Tim Simenon's Bomb the Bass pet project pumped some of the best acid house straight into late-'80s dance clubs. Best known stateside for the seminal "Beat Dis," similarly groundbreaking slow-beat club groove, and the Burt Bacharach cover "Say a Little Prayer," Simenon's brand of acid-laced rap and snappy sampling kept sweat flowing coast to coast. Unfortunately, by the time the band's second album appeared in 1991, Bomb the Bass was all but forgotten in the beginnings of the grunge backlash. However, the sonics have continued to percolate, hence the welcome appearance of the U.K. compilation Beat Dis: The Very Best Of, which serves up a healthy hodgepodge of hits and a neat tweak for aging ravers' long-lost brain cells. In no particular order, Beat Dis unravels 1988 through 1991, commencing with the 12" version of "Beat Dis" and ending with the absurdly short "Megamix," while hitting all the important points in between. First-wave favorites include the aforementioned "Say a Little Prayer" and "Shake It," while the 1991 incarnation weighs in mightily with "Dune Buggy Attack" and the British hit "Winter in July." An extra welcome bonus is the inclusion of the nearly metaphysical and ever so slightly menacing "The Air You Breathe," which emerges remarkably undated in comparison to some of the servings on offer. And, while it's true that heavy house and its culture are now tossed off as just another shallow moment in the increasingly angst-ridden musical scape, Beat Dis: The Very Best Of remains a potent portent of where the climate is probably headed in the endless turning of reinvention anyway. Besides, there's nothing fallow in a few great grooves
It may seem like a slightly boastful title, but Swagger is anything but an attitude-laden in-your-face rip, and all the better for it as well. By the time the Aeroplanes decided to take a chance on major-label existence, their combination of poetic ramalama and neo-guitar jangle and shake had been well established, so Swagger was, if anything, merely a polishing of the group's form rather than any radical leap. Gil Norton's production definitely has a pitch towards sounding good on the radio, but Langley's poems are still generally dead set against easy singalong, no matter how much the music lends itself to just that. His delivery is nonetheless quite attractive, and on songs like the lead single "World View Blue," his ruminative approach slips alongside the low-key grooves and guitar strums just so. When they want to, the Aeroplanes can turn up the heat, avoiding full-on sludge for a combination of electric force and quick, liquid playing. The complex melody line on "And Stones" and the exultant rush of "Love Come Round" are two instances of many. Bruschini, Allen, and Lee come up with any number of lovely melodies and performances throughout the record; to cite one instance of many, the descending chords on "Weightless" add a perfect drama to Langley's depiction of future shock. Allen himself takes the singing lead on "Careful Boy," a nice mandolin-touched piece. The core rhythm section of McCreeth and John Langley goes about its business well, adding in brief touches of flair or flash when needed. Echoes of the group's inspirations perhaps inevitably crop up -- a musical quote of "Sweet Jane" here, hints of the Byrds there -- but the one open source of inspiration used is a smart one. "The Applicant" sets one of Sylvia Plath's poems to music, Langley delivering the sharp lyrics with bite while the music keeps up the album's electric rush with style.
Arguably, nothing really changed from 101 Damnations to 30 Something; the Carter formula was already well-established, so the duo just kept right at it. The difference lies in -- whisper it -- a growing sophistication that fleshed out both sound and lyrics. That may seem deeply bemusing to those who will note the typical Carter trappings still running rampant: puns explode everywhere without restraint, musical and lyrical references creep in from the Clash and David Bowie to traditional football chants, and so forth. More than once a lack of context can be a problem to anyone not born in the sceptr'd isle -- a "Glasgow kiss" (as referred to in the title of "Sealed with A...," a harrowing picture of domestic abuse) is a fierce headbutting, not a smooch. But while there's that, and the still cheap-and-cheery sound of the band's keyboards, drum machines, and more, Carter as a band seem a little more comfortable in the studio here. The two are able to whip up their surging numbers to a higher level -- the group's stated fondness for Queen actually makes a little more sense here, while "Billy's Smart Circus" is flawless in its soaring, anthemic power. Meanwhile, their bluer moods get more gently evocative accompaniment, often addressing getting addicted to the bottle and the unfortunate results. Everything kicks off with a great one-two punch, like the nutty instrumental "Surfin' USM," which kicks off with a great snippet about what growing old really means, and "My Second to Last Will and Testament." This has Jim Bob settling affairs all around, down to organ donation: "They can take my lungs and kidneys/But my heart belongs to Daphne." Other strong cuts include th stomp of "Bloodsport for All," a bitter vivisection of Army racism, and the end-of-the-social-drama movie music and feel of "Falling on a Bruise."
The Icicle Works' self-titled debut as a whole is an excellent example of post-punk power and beauty. "Chop the Tree" alone is something of a lost classic, with Hugh Jones' note-perfect production, Sharrock's pounding, complex rhythm attack, and McNabb's exquisite singing providing one heck of a start. Indeed, McNabb here sounds like a clear precursor to singers like Neil Hannon of the Divine Comedy and the equal of the precise diction and passion of Edwyn Collins. When it comes to the hits, "Love Is a Wonderful Colour" is another prime vocal showcase, with a sparkling guitar/keyboard lead arrangement and a constantly shifting but never pointlessly show-off bass/drums pace. Frankly, the members of U2 must have wished they could be so emotional and so soaring at this point in their careers. As for "Birds Fly," the song stands as a joyous rave-up of quick drums and shimmering guitars with an inspiring, frenetic chorus tempered by a gentle, half-whispered conclusion. Further examples of the group's abilities crop up song for song: the amazing guitar break and serene conclusion of "Reaping the Rich Harvest," the clean crisp flow of "As the Dragonfly Flies" interrupted by a down and dirty guitar line, the soft pipe start to "Lovers' Day," and more. Concluding with the slow burn fire of "Nirvana," The Icicle Works is early-'80s U.K. rock at its considerable best.
