The Strokes Is This It
I've been listening to Is This It, an album whose arrival has been anticipated only a little less eagerly than that of, say, Christ, for several months now. And it's funny, but I really don't feel any different. The paradigm shift all but assured by every hip rock magazine from New York to Tokyo hasn't occurred. Food still tastes the same. My whites aren't any whiter.
Of course, no album could reasonably be expected to live up to the kind of ridiculous hype generated by the industry over this Big Apple quintet. An already surreal situation was only exacerbated when the record's release was postponed (again) in order to remove a surly track called "New York City Cops" in the wake of the Sept. 11 tragedy.
In such a surreal situation, one should only hope that the album doesn't completely suck. And Is This It doesn't. In fact, it's pretty damn good. Sure, The Strokes have managed to swaddle their sound in fashion and image so successfully it's almost creepy, and certainly suspicious. But a turd wearing East Village thrift-store chic and a skinny tie would still be a turd, no matter how cool its hair was.
Thankfully, the music stands up, an engaging amalgam of seminal rock and waves both New and No, all angular guitar bursts, shuffling rhythms and detached cool-guy voice. "Is This It" and "Take It Or Leave It," the disc's best tracks, bookend a solid batch of commercially iconoclastic yet infectious tuneage, of which only "Trying Your Luck" falls short. The production is in itself a thing of beauty, deceptively lo-fi but obviously skilled — how they managed to make everything sound simultaneously fuzzy, dated, fresh and clear, the world may never know. Is This It scores by offering a style that smoothly renders various juxtapositions workable. It's strange and familiar, clubby and rocking, cool and earnest, experimental and organic.
It would be folly to discount The Strokes just because some cogs in the industry machine decided to see exactly how much torque the buzz-machine could take before overheating. Is This It is the kind of release that takes a few run-throughs to stick; it's jarring and thin initially, but the songs' inner compulsions reveal themselves with repeated listens. And, really, isn't a decent major-label rock 'n' roll record reason enough to get excited? (RCA)
—Scott Harrell
Charlie Hunter Quartet Songs from the Analog Playground
Groove-jazz is largely digable stuff, but let's face it, the style can become a bit redundant. Charlie Hunter — the eight-string guitarist who deftly plays lead and bass on his hybrid instrument — artfully sidesteps tedium on his new Songs from the Analog Playground by enlisting vocalists and stretching into rhythms beyond the usual limber funk that's native to the genre (not that Hunter and company eschew funk altogether; far from it). Breathy newcomer Norah Jones takes a swoony pass at Roxy Music's "More Than This," which gets a bossa nova treatment. A creeping version of the Willie Dixon blues classic "Spoonful," with vocal by Galactic frontman Theryl De'Clouet, is another high point. Yet another guest frontman, Mos Def, continues to unveil multifaceted talents with his jazzy rap-sing on the riffy swing tune "Creole." And for good measure, the CHQ lights into "Percussion Shuffle," a crisp take on the bluesy groove-jazz of yore (think Jimmy Smith, Grant Green), replete with an imaginative percussion interlude. Groovy, indeed. (Blue Note)
—Eric Snider
DJ Spooky that Subliminal KidUnder the Influence DJ Spooky isn't subliminal in his liner notes, which include a short, pretentious essay on the significance of his work. A conceptual artist, writer and musician, he's best known for his artsy mixes and remixes, applying his aesthetic to works by a variety of electronica acts. Under the Influence is a good, old-fashioned mix album, an ambient-to-hip-hop blend of 26 hyper-rhythmic tracks by such artists as Moby, Future Sound of London, The Dub Pistols and Sonic Youth. One of the best tracks is "Twice the First Time," a spoken-word joint by Saul Williams, the star of the award-winning film Slam, for which Spooky produced the soundtrack. The uninitiated are also introduced to relative unknowns like drum 'n' basser Amon Tobin, vocalist Sussan Deyhim and rap-sample stylist Mix Master Mike. These artists' stellar contributions are what make the album significant, not Spooky's claim that it's "music from the fourth world — a world where humans have become a kind of dust drifting through the codes we made in an earlier age." Just ignore that nonsense and enjoy the album. (Six Degrees, sixdegreesrecords.com)
—Cooper Cruz
Beachwood Sparks Once We Were Trees
You could describe Beachwood Sparks' sound as "bootgazer." It's twangy, sun-kissed melodic pop that recalls the Flying Burrito Brothers but with psychedelic flourishes and languid vocals. The L.A.-based Sparks include drummer Aaron Sperske, vocalist/guitarist Chris Gunst, slide guitarist "Farmer" Dave Scher, and bassist and erstwhile local skateboarder Brent Rademaker. Their second full-length, Once We Were Trees, dodges the fabled sophomore slump with shimmering, lush instrumentation that's an evolutionary step above, if not better, than BS's self-titled debut. On "Confusion is Nothing New," the boys offer up sensitive, self-affirming lyrics sung in harmonies that dreamily float above slide guitar and keyboard arrangements; "By Your Side" reworks Sade's lovely ballad with a gentle harmonica and soaring synth; and "The Hustler" poignantly captures the frustration of having an ambivalent lover. Gunst's singing evokes a vulnerable man-boy plaint that may irk more testosterone-dependent listeners, but it's a proper complement to the band's studio polish and whiskey-soaked tunes. Recommended earphone and car-make out listening. (Sub Pop, www.subpop.com)
—Julie Garisto
Sam Phillips Fan Dance
Singer/songwriter Sam Phillips has a voice that surrounds you like a thick mist and lingers in your ears the way rich chocolate attaches itself to your tongue. Her lyrics are light pen sketches as opposed to detailed oil paintings — they hint, point you in the right direction and then allow you to explore for yourself. The arrangements are equally understated. Lauded producer T-Bone Burnett embellishes his wife's soothing vocals with sparse percussion, acoustic guitars, banjo and the occasional piano. The songs gel perfectly, making the disc a splendid meal to digest in one sitting. (Nonesuch)
—Wade Tatangelo
This article appears in Oct 25-31, 2001.