Cornelius fits right in with the Beastie Boys' Grand Royal aesthetic. He sees no difference between pop and avant-garde, high culture and lowbrow trash -- he throws it all together, coming up with completely unexpected combinations. The thrill of hearing hip-hop loops morph into sheets of My Bloody Valentine guitar noise, then into sweet Beach Boys harmonies, is what makes his American debut, Fantasma, such a wonder. It's easy to write Cornelius off as a Japanese Beck, particularly since his pop songcraft is as impressive as the busy, multi-layered production, but it's a little patronizing. Cornelius is operating on his own terms, equally influenced by sunny pop ("Chapter 8 -- Seashore and Horizon," boasting harmonies by the Apples in Stereo), garagey hard rock, and kitsch (the cartoonish "Magoo Opening"). He assembles the parts in unpredictable ways -- the hard beats of "Mic Check" suddenly give way to floating acoustics; "Chapter 8" literally has a tape recorder stopping and starting the different parts -- which is why Fantasma is so intoxicating. It is one of those rare records where you can't tell what's going to happen next, and it leaves you hungry for more. [Fantasma was also released with two bonus tracks: "Fantasma Spot" and a demo of "Typewrite Lesson."]
Achingly gorgeous and hauntingly stark, Mark Hollis' self-titled debut picks up where he left off with Talk Talk's Laughing Stock seven years earlier, re-emerging at the nexus point where jazz, ambient, and folk music collide. It's quite possibly the most quiet and intimate record ever made, each song cut to the bone for maximum emotional impact and every note carrying enormous meaning. Hollis paints his music in fine, exquisite strokes, with an uncanny mastery of atmosphere that's frequently devastating. And if anything, his singularly resonant voice has grown even more plaintive with the passage of time, which -- combined with the understated artistry and minimalist beauty of tracks like "The Colour of Spring" and "Watershed" -- makes Mark Hollis a truly unique and indelible listening experience. His obvious understanding of the power of silence aside, one prays he doesn't again wait for the seven-year itch to strike before returning
On their first album for Germany's Marina Records, singer/songwriter David Scott and keyboardist Brian McAlpine offered a welcome antidote to the sound-alike power pop that proliferated in the '90s. Joined by a drummer and string section, the Scottish duo mined many of the same influences (Beatles, Brian Wilson) as their competitors, yet offered melodies and hooks that were reverent but never rip-offs. Cherry Sky is a near-flawless concoction that follows Beach Boys-style choruses with a chorus straight out of the Fab's psychedelic era (complete with "Penny Lane" fire bells). The lovely "Sugar Mountain Babies," meanwhile, owes not a little to McCartney's gentle side, and the jangly "Banana Sandwich" has all the fresh-faced glory of Scottish popsters past, like Aztec Camera or the Bluebells. Other than a couple of lesser tracks, like "Night Breeze," the remainder of the disc is simply high-quality, handsomely performed, and hummable pop you'd be foolish to pass up.
