Buddy Guy
Sweet Tea

This is an important album. Here's why:

Contemporary blues is all but flat-lined, dominated by a battalion of faceless Strat-slingers rehashing decades-old licks over 12-bar shuffles. They holler the same weary lyrical cliches — but without the gut-level experience to evince true conviction. These keepers of the flame have their staunch supporters, who find comfort in the stylistic vapor lock, but as for bringing in new fans, well "

The most vital blues today hails from the hill country of north Mississippi, by artists like R.L. Burnside, T-Model Ford, Paul Jones, the late Junior Kimbrough and such. These long-obscure musicians were ushered into the cult consciousness by Fat Possum Records of Oxford, Miss. The music is coarse, unrefined, all bare wires and black-cat moan. They use budget gear and crude studios and don't fret if every little thing isn't completely in tune. It's music that, by tradition, relies on repeated riffs rather than 12-bar chord changes, and evokes a hypnotic quality that has earned the name drone-blues.

Enter Buddy Guy, at nearly 65 a man who is both a legend and a blues star. His '90s albums were slick, Chicago-style packages that sold well and won some Grammys. On Sweet Tea, Guy, who grew up poor in Louisiana, gets back to his country-boy roots by delving into the Fat Possum sound.

And it's a marvel. Buddy's a stubborn kinda fellow, so it was never in question that he would put his personal stamp on the hill country style. A firebrand player freed from the strictures of blues changes, Guy blasts out shards of raw, screaming emotion — with his voice and his guitar. He's backed by a simpatico rhythm section that doggedly lays down a thick, heaving backdrop.

He opens the disc solo, with a hushed lament. "I done got old," he intones. "I can't do the things I used to do, 'cause I'm a oooold man." The second song creeps in with the clatter of a march-style drum beat, then an impossibly thick bass line, then a searing guitar riff, and then Buddy howlin,' exhortin', pleadin', "Oh baby please, Pleeeeeeez, please don't leave me."

And you realize that Buddy Guy was lying: He doesn't believe he done got old. This is the sound of an old dog learning new tricks. Guy continues to beg and holler, the band riding the vamp, killin' it, full of rib-rattlin' low end. Then the solo. A single-note cry, then long, bent notes, the tone swathed in echo. He does not play stock licks, but exorcises the music from himself, pure sound coming from deep within.

And so it goes — through the raggedy, syncopated funk of "Look What All You Got," through the swampy "Stay All Night," through a dozen sex-drenched minutes of "I Gotta Try You Girl," as good a one-chord jam as you're likely to encounter. And a handful of other songs nearly as strong.

Sweet Tea is the kind of stuff that could resonate with younger rockers of endless stripe, dubheads, funk aficionados, Moby fans — which collectively represent a whole new audience for the blues. This is an important album, and that's why. (Silvertone)

—Eric Snider

R.E.M.
Reveal

Not long ago, a DJ on 97X compared Reveal to R.E.M.'s "older" work — specifically, Warner albums Green through Automatic for the People. Whatever. Truth be told, the trio's latest hasn't one song that rocks as ambitiously as Green, and despite strings and horns, lacks the appeal and rich textures of even the most mellow parts of Automatic. (Guess that's what happens when your drummer quits.) R.E.M. seems to have the controls set on auto-pilot; Reveal picks up right where the band's last album, 1998's Up, left off. Not necessarily a bad thing, but hardly the album-by-album sinistrality the band once practiced, pulling off one distinct effort after another, a pensive Automatic followed by a trailer-rocker like Monster. There are some fine songs here, particularly the pop-radio gem "Imitation of Life." Unfortunately, if you've heard that, you've heard the CD's best tune — although "I'll Take the Rain" is Stipe at his bleating-outside-the-herd best. Let's keep this in perspective. R.E.M.'s getting old — they're, like, in their 40s! After a good run, the band is walking across the finish line. Pete Buck has lost the keys to his jangly guitar. Unless you still have Steel Wheels in heavy rotation as you ride around on the denial bus, you have to admit that, eventually, all good rock bands begin to suck chunky poop. (Earth to R.E.M.: Break the fuck up already.) Reveal is adequate where we've come to expect superlative, though it's a fine thing if you're into napping. (Warner Bros.)

—David Jasper

Neil Hagerty
Neil Michael Hagerty

Royal Trux and former Pussy Galore ax-man/mastermind Hagerty plays all the instruments on this, his first solo outing, and proves himself to be a gentler soul than some may have expected. Sure, the guitars swoop and crackle all over the place, but even the most galvanic solos dance evenly with spooky percussion and/or distorted organ. The whole disc comes off less like the initial rush of Hagerty's former drug of choice (as RT albums tend to) and more like the long junk nod that succeeds it. Everything is foggy, hallucinatory, with sunlight filtering in via touches of sweet pop melodies and Hagerty's elastic singing, made mysterious by sawing violin loops and muffled bass. Some songs come off like Stonesy blues from some alternate universe where the residents breathe ether. Hagerty's lyrics fluctuate between vague poetry and actual narratives. NMH is a must for Trux fans, an intriguing curiosity for guitar geeks, singer/songwriter aficionados and the uninitiated. (Drag City, www.dragcity.com)

—Stefanie Kalem

JT Money
Blood, Sweat and Years

JT Money sheds no tears over the difficult course of his career, from frontman of the Poison Clan and hits like "Shake What Your Mama Gave Ya," to breaking away from Luke Campbell's now-defunct label, toiling in the South's underground rap scene and returning to the spotlight with 1999's Pimpin' on Wax. Blood, Sweat and Years is JT's second solo LP, and after 12 years in the rap game, he takes an elder pimpsman-like tone toward criminal activities. The first single, "Hi-Lo," is a vain testimonial to his greatness: "I only drop the hotness/ " When it come to wicked flows, you know I got this." Unfortunately it's the only sure hit on the album. The album's hardest song, "War," rocks Black Sabbath-esque guitar, ripping out (but not ripping off) their signature metal sound. Blood, Sweat and Years has a few more surprises, like Spanish guitar and congas on "Sosa on that Chocha." Overall, the album's rhymes are hackneyed and stale, but that's not worth crying about either. (Priority)

—Cooper Cruz