Any Trouble: Where Are All the Nice Girls? (1980)

(Stiff)

!! CAUTION !!

So many "promising young" white Power Pop bands sprang up in the early '80s in the wake of New Wave and New Paisley and whatever else, the only way you can keep up is to take a trip to your local record store's $1 bin and keep a list in your thinkpiece notebook. Why is it that so many of them seem more than vaguely sexist? Assuming the Knack with their disgusting tomfoolery as being the tip of the iceberg, here we have "promising young" songwriter Clive Gregson dripping condescension in even just the LP title. But why should I depress you. Any Trouble was recommended to me, given my Big Star leanings and somewhat less strong (at the time, now almost nonexistent) power pop leanings, and I've always been tempted to write it off based on the girl-baiting Men's Rights shit in the title alone.

But on a preliminary listen to this record, it seemed hard to dismiss it, which in its way is even more unfortunate. Because yes, Gregson can write a great melody. That's how they get you into their apartments, these power pop dudes. "Why don't girlz like me, I can write MELODIES." This record's "Second Chance" is a pretty impressive one, white reggae new-wave riffing and all, so is the lilting "Foolish People," and there are others too. There's variance in the writing more than in the clipped, highly compressed and dry-as-all-hell sound, very much of the time, but there is variance, more at least than on the Knack's records. Any Trouble aspire to a slightly more high-minded context: Elvis Costello is everywhere, especially on the opener "Yesterday's Love" (though Costello'd never allow such awkwardly pseudo-confessional lyrics), and it's only fair to point out that a litany of critics have called Gregson out on more or less aping Joe Jackson. (It may or may not be relevant that I enjoy both Costello and Jackson far less than I feel I'm probably supposed to; they're both great writers but seem unreasonably smug to me as performers. We will no doubt be reevaluating both in the context of this blog at some point.)

Early on, Gregson's desperate verbosity is sort of charming and a good fit with the relaxed band atmosphere, giving songs like "Playing Bogart" an interesting, oddball intensity and drama. But then he starts singing, uh, "expressively" and the results are a little contrived and a lot sexist, as he's chosen his most impassioned numbers to be the ones that reveal his true colors: "The way that girls act is a problem to me / Everything they do is to bring misery." Uh... huh. And later, there's a song called "Girls Are Always Right," and you can probably gather how sincere that shit is.

The tunes on the back half all sound basically the same; the slow ones are dimly-lit-toolshed-housed-by-angry-fedora-wearer death, the fast ones are insufferable "smart" "pop." Melodic or not, Gregson's idea of a hook turns out to be perpetually annoying and endless repetition of things like "the heat THE HEAT the HEAT the heat THE heat" or "oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh," and this after it initially seemed like a fun feature that the songs had no space between them and began to seem to run into one another. So: a lot of ugliness in such a tiny package, but if you like this sort of thing, I guess go for it?

One-sentence reviews #7

Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Mosquito
(Interscope)

!! CAUTION !!
Karen, are you okay? :(

***

Lisa Germano
No Elephants
(Badman)

Like a dead-quiet Nicolas Jaar or Owen Pallett with much more baggage of history (she's been getting quieter and quieter since '92 or thereabouts), but nothing here sticks to me; it does sound pleasingly weird on headphones, though.

***

Iron & Wine
Ghost on Ghost
(Nonesuch)

!! CAUTION !!
or, Dork Diaries: Selections from the Not-So-Great American Songbook; the last blow-wad major label debut record was like outtakes from his Sub Pop period, this is like stuff he'd have discarded before the tape started rolling then, but I guess there are mouths to feed, the only reasonable justification for how freaking far this guy's fallen.

Big Star: Third / Sister Lovers (1978)

(PVC [orig] / Rykodisc [reissue; horrendous cover not pictured])

!!! A+ RECORDING !!!

[Review is based on the fourteen principal tracks on the Rykodisc edition; nobody in the universe knows how this record's actually supposed to be sequenced but I tend to prefer the PVC edition, only with the sides reversed.]

It was an accident. Sister Lovers was created by a disillusioned man, his faith lost in the "bottom line" mentality that had engulfed his life's work. It is thrown out with little care for how it sounds, almost no concern for the final product or for order and sense. It is a mental breakdown on record... and its beauty is harrowing, shattering, something everyone must hear. The record has no real title, no sequence, no definitive track selection. Stax went under and nobody wanted to release it. The final product, surfacing in some form four years after it was recorded, is a haunting discovery that never leaves you.

