L7 (1988)

(Epitaph)

Typically, L7 is just about the closest I get to listening to metal, their early '90s work being for me a landmark of rock & roll attitude fused with a wit and consciousness I don't get out of most macho hardish rock. But this debut album of theirs, which I only just heard for the first time this week, falls too far on the grinding obnoxious boredom side of punk, thrash, and metal for my tastes. It's only sporadically terrible -- the tasteless "Metal Stampede" and endless "Uncle Bob" being the worst offenders -- but also only sporadically in the same universe as their great grunge-era work, specifically on wily opener "Bite the Wax Tadpole," the catchy Runaways rip "Ms. 45," and the undeniably fun "Snake Handler." The rest is screamy stuff just not to my taste, disappointingly enough.

Lykke Li: Wounded Rhymes (2011)

(Atlantic)

RECOMMENDED

In interviews, Swede sensation Lykke Li states that she was inspired on her second album by exposure to the downright bizarre combination of Alan Lomax's stirring field recordings and the outsized L.A. rock of Jefferson Airplane and the Doors. Who knows how these primal bases get absorbed into the music she's written and crafted here, but the strong affinity I hear is with Spector, Shadow Morton, the girl groups of the early '60s. In which case, Lykke can join the club. From Camera Obscura to She & Him to Tennis, no territory or root is more amply plundered by the modern rock and pop.

But like her fellow countryman Robyn, Lykke has absorbed something from the Shangri-Las and the Ronettes, a crucial element that all of their American descendents save perhaps Amy Winehouse have missed: a toughness, a venom, an aggression. Ronnie Spector's voice was not merely wounded, it snarled and stabbed back; Darlene Love had a more conventionally sweet tone, but even she betrayed a darkness, a heart you'd never want to break, not merely because you'd treasure it above all else but because you'd fear the repercussions. The Shangri-Las, of course, were pure threat, and the scrappy big sisters in the Marvelettes would never let anyone get away with walking all over them. When Zooey Deschanel coos and chirps on a charming She & Him number like "Over It Over Again," the gulf between that performance and some filthy chestnut like Shape and Sizes' "Rain on My Face" or Wendy Rene's "After Laughter Comes Tears" (once covered by Lykke Li, rendering her automatically intriguing in my book) or Denise & Co.'s incredibly tough-minded, obscure (perhaps because of the threat?) "Take Me As I Am" is staggering.

Lykke stomps all over this light touch; whatever else her music is, it commands respect -- it is hardly cutesy or conveniently ironic. Thus far, her work isn't as intelligent as Robyn's, Madonna's, or even the coy but brilliant Camera Obscura's, but why would it be? Should Wikipedia be trusted, she's just recently turned twenty-five. Based on the bionic groove and metallic smash on the garage opener "Youth Knows No Pain," which despite its polish instantly recalls the Denise & Co. oddity, she knows more than I did at twenty-five. And what she knows best is the cathartic joy of performing pop, a crucial variance on Madonna, whose thrill seemed to come from crafting it, presenting it; Lykke writes well enough, not nearly as well yet as Madonna, but what makes Wounded Rhymes a valuable record is hearing her actively conquer each of these songs, to bring their conventions and quirks into a realm of bellowing emotion, rendering much of their banality beside the point.

She's a mainstream pop performer in her own country, which is great; what's better is that she's an indie rock stalwart in the U.S., which is a field desperately in need of strong women. Lykke has an individualistic fervor that will serve her well in the future; for most, her vague roughness will call Stevie Nicks to mind. There's no "Gold Dust Woman" or "Dreams" here, as this record is clearly a chapter in a larger document that will display her discovery of her voice. That's the only destructive thing, I think, about a record like this garnering such ecstatic praise; it's clearly a work in progress. A career in progress, rather.

That particular part of the story is best told by a pair of high-concept pieces that don't quite make it but are still indelibly charming. "Rich Kids Blues" is an adamantly well-meaning bit of cleverness with more of the huge garage sound; most intriguingly, it marries its careful rawness to a brilliantly integrated dance-pop production that turns upside down every cookie cutter notion of what any of the mentioned genres are supposed to do. But it can't really overcome its not terribly imaginative writing and a searching performance. It's full of ideas, maybe too many. Same goes for "Jerome," late on the record and surely the standout oddity here, leading a diluted Eno dirge into hyperkinetically busy '80s pop. "I Follow Rivers" covers up those seams but is equally jam-packed, passing vague West African polyrhythmics carefully under its strong wintry synthpop in the vein of Music for the Masses, and fusing it all with a brutal but rapturous pop menace. It's nearly overloaded, too much to comprehend. But it does work.