Vaguely psychedelic and always atmospheric indie rock outfit the Coral hit the bulls eye on their Mercury nominated, full-length 2002 eponymous debut (they even got press across the pond), and through four more albums, all of which were at the very least decent, they earned themselves a respectable place in post-Brit-pop infamy. The Coral, like the Kaiser Chiefs, have always been more of a singles band, which makes the appropriately titled Singles Collection such a treat. The jangly '60s-inspired pop nuggets that graced the group's debut ("Dreaming of You," "Goodbye") still pack the most punch, but by cherry-picking tracks from later releases like Magic and Medicine ("Don't Think You're the First"), Invisible Invasion ("In the Morning"), and Roots & Echoes ("Put the Sun Back"), as well as including a whole second disc of singles and live tracks, they've managed to craft their most enjoyable release yet.
On the Delgados' third album, their dreamy, loose-limbed, and slightly folky pop music continues to mature, and their skill at songwriting is increasingly matched by a talent for orchestration. Some listeners will find this trend off-putting, but be patient: The horn section on "The Past That Suits You Best" may sound pretentious on first listen, but it sounds perfect by the third. Ditto for the time signature changes on "Accused of Stealing," which is also distinguished by guitarist Emma Pollock's delightfully plain-spoken vocals. "American Trilogy" is a pretty cringe-worthy song title, but the song is pretty enough and the strings are subtle. And on "No Danger," Alun Woodward has the good taste (and, probably, the ironic sensibility) to lift the melody from Kris Kristofferson's "Help Me Make It Through the Night." The album ends with a strong gesture: the minimalist "Make Your Move," on which Pollock sings a sweetly simple melody supported largely by piano, Dobro, and cello.
If there was a clear high point for OMD in terms of balancing relentless experimentation and seemingly unstoppable mainstream success in the U.K., Architecture & Morality is it. Again combining everything from design and presentation to even the title into an overall artistic effort, this album showed that OMD was arguably the first Liverpool band since the later Beatles to make such a sweeping, all-bases-covered achievement -- more so because OMD owed nothing to the Fab Four. All it takes is a consideration of the three smash singles from the album to see the group in full flower. "Souvenir," featuring Paul Humphreys in a quiet but still warm and beautiful lead role, eases in on haunting semi-vocal sighs before settling into its gentle, sparkling melody. The mid-song instrumental break, with its shifted tempos and further wordless calls, is especially inspired. "Joan of Arc," meanwhile, takes the drama of "Enola Gay" to new heights; again, wordless vocals provide the intro and backing, while an initially quiet melody develops into a towering heartbreaker, with Andy McCluskey and band in full flight. If that wasn't enough, the scenario was continued and made even more epic with "Maid of Orleans," starting with a quick-cut series of melancholic drones and shades before a punchy, then rolling martial beat kicks in, with Malcolm Holmes and technology in perfect combination. With another bravura McCluskey lead and a mock-bagpipe lead that's easily more entrancing than the real thing, it's a wrenching ballad like no other before it and little since. Any number of other high points can be named, such as the opening, "The New Stone Age," with McCluskey's emotional fear palpable over a rough combination of nervous electronic pulses, piercing keyboard parts, and slightly distorted guitar. "She's Leaving" achieves its own polished pop perfection -- it would have made an inspired choice for a fourth single if one had been forthcoming -- while the heartbreaking "Sealand" and "Georgia" hint at where OMD would go next, with Dazzle Ships
If The Hurting was mental anguish, Songs from the Big Chair marks the progression towards emotional healing, a particularly bold sort of catharsis culled from Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith's shared attraction to primal scream therapy. The album also heralded a dramatic maturation in the band's music, away from the synth-pop brand with which it was (unjustly) seared following the debut, and towards a complex, enveloping pop sophistication. The songwriting of Orzabal, Smith, and keyboardist Ian Stanley took a huge leap forward, drawing on reserves of palpable emotion and lovely, protracted melodies that draw just as much on soul and R&B music as they do on immediate pop hooks. The album could almost be called pseudo-conceptual, as each song holds its place and each is integral to the overall tapestry, a single-minded resolve that is easy to overlook when an album is as commercially successful as Songs from the Big Chair. And commercially successful it was, containing no less than three huge commercial radio hits, including the dramatic and insistent march, "Shout" and the shimmering, cascading "Head Over Heels," which, tellingly, is actually part of a song suite on the album. Orzabal and Smith's penchant for theorizing with steely-eyed austerity was mistaken for harsh bombasticism in some quarters, but separated from its era, the album only seems earnestly passionate and immediate, and each song has the same driven intent and the same glistening remoteness. It is not only a commercial triumph, it is an artistic tour de force. And in the loping, percolating "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," Tears for Fears perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the mid-'80s while impossibly managing to also create a dreamy, timeless pop classic. Songs from the Big Chair is one of the finest statements of the decade.
Being from northern California, Grandaddy always gets compared to Pavement -- and rightly so, in some respects -- but this probably isn't the best way to start on the band. Some of the tracks on Under the Western Freeway are more in the Weezer vein ("Summer Here Kids," "A.M. 120"), and the few that are truly reminiscent of Pavement are more like Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain's drawling "Range Life" than the angular guitar work more usual from Pavement. Comparisons aside, what's important is that Under the Western Freeway is a fairly brilliant album, combining a warm, earnest, and rustic feel with sometimes goofy experimentation (looped drums, bleeping keyboard hooks) -- and it's all very pleasant and friendly. And what's more, these guys can write a solid, catchy melody. A couple listens to tracks like "Nonphenomenal Lineage" and "Go Progress Chrome" make this all too clear.