This music is different from #1 Record and Radio City in absolutely every sense. The energy and pop appeal of those records has disappeared along with Chilton's enthusiasm. Like the Beach Boys' Smiley Smile, it feels like an abortion, and it is, but the magnificence of it just underneath the surface outweighs almost anything else in rock music for seduction and grace. It leaves you feeling that you have witnessed an elegy, for much more than the disintegration of a band... maybe more like a dream. Sister Lovers, mildly surreal and sonically off-kilter, sounds precisely like a dream, by turns nightmare and fantasy, never close to linear. No effort has been made to knock the songs into perfect shape to tantalize the listener, the trademark perhaps of Chilton's songwriting. This material is ragged and gloriously so... it doesn't take the easy way out, but it pulls you into its web and won't let go.

For all his unrest, Alex Chilton -- alone on this record as a disintegrating duo with drummer Jody Stephens -- always rocked with the utmost confidence, but his quicker songs here share the remainder's obsessive feeling of things-falling-apart. He's half-insane on "Kizza Me," his vocals screeched out as he's surrounded with completely extraneous piano and strings. "You Can't Have Me" attempts a "Don't Lie to Me" that sinks quickly into Jim Dickinson's reeling bed of sound, soon obscured by the elements. The dissonance is ultimately impressive, but not until after it's just strangely addictive.

The climax of the dissonance is in the record's most vital track, "Kanga Roo," a theater of paranoid soundscapes that sinks you into a universe of its own, confusing and gorgeous and bizarre and ethereal and riveting. Opening with a squeal of feedback, the song is a ghost with a bag of erotic tricks, the instruments obeying no melodic rules from a random drumbeat, the noises bouncing off the walls from all directions before Chilton's fragile voice arrives speaking in tongues. "You didn't say excuse / Knew what I was doing / We looked very fine / As we were leaving." The lyrics are poetry of the unconscious, the words of a dream that is deeply moving for reasons we cannot explain. For all his cynicism at this point, Chilton had never sacrificed himself so totally to the music before this. He has created a unique moment that startles, surprises, taunts, and ultimately comforts. It's one of the most brilliant and fascinating rock songs ever recorded.

And what does it take to conjure up something like this? Is Chilton's bitterness responsible for the subdued, magnificent insanity of "Kanga Roo" and Sister Lovers as a whole? How much can this possibly be a rejection of pop-music values when it is so impressive and, looked upon today, such a signature moment for it? The hardened creature we see here is no longer reaching out so unconditionally; he is not creating "September Gurls" or "Back of a Car" or anything so easy on the ear, and I don't think it's because those were difficult songs to write. It is not wholly unreasonable to see the sound of Sister Lovers as a result of Chilton's distress at his band's lack of success, but at the same time, its style is a linear progression from the slightly off-kilter Radio City in the same respects that the second LP went farther than the first. It was, after all, Chris Bell whose life and dreams were all poured into #1 Record and who was devastated almost beyond help when it was not a success. (Perhaps appropriately, Sister Lovers contains a tribute to another pop-music exile with a cover of "Femme Fatale.") One natural conclusion from the buried, unkempt beauty of these songs (except "Stroke It Noel," which buries nothing) is that they are not designed at all to shock a listener with disarray. Chilton is not a psychological loss; he is just hardened, and he will make lovely music but he will not give an inch. The listener must do some work of their own to uncover the power here, and that makes the songs all the more rewarding. It is in this sense that the album's disorganization makes it even more magical.

There is something appealing about the haphazard nature of some selections, but it would be unfair to cite this as a trait of the entire album. A great deal of work obviously went into elaborate productions such as "For You," a song by Jody Stephens that amounts to pop perfection and doesn't really even sound uncommercial at all, even for 1974 (or 1978). Nonetheless, a feeling of vast loss is palpable; nobody who could come up with the solemn "Big Black Car" could be thrilled with the world. That's, of course, to say nothing of "Holocaust."

"Holocaust" is one of the most unworldly, hopeless cuts in the annals of recorded rock music. No forgiveness here, and no pleasure -- "Your mother's dead / She said 'don't be afraid' / Your mother's dead / You're on your own / She's in her bed." The bleak, naked piano-driven meditation evokes John Lennon's primal-scream Plastic Ono Band. It feels as if there is no way out. Then comes the fragmented "Kanga Roo" and the world falls into place. More than a remarkable feat of production and songwriting, it's awkwardly, audaciously romantic.