The issue being, then, that any one of those three concepts would've been enough to make "I Follow Rivers" an interesting and valuable song. Why not spread that around? Too many others are bereft of any idea besides what seems like a vague desire to contrast Lykke Li's image of pop spectacle with an unfettered vulnerability, which is tolerable enough at times (the stark, Feist-like "Unrequited Love," which boasts some of the album's best lyrics) but cannot inject any inspiration into something like "Love Out of Lust." She can cover it with the goofball Wilson Phillipsisms of "Silent My Song," but it seems that the balladry stylistics she's toying with simply don't suit her well at all -- the contrast of "I Know Places" with the songs around it is particularly unfavorable. But the notion seems vital to her, so perhaps it just isn't time yet.

Given all that, past the first two head-spinning tracks, it might seem easy to write this off as the latest in an increasingly long line of recent semi-pop records that give off more boredom than the crazed level of hype they've received would imply. The songs do ultimately run together -- many would be stronger on their own, but the 45rpm era that could have made Lykke Li a true great is long gone -- but then she can toss off something like the ridiculous single "Get Some," a magical moment of the sort of intensely felt and smart dance pop that used to be Madonna's stock in trade. This massive Bo Diddley-derived sensual banger is a DJ's dream, and Lykke's playful vocals are what make it spin so persuasively.

If I had to guess, though, I'd say the key to the record is "Sadness Is a Blessing," not simply because it provides the title. If the independent but wildly sexual spirit that permeates the record is Lykke's prime interest at this point, she has nothing to prove beyond what she achieves on this remarkable track, which lets its influences tower. Opening with an enormous and sad "Be My Baby" reprise, against classic piano and drum persuasion, she lets a Roy Orbison-like drama build in her perfectly measured but impeccably off-the-rails vocal until it seems ready to burst, which it never quite does because the entire song is the explosion. Her voice wraps around nutty lyrics -- "Sadness is my boyfriend / Oh sadness, I'm your girl" -- until their sheer silliness becomes profoundly sad, touching. The hybrid of a zillion '50s and '60s pop conventions and '70s freak-flag-high eccentricties can be likened only to Leonard Cohen and Phil Spector's remarkable 1977 recording "Memories," the wildest, most over-the-top track either of them ever issued. In it, Cohen snarls and barks and retreats like a lost puppy into the carnal submission, explicit in his song, merely implied by Lykke's. My first temptation was to consider the two songs as a conversation, but on reflection, that's hardly the case -- they are merely two reactions to the same lover, the same desperation. If Lykke can give in to this abyss more next time, her madness will become contagious to thousands.

The Action: The Ultimate! Action (1964-68)

(Edsel)

RECOMMENDED

Like the Tremeloes, the Action are a good band primarily known for their very peripheral association with the Beatles. But whereas the Tremeloes, the band Decca signed instead of the Fabs, achieved some commercial success in the '60s, the Action have remained mostly obscure. George Martin signed them to Parlophone mid-decade and worked very closely with them across a couple of LPs and many singles before their relationship with the label soured. They never sold many records on either side of the Atlantic, but in the decades since, garage and British Invasion cultists have elevated their output to fame in their circles. Still, few who get giddy over the sound of the Beatles' records or even who have some interest in Martin's body of work (his easy listening record Off the Beatle Track is a forgotten treasure) rarely afford the Action much attention, which is a pity.

The Action is a relatively standard mod group, a cut below the Kinks and the Who in their early years, but one can imagine what Martin saw in them -- for one, their devotion to Swinging London cool (check out the most detached version of "Land of 1000 Dances" in history) is absolute and seemingly quite marketable. For another, although the band is tight enough, Reg King is a stellar lead vocalist -- macho but tuneful, closer in league to Steve Winwood from the Spencer Davis Group than to any of the first-wave bands. The band's tougher edge and driving, grinding beat is a stark contrast to what Martin was used to in working with the Beatles, so the thrill in large part is in hearing how Martin would have approached a band somewhat in the same general class as the Who. It's revelatory to hear his crisp Abbey Road Studios sound applied to aggressive rock; listen to the way he has the backing vocals swirl around a delightfully crunchy band performance on the catchy 1966 tune "I'll Keep On Holding On."

