Miles Davis
Live at the Fillmore East (March 7, 1970):
It's About That Time
It was, after all, a rock venue. And in 1970 Miles wanted nothing more than to be a rock star in the vein of Hendrix and Sly Stone, even if he wasn't interested in fronting a conventional rock band. Fillmore (March 7, 1970) finds the trumpeter's last quintet (before he expanded to larger ensembles) playing three tunes from the soon-to-be-released landmark double set Bitches Brew ("Spanish Key," "Miles Runs the Voodoo Down" and the title track) and a handful of other selections in the same jazz-rock vein.

Opening for the Steve Miller Blues Band and Neil Young's Crazy Horse, the Miles ensemble turned up the amps and distortion and delivered two sledgehammer sets (on two CDs) that lack the subtlety and dynamics of jazz and the rhythmic/melodic focus of rock. This is nascent fusion music still finding its way.

For starters, the music doesn't groove. Jazz drummer Jack DeJohnette, paired with barely audible Brazilian percussionist Airto Moreira, flails away busily through most of the tunes, creating an amorphous pulse when a tighter groove would've served the music better. Similarly, bassist Dave Holland roams in and out of the pocket, often churning out one-note rumbles that evoke irritating little earthquakes. Keyboardist Chick Corea runs his electric piano through heavy distortion, at times mimicking guitar power chords.

From an improvisation standpoint, the band is all brute power and virtually no nuance. Miles, in particular, is heavy-handed, resorting to shrieks, blasts and random outburts, his tone often resembling that of a car horn. Corea can't seem to forge much in the way of dynamics, so he resorts mostly to slugging away at the keys. Only saxophonist Wayne Shorter, who was playing his very last engagement with Miles, finds a voice amid the din. You'll probably never hear him more aggro, but his soprano, and especially tenor, forays are constructed on ideas that ebb and flow with emotion.

These Fillmore sets are a valuable discovery, because they make up the first sanctioned release by what has sometimes been called The Lost Quintet as well as a live document of the Bitches Brew period. But the music rarely takes a breath. The band seems to wander, unable to bring the telekinetic communication of Miles' '60s acoustic groups to an intrinsically bombastic format. (Columbia/Legacy)
—Eric Snider

Ben Folds
Rockin' the Suburbs
Everybody's favorite ivory-banger returns with a solo disc that picks up where Ben Folds Five left off, simultaneously broadening his horizons and sharpening his focus. Rockin' The Suburbs offers up more of the stuff that made BFF so fun to listen to — smart-ass vignettes, heart and an undeniable energy — while allowing Folds' melodic sense and edge-of-irony lyricism to meander through a more expansive musical landscape. "Annie Waits" and "Zak and Sara" open things with the familiar Squeeze-isms, and one might be satisfied with an album's worth of their clever pop. But wait, there's more: compelling anthems ("Still Fighting," "Gone"), cello-laced melancholia ("Fred Jones Part 2"), driving indie hookage ("Not the Same"), and, uh, more Squeeze-isms ("The Ascent of Stan," "Carrying Cathy"). Everything is piano-driven, of course, and even the heartache sounds fun. The title track, a smarmy send-up of affluent white-boy rap-metal angst, is alone worth the price of admission. Rockin' the Suburbs more fully realizes Folds' vision and ambition by augmenting the talent of his former three-piece with new sounds and instruments that flesh out the tunes rather than just taking up a little more space (holy shit — guitars!). It helps, though, that he's a hell of a pop songwriter, and one who's not afraid to accessorize. Release date: Sept. 11. (Epic)
—Scott Harrell

Nathan Larson
Jealous God
Revelations are nice in this biz. And Nathan Larson is definitely an ear-opener. The former guitarist for the band Shudder to Think unleashes a debut solo effort as a fully formed songwriter, singer and multi-instrumentalist. Jealous God is a luscious collection of pop and blue-eyed soul. Larson's voice shows shades of Elvis Costello — especially in the way he slides into vibrato at the end of lines — but ultimately he's a smoother, more relaxed singer than Cos. You can hear Squeeze, Paul Young, Paul Carrack and even Hall & Oates in the urbane R&B lilt of these infectious, sophisticated love songs. Produced by Brits Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley, the sound is polished and lush, with delicate layers of piano, organ, understated guitar, strings and the occasional horns. Perhaps most notably, Jealous God ranges from solid to brilliant from start to finish. (Artemis, www.artemisrecords.com)
—Eric Snider

Chris Lee
Plays & Sings Torch'd Songs,
Charivari Hymns, & Oriki Blue-Marches
Indie blue-eyed soulster Chris Lee is that seemingly innocuous baby-face who seductively creeps under your skin and breaks your heart with his honest ambivalence. On this verbosely titled sophomore effort, Lee laments love gone away, astray and maybe never was, but maintains inner resolve. In the process he sketches lovely pictures of the elusive women who broke his heart. Lee crafts bluesy melodies spruced up by acoustic bass, horns and layered vocals, a soothing texture that sops up his wailing vocals and sentimental musings. Definitely a departure from his sprightly pop debut, Plays & Sings … is more subtle, sophisticated and evocative. Example: The first CD has the sexy, straightforward track, "The Sexual Politics of Me." This disc features a sequel of sorts, "The Politics of Sway." And sway it does. (Slated for release in late September.) (Smells Like Records, www.smellslikerecords.com)
—Julie Garisto

Michelle Branch
The Spirit Room The cover depicts a young girl in a black leather jacket with the shy, dark eyes of a world-weary troubadour. Look kids, a real American singer/songwriter! Michelle Branch wrote the majority of the tunes on The Spirit Room. Problem is, they resonate with about as much sincere emotion as greeting card poem. Her voice is too cute for its own good and the production is basically middle-of-the-road goo. Branch is certainly dressed to look the part of the misunderstood, heartbroken artist but, despite a handful of serviceable hooks, her music ultimately falls into a sorry wasteland somewhere between Alanis Morissette and Britney Spears. It's as if Branch traded in her go-go boots for Doc Martens and changed her eyeliner from pink to black. Regardless, the music (that is what counts, right?) is still bubble gum. (Maverick)
—Wade Tatangelo