Speaking of which, Bell had populated the second half of #1 Record with sweet, quiet ballads assuring his place as a master of his craft. Chilton has his own collection of acoustic popcraft on Sister Lovers -- "Nightime" is one of his most enormously affecting songs, beautiful and desperate with lyrics eloquent enough to stand up to the astonishing melody, and "Blue Moon" is as fragile as a Nick Drake cut and even more emotionally exhilarating... its production as note-perfect in its quiet, sad romance as "Mod Lang" was in its own fast-paced agenda. These gentle cuts are never simplistic; Chilton always bites as much as he croons, but you are still ready to surrender by the end of both.

It is "Stroke It Noel," however, which provides the album's must humbling grace, and it's one of the prettiest songs in anyone's catalog. Just over two minutes in length, its every second devoted to sheer magic, the strings and singing and silent suggestion of a dance swooning along with (most assuredly) the listener. Nobody has captured this so perfectly and unpretentiously; far away from the dirge of "Holocaust" is this song that exhibits Chilton's boyish enthusiasm and joy, his untouchable lyricism adorning a song of indescribably affectionate elegance. This track alone would make Big Star worth knowing and loving.

But there's more astounding pop alchemy, even if the evocative subtlety reaches its peak with "Noel" and "Roo." "Jesus Christ" is bliss, "O Dana" is joyful, teasing anger, both wrapped up in overwhelming packages... but never tidy ones. The songs stack up seemingly at random, yes, but in whatever order, they add up to so much. It is all accidental transcendence, but that's what all pop music ought to be. Chilton is doing his best even if he no longer feels that there is a purpose; it's only a bonus that he is a master of his craft.

Even with such a tiny following, Big Star never stopped caring about their audience, never stooping to insult them or careening overhead to perplex them. This is music for the people, so no wonder they were bitter about not being noticed. But they were always charged with love. "Thank You Friends" might be ironic but it doesn't matter now; it sounds like truth, and it's just what we (and they) need(ed). And "Take Care" is a landmark of supreme vitality, a band given the rare chance to say goodbye knowing they meant it, possibly knowing it wouldn't mean much to anybody but them for a good while. It means the world now; "Take Care" is a steady waltz that welcomes as much as it leaves behind. It's a final message from pioneers who got scalped and a songwriter with so much to provide. This album might be the best present any rock band has ever given. Take it, and enjoy.

[Originally written and posted in 2004 at my old website.]

[SEE ALSO:]
Keep an Eye on the Sky (1970-74)
#1 Record (1972)
Radio City (1973)

The Strokes: Comedown Machine (2013)

(RCA)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

"I love the new Strokes record" is not a sentence I ever expected to utter again in my life; you know how much I enjoy differing with conventional wisdom but I have to follow along with the rock masses in alleging that the Strokes have virtually defined the Law of Diminishing Returns for the new millennium. I bought fully into the hype of the band in 2001, tried to pretend I hadn't in 2002, secretly adored their hyped-up-until-kersplat sophomore record in 2003, and everything since then has been, well, to use a phrase that was much less loaded back then, "complicated." The band's mythology has been second only to Interpol's in the NYC-scenester hall of shame. They had it all: outsized egos for no apparent reason (they've never enjoyed the kind of commercial success that their press savvy would suggest), lengthy profiles that made it sound as if they wanted to slit one another's throats, and a weird sense of drugged-out empty promises and post-lust haze.

When I rediscovered Is This It at the close of the last decade, it seemed suddenly clear to me that there would have been no widely acceptable way to follow it, but there was something admirable in the way this workhorse just kept at it. Combine the front-loaded First Impressions of Earth and the even more front-loaded Angles and you can come up with a decent if bizarrely sickly party record, but the writing seemed to be on the wall; frankly, I dreaded hearing Comedown Machine, fully expecting a harshly ugly contract-fulfillment piece of early-onset dad rock & roll. Following their weird discovery of early-'80s bargain bin power pop and New Romantic records, we seemed in for the Strokes to join their indie rock brethren and start trying to ape the soft rock titans of their new favorite decade. In between veiled insults, the next Julian Casablancas interview would surely include something about Tom Petty being his "savior."

I don't know what happened instead. It's hard to get a handle on it because Comedown Machine is such a pure burst of pleasure almost from start to end, but while the Strokes time machine train ride through the 1980s continues with their evident acquisition of a copy of So, some hung-over Eurodisco and whatever the fuck inspired that vocoder bit on "Happy Ending," they are suddenly playing with a dedication that is entirely new to them, and a sense of spirited songcraft that has been absent from their work for at least the past decade. It's as though they suddenly started to care, and the paltry reaction to Angles seems, if anything, to have helped; they are back from the dead, and freed at last from the curse of expectations, the grappling for what was never really theirs to begin with: a wisp of a moment that passed before they could harness it in all the ash and regret of 2001.