Some have accused Martin of sabotaging the Action due to his preoccupation with the increasingly exciting directions the Beatles were taking, and in turn attempting to shoehorn the Action into similar evolutions. It's hard to parse this out on this compilation since it's not in chronological order, but there is a conflict between rough-hewn R&B and studio psychedelia that, in retrospect, is more intriguing than a large dose of either could probably be. Plus the flowery 1967 numbers like "Never Ever," a stunning Box Tops / Buffalo Springfield hybrid with trademark Martin horns, have aged beautifully. The compilers manage to keep it interesting, and the band certainly does their part, applying amiable enthusiasm even to dumb songs like "Harlem Shuffle." It's hard to imagine any producer being more sympathetic, or offering them more opportunity.

The strongest tunes are either ageless, like the towering piano-driven 1965 R&B slammer "Baby You've Got It" given Martin's trademark "Money (That's What I Want!)" approach, or injected with what now feels like period flavor, like "The Place," which puts conviction behind its simplest pop ideas. Best of all is the Odessey and Oracle-predicting "Shadows and Reflection," the band and Martin at peak with a bouncing, exquisitely harmonic arrangement and a tricky, elaborate composition -- it's the kind of weirdness a soul group can get behind, not at all labored under any Flower Power ideals. The Action excels equally at dance music, and most of all on their American R&B covers; although their take on Curtis Mayfield's "I Love You (Yeah!)" is a dud that comes off like a butt-stupid Van Morrison, they really hit with the serious reconstruction of Martha and the Vandellas' "In My Lonely Room" (putting the Kinks' Vandellas cover to shame) and most of all with the killer Temptations cover "Since I Lost My Baby," peerless prom slow-dance stuff, perfectly realized. All of the above are recommended for DJs looking to move and bewilder.

So even if the Action sit several spaces below the elder statesmen in the British Invasion chest of drawers, their work will still hit hard any advocate of that sound. "Come On, Come with Me" is practically an archetype of the time, and the menace of "Something Has Hit Me" will make you wish Martin had gotten a chance to take a stab at a Stones album. But all this posturing does get boring occasionally, and seventeen cuts of it is a lot to take in one sitting; best to get this one in quick 45rpm doses. And try to avoid the bizarre homophobic dance song "The Cissy," which has a leftover vibe and lyrics like "You got to be a little shy / Although I know that you're a guy."

On the whole, though, Ultimate Action is a feast of hooks, chorus, and soul that's addictive to the ears, and easily recommended to anyone who wants more of that indescribable Studio Two sound. This is a fine band doing find work; it's a shame they weren't rewarded for it.

Okkervil River: I Am Very Far (2011)

(Jagjaguwar)

RECOMMENDED

Will Sheff's entire career with Okkervil River has been a struggle of discovery and expression; their albums have always been glorious messes, overreaching but no less felt for their flaws. The Stage Names in particular is alternative rock at its cerebral best, literate and precise yet far too fucked up to fully comprehend. Sheff has always seemed an appealing eccentric waiting to break out of his overly mannered or carefully inexpressive shell. For him, I Am Very Far -- the band's elaborate, difficult, sprawling new record -- is an unparalelled triumph, the revelation of his accomplished, unencumbered voice at last. Even if he gives vent to less raw emotion here than hardcores might prefer, he's never impressed more or so easily.

But the shifting, intriguing songs he's written don't necessarily coalesce with the ornate arrangements he and the band provide here. If anything, they sound like they could stand a bit more modesty. Within a few seconds of the album's opener "The Valley," a completely unnecessary high-octane drum sound has nearly overtaken the stage, turning a pleasing, complex folk-rock number into some sort of vaguely embittered anthem, Arcade Fire ten years in the future. While one mustn't doubt that these songs would fall together thrillingly in the band's live show, and it's easy to get a spark of delight from hearing the band navigate through these intricate walls of sound (dig the Wrecking Crew mystique on "Wake and Be Fine"), a suspicion that a minor gulf separates Sheff's ideas from their execution does permeate. "We Need a Myth" (already demonstrably superior in live arrangements, courtesy Youtube) has U2-level melodrama slathered all over its gentle yearning, and potentially graceful starkness in "White Shadow Waltz" gets buried under a weirdly tentative tower of echo and noise that nearly shrinks Sheff's thin vocal down to nothing; drum fills and strings inject busy drama the song is good and smart enough to eventually overcome. Eccentricities like the Talking Heads-riddled "Your Past Life as a Blast" sound either wildly inappropriate or obliquely impressive with the slick, panoramic production style in use here; it's hard not to long for the canned grandeur of Destroyer's Kaputt.

