender reading of "All the Way" being the main exception), instead exploring more contemplative songs like "I Think of You," "Without a Song," "Emily" and "Last Night When We Were Young." She gives the usually exuberant "Fly Me to the Moon" a breezy Brazilian treatment. Rather than attempting to mirror Sinatra's interpretive prowess, Sutton relies on her own, making the songs intimate statements. Sutton's singing, with a tone that ranges from dusky to crystalline, does not favor extravagantly contorted jazz phrasing, but stays true to the melody. She uses inflections and subtle embellishments to build highly personal readings (which is what Frank did). The singer essentially gives herself to the rapturous beauty of the material. Besides being a formidable jazz effort, Dancing in the Dark, with its impeccable melodicism and string arrangements, does double-duty as a classic pop album. 1/2—ERIC SNIDER
This article appears in Jan 22-28, 2004.