The liberated Strokes aren't wholly different from the neo-Strokes of Was That It? that have generated three records now. "50/50" is a brief burst of what I'd consider status quo give-the-people-what-they-want sans early vitality, and the first single from this is just as completely terrible as the first single from Angles: "All the Time," easily this record's worst selection, sounds almost comically tired (and bears a curious resemblance to an early unreleased R.E.M. song called "Mystery to Me," but that's neither here nor there). Like Interpol these days! But we also have here evidence that this band, never personality-driven enough to begin with to tempt us to try and "grow up" with them (like say, R.E.M.), has learned how to age gracefully now. In all the busy riffage of "'80s Comedown Machine," there is a lively and romantic... calm? It's nearly indescribable, but it's transcendent in its effortlessness like early '70s Stones, or New Adventures in Hi-Fi or the National -- the kind of rock music that manages to spin fascination and heavy emotion from shades of gray.

That makes Comedown Machine sound less lively and exciting than it is. I love it on headphones (the way I fell hard for Room on Fire), but I love it while driving at night -- can it be that this band's non-flukish calling is a nocturnal new wave that's here allowed to shine? You can make the case easily with "One Way Trigger," an actually unusual and sensual piece of alternative-ish rock, a truly rare thing today; it's a striking contrast of seduction and manic energy and puts an end to years of mediocre lead performances by Julian Casablancas. His falsetto on this brash pop concoction is great. No, really. He puts it into better service yet on "Slow Animals," a calm slow-burn nest of a groove that shows verifiable songwriting growth from this band. The hook is subtle, well-crafted and actually dances atop itself, allowing them (especially Casablancas) to get lost in themselves for the first time in what seems like eons. They've never seemed less self-conscious, and the resulting song is true magic -- their best in ten years, perhaps longer if you don't love "What Ever Happened" as much as I do.

A distinctive feature of both "Slow Animals" and the splendid "Welcome to Japan" is not merely their more assured grooves, compared to tracks on Angles that attempted similar bigness and glitter, but the Strokes' ability to ride them to their logical conclusions and continually discovering new places to take the song, a contrast to their formula of presenting the entire layout for a given track in the first ten seconds with little variance. "Japan" boasts a tricky, intricate chorus even if you can't ignore lyrics like "what kind of asshole drives a Lotus?" as well as most listeners probably will. Its virtues apply to the full record: it's danceable and rollicking, sure, but more than that it's purely lovely -- an evolution beyond the gimmickry of Angles that feels something like, uh, maturity (the good kind).

It's not a contradiction, it's juggling. In that regard, we have the direct and personal, catchy "Partners in Crime" that swims in vulnerability but also swagger; the sheen of calmness on opener "Tap Out" that sets it apart instantly, while the vocals themselves are able to impart a sense of urgency in their weird soulfulness, a weight Casablancas would once upon a time have been reluctant to carry. Is the freedom of leaving a big label really this persuasive, and has it ever before prompted a group to discover so many new capabilities? After all these years, it's like they're only now realizing their full potential. Clearly some folks will be put off by the rampant cheeriness and vocal layering and whatnot, but there are so many towering pieces of pure joy here so fuck the old logic that image problems matter. Maura Johnston wrote that she believed she enjoyed this record because she never bought into the Strokes' mythos in the beginning; I did, at an age when I unwisely believed the best thing a young band could do was sound as much as possible like old bands I really dug. But this still lands for me.

And what's the big secret the Strokes have abruptly stumbled upon? Well, that they're a BAND! Creatively restless and adventurous, enough so to cook up a kooky song like "Call It Faith, Call It Karma" that's playful but not up its own ass, sounding like it could've played in the strip-boat sequence in Beasts of the Southern Wild. All the more fascinatingly, they're a really excellent band that can do things their peers often cannot. On "Chances," they commit cardinal sins: initially it sounds like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, not a big stretch for obvious reasons, with a shade of spaced-out grimy mid-'90s nightclub, then there's some impeccably crafted but highly odd Berlin / Mr. Mister thing that happens and it's earned and playful and fun, not intolerable like so many sinister soft-rock revivalist moments in the recent history of "indie." The thesis? Through hard work and trial and error, they've developed and have learned how to make their various obsessions and musical hangups work for them, and how to turn them all into something distinctive but broadly appealing. The happiest possible ending, only I now hope it's not an ending -- when mere weeks ago I swore this would be the last time I ever checked out a new Strokes album. Nope!