Still, even if I Am Very Far comes off as a slightly botched experiment, this doesn't interfere with basic enjoyment of the album. No doubt it's a relief to hear an established band so prepared to fuck around and fuck up, to release something so much at odds with what their fan base is probably expecting, and fans of Big Star circa Third will nod in loving appreciation at the discordant fall-to-pieces of "Show Yourself," for which Sheff's most psychodramatic singing is almost magically suited. And there are other all-around exceptional tracks here: "Hanging from a Hit" has the arranged subtlety and shimmer one wishes had been in wider practice across the album. "Piratess" is one of the band's most impressive songs to date, a dead-on Bowie imitation with a wickedly fiery edge. And although its chorus oversells itself a bit, a production fault as much as a performance one, "Rider" is a driving delight.

It can take years for a singer like Sheff to train us away from the way we've long heard his voice, to treat his more emotionally complex moments with the seriousness afforded his screeching, struggling anger (witness fan reaction to John Darnielle's conversion to balladry), so it's a sign of hope on this record that features his strongest vocals to date that he pulls off a Rhett Miller / Ray Davies ballad with chutzpah on the countrified pop tune "Lay of the Last Survivor." Of the options presented here, the Bowie lift aside, I could most easily live with this being The Future of Okkervil River. His synthpop swagger on "Past Life" is quite ingratiating, too. But "Piratess" is still my first choice. Assuming chaos is where Okkervil wants to head, Ziggyisms are a far better match than the creaky Appalachian barbershop harmonics of exhausting closer "The Rise," second only to Iron & Wine's "Your Fake Name Is Good Enough for Me" as the year's most interminable LP climax. And the goddamn flute. Yes, "Caroline, No" had flutes. This isn't "Caroline, No." Don that glam rock makeup now, Mr. Sheff.

Otis Redding: Otis Blue (1965)

(Volt)

!!! A+ RECORDING !!!

It was recorded, almost entirely, in the space of a single day; it follows the mid-'60s LP format of a couple of hits filled out by cover versions of popular tracks of the day, seen on so many deservedly forgotten half-assed garage and Motown longplayers of its period. It opens with the most disorienting shapeless groove this side of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling." Its most innovative recording is better known as sung by another artist. Even its nondescript, lazy cover art bears out the generic implications of its tracklist, that this is merely a great artist working on contract. So how does Otis Blue manage to be the definitive album of '60s soul, a genre of rock & roll more revered and spoken of in hushed tones than any other?

Perhaps it's because Otis Redding, as he'd been proving on a long line of killer singles and a spell of increasingly raw and unhinged albums, was the most impassioned, fiery romantic pop music has ever seen. James Brown got down on his knees, of course, but never with Redding's sensuality and the sparks of real pain shredding his voice; Sam Cooke, Redding's hero (three of whose masterpieces get covered on Otis Blue), had the fearless subservience and emotional bareness, but he chose classicist, reflective beauty over tearing himself apart.

Perhaps it's the unstoppably breathtaking performances happening behind Redding, a tour de force from Booker T. and the MG's and the other Stax/Volt players, who are able not only to stake a claim for greater consistency than the Funk Brothers by churning this wildly eclectic mix of material out at such breathless speed and palpable urgency, they directly upstage them by adding a touch of organic energy to then-brand new Motown game-changer "My Girl." Never has the reductive labeling of early soul as "Motown" seemed so damaging. Certainly there are things Motown records could do that this album can't. But there are considerably more of the opposite -- rather than toning down and centralizing the vocalist's emotion, the Stax crew underline, spread, reinforce it. Redding and the band coalesce for what amounts to a half-hour orgasm of pointed, elegant love and distress.

Perhaps it's the strength of the material. In contrast to virtually every non-Beatles non-Dylan non-Night Beat rock record of the first half of the '60s, there is not a single weak cut among these eleven. By approaching the recording of the package as the ultimate desperate rock & soul concert, by clearly assigning each cut major importance, by taking obvious joy in all of them, Redding and his band get beyond most of the filler tendencies. But it must be stated that the caliber of the compositions is what ultimately brings this a cut above Redding's other LPs, which in turn takes it above all other '60s soul LPs in general. The triad of Cooke numbers is astonishing -- "Shake" becomes a Redding signature by default, "Wonderful World" and "A Change Is Gonna Come" operate beautifully despite the vast differences in delivery and impulse between the two singers. Solomon Burke appears with "Down in the Valley," B.B. King with "Rock Me Baby," William Bell with "You Don't Miss Your Water," Jerry Butler as cowriter on "I've Been Loving You Too Long," and of course Smokey Robinson with "My Girl." Then there are Redding's three originals, all among his best. A daunting collection, undeniably, of the distinguished writers of their time.

Perhaps it's the fact, in turn, that Redding -- for all the strength and grace of the original versions of these songs -- is the greatest soul singer of all, that he therefore is a match made in heaven with this music. Seldom will you find a more haunting record than Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come," but as controversial as it may be, Redding strengthens it by sounding closer, more awestruck than Cooke. The agony of "You Don't Miss Your Water" was never so articulate as when he expressed it. And if you still place the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" on a pedestal for some reason, prepare to witness its painful toppling when you introduce yourself to Redding's cover, so manically driven it is genuinely euphoric to listen to. The point being, he is the singer these songs want.

Perhaps it's because of the record's prescience, as a lively but preservationist document, that captures in very little time the complete breadth of black music of its period. Some of this isn't even intentional, but by composing the anthem "Respect" that would quickly be reapproriated and canonized by peer Aretha Franklin, Redding makes a strong enough contribution to the cause to make the record an indispensable piece of history. Luckily, it's far more, and ironically its lesser known cuts attest to its continual value as a source of pleasure and surrender: opener "Ole Man Trouble" is composer Redding pleading up a storm, "Down in the Valley" sears with voodoo glee, and "Wonderful World" gains an unexpected hint of triumph in Otis' hands.

Perhaps its roughness feels more genuine than the pop-end of ground zero soul. This can be extended to Redding's career as a whole; his voice always had a rawness that was more immediately communicative than the artful subtleties of someone like Marvin Gaye -- who laid it all out like Redding, but more obliquely -- or Sam Cooke. The ragtag sound is, of course, misleading; the MGs are tighter than anybody, but the starkness of their sound must surely have been designed to make it as ageless as it's become.

Perhaps it's simply Otis Blue's reinforcement, much like Ray Charles' Modern Sounds, of interpretation as a great force of expression in rock as much as in jazz or blues or pop. Not to dwell on the "canon" idea, but Redding truly does create one here, lathering his gleeful and singular vocals -- as sophisticated at times as the best jazz singing, integrating fascinating rhythmic ideas -- onto the soul standards of the day, creating new ones, ridding non-soul ("Satisfaction") of all its practiced sardonics and converting it into plainspoken, deep-end begging. Redding proves himself a master interpreter, but just as importantly, he brings a composer's eye to his approach to these songs.

Without any of those, Otis Blue wouldn't work. But what glues it together is none of them. The answer, the secret ingredient, the crucial distinction, is heat. That lengthy session that produced every cut except the classic single, the original naked slow-jam "I've Been Loving You Too Long" (featuring what may be Redding's greatest vocal ever), occurred in the middle of a sweltering July. You can hear the sweat, the summertime beat, the unbearable intensity of summer at its height, in these songs. And without that punishing heat, you couldn't have the definitive statement, the definitive representation, the definitive groundwork, of soul music. But there it was, and there it is.

The Weeknd: House of Balloons (2011)

(s/r)

RECOMMENDED

Right, that's "Weeknd," not "Weekend," and that is indeed the most searing piece of trend-baiting cover art you've seen in months, or maybe even since Vampire Weekend's Contra. But in fact, this is no Afro-leaning NPR adult contemporary outing, it's bent and erotic R&B, and for all the blog overhype -- much of it from typically R&B-ignorant quarters -- there is something here, and this self-released, absolutely free (download it here) mixtape embodies more innovations and ideas than a year's worth of chart-topping pop records. Mysterious Canadian Abel Tesfaye has a future, most assuredly; the question is whether he can shed his overwrought college-rock leanings enough to craft the mind-blowing commercial music freely suggested at the edges of these tight, distracting grooves.