[SEE ALSO:]
Angles (2011)

Fat Boys: All Meat No Filler (1984-89)

(Rhino)

RECOMMENDED

It was always the job of other people to take the Fat Boys seriously, never their own. Like the Shangri-Las or Jerry Lee Lewis at his earliest and wildest, their conviction was the ruthless pursuit of purportedly mindless fun, the carnal and the corpulent; it fell to others after the fact to read the group's innovation, cleverness and their sense of cut-loose pure joy. The gimmick of Prince Markie Dee, Kool RockSki and the late great Human Beat Box, Darren Robinson, called to mind that sequence in Spartacus when Charles Laughton and Peter Ustinov sit down to discuss the great joys of gluttony. There's a certain novel frivolity in all this, but musically, the group is serious business.

The most consistent material on this enjoyable if somewhat padded out compilation comes from the Fat Boys' landmark first album, several veritable classics of old-school hip hop: "Fat Boys," "Human Beatbox," "Can You Feel It," and the massive "Jail House Rap." But the peaks in the trio's later work reach even higher: "All You Can Eat" is a binge-eating throwdown for the ages, "The Fat Boys Are Back" boasts the wickedest groove here, with "Falling in Love" a piece of grandly self-effacing storytelling worthy of Dana Dane or Slick Rick. Like so many first-generation rap artists, the band loses their integrity as the years weigh on them, though never their enthusiasm; there's something sort of charming about the Beach Boys collaboration "Wipeout" and the awkward deconstruction of "Louie Louie" (try not to love this couplet: "it caused a big-ass rumble / they thought it was filthy, cause the lyrics were mumbled") even if both are sort of terrible. The affability of all three Boys and Robinson in particular is unflagging and makes this hit-and-miss collection a lot of fun even at its worst.

Robinson's beatboxing is wild to experience, even now, squeaking and chopping and screwing and scratching with supernatural rhythm; the prime takeaway is the essence of real artistry. His confidence and self-assertion cannot shrink away other insecurities, but his steely control of his skill makes its own statement. Those same insecurities become something to both mock and celebrate across the rest of the record, although one bristles at realizing how gendered all this is; it's unlikely that a group of Fat Girls would find mainstream acceptance for embracing their own body issues -- as the Boys, or Biggie, or Big Pun all managed to do.

These singles are very much of their time and you have to crane your neck at times to hear the vitality in them. It's probably a good idea to stick to the Fat Boys' individual albums, but this gives you a decent idea of what made them so instantly appealing, even as you cringe at pseudo-Ray Parker "Are You Ready for Freddy" or "The Twist (Yo, Twist)"... and, to be less charitable, the blatant Run-DMC cribbing of "Don't Be Stupid" and "In the House." Still, personality bursts through on this music so much that you can't help liking them even when you don't particularly like where they're putting their talent. The unceasingly wonderful sound of early hip hop is rejuvenating in any context, regardless.

The Complete Ann Peebles on Hi Records, Vol. 1 (1969-73)

(Demon)

RECOMMENDED

One of a number of soul singers of her period who was talented, consistently good on record, had a hell of a voice both literally and as a songwriter, and even enjoyed a bit of mainstream success but has lapsed into semi-obscurity with the passing decades, Ann Peebles was known primarily to me for two reasons: her biggest hit "I Can't Stand the Rain" was sampled on Missy Elliott's mindblowing 1997 single "Da Rain," one of the songs that got me seriously interested in hip hop; and she was performing on the night that John Lennon got kicked out of the Troubador for wearing a maxi pad on his head. Not coincidentally, Lennon cited "I Can't Stand the Rain" as the finest record ever made. I don't know if he's right, but he's not wrong, if that makes sense.

This exhaustive compilation may not be the best introduction to Peebles' work. While everything it encompasses is listenable, I have to imagine that Peebles works better in shorter, more urgent doses. These two discs gather a wealth of the St. Louis native's work in what is unquestionably one of the best periods of soul music: 1969 to 1973. It's reviewed here specifically because it was the only Peebles item I could easily find when I was trying to learn more about her; now I can and probably eventually will dig for her albums or a more conventional compilation on one of the streaming services. But don't let that sound like muted praise for Peebles herself or her body of work -- there are a lot of songs here that work great for mixes, for DJing, for bursts of pleasure. They just don't all stack together necessarily without wearing out their welcome, and because this is a complete chunk of her discography, you get limp covers of "Rescue Me" and "Chain of Fools" and "Respect" probably intended as b-sides or to be buried on records. There's also a strange tune about a generation gap within a relationship, which is... strange, though not altogether in a bad way. (Note that I'm resisting the obvious Woody Allen joke.)