Tesfaye deserves credit for how much he flies in here, convincing retro to cutting-edge dubstep that easily upstages How to Dress Well and even James Blake, and most of all for the most convincing foundation of a new filthy sensuality -- in the nearly ambient, arrestingly shapeless "Loft Music" -- since Prince and D'Angelo. But House of Balloons scores biggest on its least cluttered installments, the first two tracks ("High for This" and "What You Need") in particular. It's here that Tesfaye seems least afraid to let his voice sit and stretch, to cater to the radio pop ideas he finds so easy they're almost boring, to craft populist and nasty soul music. So if he can get past some of the artful formalities that make much of the last twenty of these forty-odd minutes rather trying, he will be one of our generation's valuable and scary forces. The funky mystique may be attractive, but it's window dressing and it's a gimmick; drop it.

(Maybe think of a few more synonyms for and ways of singing "girl," "giiiirl," and "girrrrrrl," too, but that's extra credit.)

Talking Heads: Sand in the Vaseline- Popular Favorites (1975-1992)

(Sire)

RECOMMENDED

Sentiment alert: This two-disc career overview was, radio aside, my introduction to Talking Heads, a band that eclipses all others post-'60s for me. I could recount the moment in the middle of "Don't Worry About the Government" when I recognized that glimmer, that thrilling instant of discovery when I completely "got" what the band was about -- but really, so much of that will be covered when we discuss the individual albums. Being honest, I wouldn't any longer name this as the ideal way in to the Heads; its approach to their best albums is too haphazard, and the glut of material from their brief but wounding decline (would've been just a weak detour if they hadn't come to hate one another so much) is too much of a slog. If I were going to send a Talking Heads newbie to the proverbial record shop, I would point them in the direction of any of the three Eno-produced LPs plus the handy no-nonsense Rhino package The Best of Talking Heads. But Sand in the Vaseline, creepy title aside, is arguably as essential for harder core fans as the overhyped three-disc box Once in a Lifetime, and the Heads compile well, so that if this is the way you first come across the breadth of their catalog, it will undoubtedly intrigue you.

Not really a greatest-hits package per se, this is more comparable to the Beatles' Red and Blue albums in its mix of most (but not all) of the big singles, some band-beloved album tracks, and a few rarities. The content is sandwiched by eight previously unreleased or non-LP cuts, four at the beginning of disc one and the rest at the end of disc two, that remain the selling point for fans and will doubtless keep the set in rotation after its utility as a jukebox has passed.

There are two performances from pre-Jerry Harrison demo sessions. "Sugar on My Tongue" is archetypal, clipped punk-bubblegum, but "I Want to Live" is flat-out remarkable. Byrne puts in one of his most riveting performances, and in many ways "I've had some friends... but I want more" is a moment that defines the band. Incredibly, this rough early runthrough of an abandoned track is one of their most accomplished, compelling recorded moments. The band already has a distinctive sound as a three-piece; on "I Want to Live" especially, the slinking funk of Tina Weymouth's oddball bass line is evocative of things to come.

Vaseline provides the first CD release of Talking Heads' legendary debut single, "Love -> Building on Fire," never offered on a studio album. Byrne's already infectious drama and twitchy psychosis peak with his wild and possessed devotion to "two loves" (the most breathless line is listed on the web as "Count 'em: one, two loves" but I've always heard it as the more unhinged "God, I want two loves"). The major body of the song is in the "Don't Worry About the Government"-predicting obsessive-compulsive tracking of a six-degrees link described in the title. Love is his face, which is a building (!), which is on fire. Jerry Harrison has yet to arrive, so the sound is filled out with somewhat goofy horns, the sort of overly twee maneuver the Heads would passionately steer clear of on their debut album (demanding, as recounted in the liner notes, that cellos be removed from "Psycho Killer").

In a storied career spanning fifteen years on record, Talking Heads only technically had one non-album b-side, duly but somewhat awkwardly provided with a home on Sand in the Vaseline. "I Wish You Wouldn't Say That" hails from the sessions for Talking Heads '77 and is clearly among the lesser numbers produced then, though it would have fit reasonably well on the first half of that LP. The arrangement is weak compared to the crazed precision of 77 at its best, or the massiveness of the Eno recordings, but Byrne has never sounded scarier, more paranoid, or more impassioned -- his childlike, desperate "now Jimmy's coming over" still sends a few uncomfortable chills my way.

The Talking Heads odyssey truly begins with track five, "Psycho Killer," which spearheads the same comic, life-affirming anecdote described by Jonathan Demme's Stop Making Sense: the nervous nerd learning to loosen up and move his ass, and basically give in to the void. So he struggles to form the bizarre universe he inhabits into neat boxes, sometimes obsessive ("Psycho Killer"), sometimes wide-eyed and innocent ("Don't Worry About the Government"), sometimes outlandishly angry ("No Compassion"), but always self-denying and ingratiatingly crazed, weirdly glorious. Never has a drawn-out character study found such a warm and expressive home in rock & roll. It's easy to carp with the tracklist, of course, as how can "Uh-oh, Love Comes to Town" and "Pulled Up" really be left out of this odyssey, but 77 is still quite properly represented.

The same can't be said of the three albums to follow, the ones that unquestionably represent Talking Heads' peak -- and maybe Brian Eno's. But the thing is, you should own them anyway, so why does it matter? More Songs About Buildings and Food is the band's expansive, assured masterpiece, one of the rare times in history when a fabulous group at the initial rush of its greatest creativity has been captured in full by a brilliant renegade producer sympathetic to and cognizant of their power. It's not that "Warning Sign" isn't great, it's that More Songs contains all of the original Heads material that made them such a hot attraction at CBGB and was held off from their first record until they met up with a more ideal producer. Eno rammed unheard-of electricity and mystery into "Stay Hungry," "Thank You for Sending Me an Angel," "The Girls Want to Be with the Girls," and "Found a Job" -- in his hands, the band was permitted to sound as stomping and enormous as they were. "Warning Sign" is marginal stuff compared to those live killers. Of course the surprisingly reverent, sweet-natured take on Al Green's "Take Me to the River," their first stroke with mainstream success, has to be here, so Vaseline gets points for including the band's greatest song ever, never a hit or even a single, "The Big Country" -- an impossibly articulate ode to alienation and depression that I've been telling people for years now is my choice for best ballad in rock & roll. I don't think I'm wrong. The complexity of emotions when David Byrne slips into gibberish in the end makes this the "Waterloo Sunset" for those of us too young and cynical for "Waterloo Sunset" to mean as much as "Dead End Street" did.

In tackling Fear of Music, Vaseline weirdly skips its signature "Life During Wartime" (but offers a bad edit of the Stop Making Sense rendition on disc two), replacing it with "Memories Can't Wait," an excellent and completely uncommercial, eccentric song that under no circumstances belongs on a greatest hits package. "Heaven" -- the record's most reassuring moment, which is amazing considering how bleak it is -- and "I Zimbra" are crucial. So the biggest gaffe is only allowing two songs from Remain in Light, the album for which the band will surely be remembered, both of which the prospective buyer is nearly guaranteed to have already heard ("Once in a Lifetime" and "Crosseyed and Painless") -- the same weird error Allen Klein made when only offering two Revolver cuts on The Beatles 1962-1966. And all, it would seem, in the interest of dividing the story in half between the increasingly abstract progression of the band through their commercial peak in 1983, and the rootsy slickness that came to preoccupy them starting in the mid-'80s.

Speaking in Tongues is not nearly as difficult a record to pare down as its predecessors, so offering "Burning Down the House" (their biggest hit, maybe?), "Swamp" (David Byrne's cattiest rant), and "This Must Be the Place" (the Heads' only love song) is logical enough. Then an inviting detour into Stop Making Sense, then we arrive at the band's return from synthpop and polyrhythm and get to study what exactly ripped them apart.

Losing Eno -- or getting rid of Eno, rather -- was probably not much help, but Speaking in Tongues did continue to show a sure-footed band, particularly coming along after a three-year hiatus. The reboot Little Creatures is the band's finest non-Eno moment, but it marked the first signs of a sharp decline in commercial fortunes. A key to this: Whoever chose the leading singles from each of the last three Talking Heads albums was clearly out of their mind. Creatures, an album whose dark subject matter was hidden by musical levity, was anticipated by "The Lady Don't Mind," the subtlest, most low-key track on an album overstuffed with pop hooks. It came equipped with a Jim Jarmusch-directed video, even. But it isn't even acknowledged as a Popular Favorite here, replaced by three subsequent and better-received singles (hymnal "Road to Nowhere," silly and disturbing "Stay Up Late," powerfully surrendering "And She Was"). Preceding the following year's True Stories, a flawed but brilliant film tie-in, was the Heads' worst and most grating single, "Wild, Wild Life." And if you had been considering giving up on America's greatest band since the Velvet Underground, "Blind" -- the promo for their final LP, Naked -- couldn't have changed your mind, with its hamhanded video, politely painful horns, and Byrne's ridiculously inexpressive caterwauling.