Hi Records was one of the centers of the world in soul music in the early '70s, in part but not entirely because it was the home of Al Green at the time; though it's never been as appreciated as the Stax or Motown style, there was a distinctive sound to the Hi recordings, and that's audible and intensely delightful on this nearly two-hour set. The horns on "Part Time Love" and "I'll Get Along" have that crunchy stop-start lilt while the rhythm section plods through an immaculately minimal groove and you keep expecting "Let's Stay Together" or "I'm Still in Love with You" to kick up. It's no fair to compare Peebles or anyone else to Green, but it's interesting that her creative arrangement of the Memphis sound puts her in a wholly different position to her peer's; whereas he deliberately commands and places himself in front of the band, Peebles seems to see herself as a more democratic member of the troupe and, skilled and impressive though her voice is, exchanges direct call and response with the other instruments and never attempts to assert herself as the untouchable center. And given what seems to have been an unusual level of creative control, this was almost assuredly intentional.

You can place either of these discs on as background and enjoy yourself, although again the length will leave you reaching up to vary things a bit, but the second is far stronger than the first. Nearly all of the songs are solid, with very few merely serviceable. A more streamlined singles collection would likely up the consistency; the individual standouts leap out in your direction here. Opener "Give Me Some Credit" certainly qualifies as a statement of purpose, as bold and flooring as all those Marvin Gaye sets that open with "Stubborn Kind of Fellow." The vicious late '60s groove on "Credit" is the perfect stage to set for Peebles' voice, already perfectly formed and nuanced and clear as bell, flipping wildly between tough and vulnerable, speaking and singing, singing and singing like something depends on it. Maybe it did; she seldom sounds so excited elsewhere, and her reputation as rather a dour and bleak figure isn't wholly unjustified. It's the brilliant band performance that sticks out on the ringing, alternately bottom-heavy and feather-light funk on "It's Your Thing," despite the prowess of Peebles and the backing vocalists. She only seems to cut as loose as her backers at the end, when she emits a marvelously gentle echo of Aretha Franklin's version of "Respect" -- "sockittome sockittome," she nearly whispers.

Not for nothing does Peebles seem most at home on ballads -- the lovely slow-jams "Won't You Try Me" and particularly "Troubles, Heartaches and Sadness" are easy choices for your next second-chance prom (though even the pure sap of "Until You Came into My Life" is agreeable), and they've got nothing on the goddamn sick-beyond-all-definition "I've Been There Before." This song, the emotional peak of the collection, opens with "Did you ever have to sit there and watch them holding hands?" and whether you have or haven't, you feel like you have when this thing gets in your bones. The concoction is a delicate one: slippery guitar in the fashion of Smokey Robinson's "Tracks of My Tears," and a plodding, incredibly tense drum pattern. In a sense it's just like a hundred other R&B ballads, but in another it's fully singular -- it just has that kind of immediacy and ideal fusion of performance and composition.

Maybe part of Peebles' charm is how tentatively she comes around to a swaggering moment like her "yeh" on "Part Time Love," but as the years wear on, some of her best material finds her in rock & roll badass mode, like the delicious "I Feel Like Breaking Up Somebody's Home," which I'm thrilled to report is nearly as good as its title, and the towering, brutal "I'm Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down," which some say is better than "I Can't Stand the Rain," though I'm not among them. By "I Pity the Fool," Peebles has fully come into her own as both soul singer and pop professional. Which I suppose is a cry out for me to investigate Vol. 2.

But as for "I Can't Stand the Rain," it truly stands above all else here. Like some sort of alien creation, it sounds as surreal and incongruous here as in any other context, and must have been outrageous on the radio. It has the feel of a world-shaker like "Strawberry Fields Forever" or "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" -- some twisted thing that, even if not truly "new," has never been done in quite this way before. It comes down to nothing more than romantic yearning, but what else is there? And that wet, fishy tap-tap percussion that bursts in like a transmission from parts unknown, weirdly reminiscent of the bizarre percussion Phil Spector used on Lennon's "Instant Karma!", is a stroke of genius that can't likely be explained away rationally. Like Screamin' Jay Hawkins or John Cale, Peebles here shows herself to be fearlessly inventive in adapting strange ideas to a pop idiom, even if fleetingly.

Further research required, then? Unquestionably. I feel I'll be able to evaluate Peebles' work and career with clearer eyes by seeking out her work in shorter form, at which point I have little doubt she'll join the list of my favorite singers of her period. For now: go find her, listen to her, enjoy her great music, but maybe go a different route than I did.