Little Creatures was far friendlier than "The Lady Don't Mind" suggested, and while hardly its siblings in quality, the last two records certainly weren't as awful as those songs indicate. Vaseline would seem an ideal opportunity to delve more seriously into the 1985-88 material to ward off suspicions about it and maybe get a few more people interested in those twilight-period efforts. There is, after all, plenty of room, since we squeezed the bulk of the band's career onto one disc already. Alas, we get just three songs from each of these albums. "City of Dreams" isn't a terrible choice for an album track from True Stories, but there were better ones ("People Like Us," "Dream Operator," and where is the charming single "Radio Head"?), and instead of the delightful "Mommy, Daddy, You and I" (casting Byrne, like "Found a Job" a decade earlier, as a punk-rock Shel Silverstein) or bracing "The Democratic Circus," Naked offers the weightless, inconsequential "Mr. Jones," whose Muzak trumpets seem only to serve the worst prejudices about what's wrong with Naked.

If side projects (mostly excellent ones, which put them in an unusual position) and a dooming sense of impending repetition seem to have hurt Talking Heads, and if Sand in the Vaseline fails to give serious lie to the concept, it also offers a counterargument in the form of "Sax and Violins," a holdover from the Naked sessions ultimately completed and used for Wim Wenders' Until the End of the World in 1991 that suggests both everything the final album could and should have been, and the splendidly evocative direction they might have taken if not for the now-crippling acrimony that destroyed them the year this compilation was issued. It integrates its West African influences and international army of musicians with a sense of beauty and assurance almost entirely missing from Naked, the best moments of which are its simplest; on "Sax and Violins," the Heads reacquaint themselves with the sound of mass unification that made Stop Making Sense such a moving experience -- people gather to play and chant and sing in the service of a simple romantic message. That is the notion of Talking Heads I wish could've lived into the '90s, and it seems as though they were conscious of this, only a bit too late -- just a tantalizingly tiny bit too late. (And not that anyone remembers, but "Sax and Violins" was also a surprisingly sizable radio hit.)

The chronology of all this is hard to suss out, but before David Byrne's bandmates learned of their breakup from an interview in a newspaper, they managed to finish a new song that's included here. The very last Talking Heads track completed, "Gangster of Love" uses some interesting sampling techniques (integrating a drum loop from the Remain in Light period) but is little more than a loopy slow-jam in the end that fails to go much of anywhere despite its infectious bassline and ghostly backing vocals. It's not nearly the soaring, disarming swansong "Sax and Violins" could've been.

Though newly released as a single in 1992, "Lifetime Piling Up" -- a pandering new-song-for-a-best-of title if ever there was one -- is a Naked outtake and rises above that album's dregs only through Byrne's amusing lyrics and the celebratory, catchy chorus. Vaseline closes with the Speaking in Tongues reject "Popsicle," a fun and mildly sexy bit of radio pop that was overhauled to become "Walk It Down" on Little Creatures -- but one wishes they'd found a way to appropriate Byrne's fantastic "gimme gimme gimme" and "summertime, boy" hooks someplace, as they sound like they belong on your FM dial.

Sand in the Vaseline deserves high praise for one thing, surely: the best liner notes for any release I've ever bought. Good Lord, they're fantastic. Lavishly and cleverly illustrated with picture sleeves, bootlegs, rare band photographs, and, especially unmissable, a bombastic anonymous note sent to the band in the mid-'70s, the two booklets contain interesting band comments for every track. Plus, each member of the band contributes an essay, all funny and observant, with only Byrne's drug rant seeming a bit aloof, and he makes up for it with a "Talking Heads FAQ" almost as deadpan funny as his promotional "David Byrne Interviews David Byrne" featurette. This package was obviously a labor of love, twice as impressive for a band that had just called it quits.

Again, although I think the Heads would be better served with a simpler way in, I'd consider this an essential package (much better than the Rhino boxed set), and you will fall in love with the band; I certainly did. If you love them already, you need "Sax and Violins" and "I Want to Live," and the other new ones out of sheer curiosity. Plus those goddamn booklets, seriously. Troll your local used bins now.

[Heavily expanded from a review posted at d-b.com in 2004.]

[SEE ALSO:]
Bonus Rarities & Outtakes (1975-92)