Depeche Mode: Delta Machine (2013)

(Columbia)

As a construction and in pleasurable (non-)effect, every Depeche Mode album since, uh, let's say the departure of Alan Wilder has been essentially the same. Look no further for a case in point than the end of their latest mildly successful return to the well: closing track "Goodbye" is more or less a remake of every closing track from every Depeche Mode release. It even references "Clean" directly. Talking of in-between years, these titans have been on a rather strict four-year release and tour and side project and vacation model, and this workhorse of a band cannot ever be accused of being inconsistent. They're a devoted bunch, and it's pleasing in a way that you can count on certain things every post-election year since George Bush, Sr. lost: Dave Gahan excitedly racing up the steps with the results of his latest vocal lessons, Martin Gore pretending to care about "riffs" for a while, Andy Fletcher doing whatever it is he does (planning the vacations?), Anton Corbijn designing very Anton Corbijny cover art, and Flood onboard as a "mixer." I have no quarrel with Mode's presence in the marketplace; I'm glad they're still around and clearly enjoying what they do, and finding it profitable and rewarding. But consistency is no guarantee of inspiration, and after a three-decade run of albums that were at least interesting, this is the closest they've come to a dud. But it's a respectable dud.

It's not a weak effort because it's absent of the revelatory punch of Exciter or Playing the Angel, for even in relatively lackluster moments like Ultra and Sounds of the Universe, the band was always admirably ambitious. Significantly, beginning with Angel the band has added another major voice to its reliable fold: that of producer Ben Hillier, a programmer reared on classic DM singles who faithfully pursued the essence of the band's darkest and most beautiful noises on his first two records with them. Even at their best, though, one distressing trend since Hillier came aboard has been the group's sacrifice of any semblance of innovation. Their records still explore trends in modern dance music -- there's even a touch of dubstep here, kind of -- but post-Wilder, it seems always to have been in the guise of following rather than leading.

Nevertheless: the diminishing returns of Delta Machine, which sadly now crystallize what seems to be a trend (and we won't get to prove it's not for another four years), are not Hillier's problem. Those, by the way, are diminishing returns both in light of Sounds of the Universe and, more significantly, the way it sounds a little dumber and limper each time you spin it -- this from a band whose intricacies were once enough that we could fill C-90s with consistently weird and entertaining remixes. But no, it's surely a question of songwriting. Yet again, Gore is sharing the stage in this respect with Dave Gahan, whose great test here is contributing the all-important first single. The first single of a given Depeche Mode LP is, I don't have to tell you, a big deal in their world -- it seldom bears much relation to the "sound" of the album but, from "Personal Jesus" onward, has been designed to lay down a sort of "we're back" gauntlet. How depressing that "Heaven" is probably the weakest first single from a Depeche Mode album, uh, ever, assuming we're not counting the turgid "Martyr," which was issued to promote a compilation. It sounds like latter-day R.E.M., of all things, incredibly plodding and all too willing to let its sort-of-competent melody slide down the hill into nothingness.

Gahan's other tune in the first half is no more auspicious. "Secret to the End" yearns, just yearns to connect, but its hook is just too weak -- the entire record almost seems determined at times to shirk pleasure in favor of, frankly, a dismal musical nihilism, something that was a little fresher in 1993 when Songs of Faith and Devotion attempted it. Faith and Devotion, although it consists of some wonderful songs, nearly derailed the band with its irksome self-seriousness and rockist flogging, but I'd never have called it a blot on the resume, which that "shoulda been you" refrain assuredly is. Vocally and otherwise, Gahan seems completely beholden to his desire to imitate big-brother Martin; why? His tunes on Playing the Angel were magnificent, and I don't know what happened after that.

We should be gentle with Gahan, though, for Gore's often no better here -- neither Hillier's tweaks nor Gahan's perfectly capable singing can rescue something so draggy as "Slow." I coulda sworn they already had a song called this (was thinking of "Slowblow," maybe?) and moreover that it sounded just like this; it's verging on self-parody with its hamhanded pseudo-sensuality, and the lyrics give the impression of being lifted from a volume of unpublished erotica by Jack Prelutsky. But at least "Slow" is a shit track through and through -- what's more tragic is "Broken," a clear attempt to reconnect with the fanbase that has actual propulsion but then... alas, one-chord wonder, no hook.

It's entirely possible that the band and Gore's entire purpose with this project was to sink into themselves and issue something that gave no real concessions to the audience, but it's hard to have fun listening to something like that -- and I actually do listen to this band to enjoy myself; they may have been reputed for years to be outlandishly depressing, but in fact their peak work was witty and sexy. It's unreasonable to ask a thirty-three year old band to match their peak period, I realize, but I don't think all this dour lily-fingered indus-pop is the best use of their talents, aged or not.

There has yet to be a Depeche Mode record that I didn't enjoy in part. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Delta Machine has any hidden gems, but it does have a few cuts decent enough to fit well in the library. I like Martin Gore's center-stage piece "The Child Inside," another weird weightless thing like "When the Body Speaks" and a bit of a treat as such. It still seems more like b-side material, and I'm unnerved by the weird popping sound in the right channel, but it shows off a less blankly macho kind of weirdness that I appreciate. (Are we still facing the consequences for Dave Gahan's lost grunge weekend in the mid-'90s?) "Soft Touch/Raw Nerve" is some ridiculous garbage, a totally tasteless jock jam that sounds more than slightly like something the justifiably forgotten alt-rock band Filter would've formed into a mild hit, but it actually picks up a groove and turns it all the way around and is uncharacteristic enough to be a pleasing novelty slash pop concoction. The second single "Soothe My Soul" is sort of cute; it reminds me of ZZ Top! But my favorite cut is also the bounciest, at least as bouncy as this rattle-bones gets, and was intriguingly also written by Gahan: "Should Be Higher" boasts another silly chorus and gives a priceless mental image of Gahan leaping to reach a high microphone and belting out one clause at a time, but the bridge is cool and the tune is a fine fake backwoods stomper that favorably recalls Talking Heads' "Swamp."

Hillier, again, has a good handle on what sounds complement these voices well. But he can't do much except go with the flow in terms of songwriting, so now all his up-to-the-moment wizardry is in service of some dirgelike stuff. As a consequence, the recordings are tricky and playful but have no real bite or magic, something that was ominously but only slightly suggested on Sounds of the Universe. There are tweaky charms to spare on "My Little Universe" but it's annoying and breathy and, really, just another half-song musically. "Alone" is the quintessential example of Hillier's helplessness; it has enthusiasm in its pound pound pound pound glitter, but it's for naught -- there's no air in it, and the melody has only a wisp of presence.

By far the most tiresome change that's overtaken Depeche Mode's music post-Wilder has been one that initially seemed like an asset -- Dave Gahan, once rock's most famous deadpan, is now a technically quite impressive singer. But he and Gore both got the blues, and it's lethal. The increasing histrionics in Gahan's voice and Gore's songwriting as they both fall in love with Mississippi John Hurt and John Lee Hooker records is both charmingly weird and an ever-increasing blight on their hallowed dance music legacy. Because they just can't pull this shit off, man. "John the Revelator" was a great single back in 2005, but it should not have been the beginning of an ever-deepening fixation that the group can't properly carry beyond a vaguely reductive novelty. I suppose I don't have to tell you what the Delta of the title comes to imply, right? The tip of the iceberg here is "Angel," one of the most tragically bad songs in the catalog; it's maxed out electro-blues that sound like an Atari game set in an acne-faced programmer's stereotyped impressions of "the Bayou." Haven't we done this before? Yeah, you could argue it reaches all the way back to "Personal Jesus," but it's getting worse, man. The Blind David Gahan shtick has got to go, guys. It makes you sound luuuudicrous.

Even apart from the blooze problem, which is honestly the sort of thing that rock bands have struggled with longer than most of us have been alive, on the first moments of this record we have an intriguingly modernist Hillier backing track and then in comes Gahan to slather his sleazy choirboy thing all over "Welcome to My World." That song's a great mood piece, with a colorful build even if its hook doesn't really go anywhere... but Gahan's more than competent vocal is one of those that just seems like an ill fit to this group, this music. Something about all of his ever-increasing command of affected emotion seems actually less emotional than, you know, "Master and Servant" or "A Question of Time" or even "Precious," which retained an ideal balance of old barking Gahan and melodic troubadour. Hell, stay even closer; compare "Broken" to even something as recent as the sublimely menacing "Ghost." Better his croon than his gritty roar, but... I miss the sneer. I miss the guy who talked about how much happier he was stocking shelves in 101. Clearly that's no longer true; Gore has gone through a divorce, last I heard, and for all I know Gahan's personal life may be a mess, I don't really keep up with that stuff, but the three of them are clearly in just about the most perfect position you can be in within a pop music context. They don't have to record anything now, or tour, to secure their legacy and live comfortably, they choose to do so and if they just end up with an inconsequential mood piece, well, add it to the pile. These dudes have it made, and more power to them; they deserve it. But maybe that's what makes all this carefully cultivated pain and misery hard to swallow by now.

[SEE ALSO:]
Sounds of the Universe (2009)