There’s a scene near the beginning of Lana Del Rey’s video for the title track of this, her debut album, where her expression momentarily collapses and then she reacts to keep the tears from falling. If it were part of a movie, you’d think it expertly acted, and expect to see Del Rey’s name cast in the sequence of Hollywood “it” girls from Angelina Jolie to Scarlett Johansson to Zooey Deschanel on down.

Ironically, it’s for acting that Del Rey has encountered stout resistance. Since Elizabeth Grant emerged in this role last year, she has been fought tooth-and-nail by bloggers who thought the major labels were no longer capable of scripting hype – appalled that such a clear fabrication could be so embraced by the Pitchfork generation. Her aborted, earlier attempt at pop stardom (as Lizzy Grant) was “exposed” as if some contemptible hypocrisy; January’s “Saturday Night Live” performance was deemed unmerited and hastily savaged in a way that would make Simon Cowell proud. Never mind that other television appearances went well (“Later With Jools Holland,” for instance), or that last year’s singles “Blue Jeans” and “Video Games” completely merited attention, or that Lady Gaga’s and Odd Future’s contrivances hold firm: thou shalt not trifle with sanctimonious indie hegemony.

Would that Born To Die completed the fairytale, and Del Rey repaid the faith of her courtiers. But the actress, it turns out, doesn’t show any range. Like Michael Cera or Vin Diesel, she applies the same approach to almost every syllable, and when she doesn’t (her alluring squeaks on “Off To The Races”) the exceptions prove the rule. And it’s a shame. Not because the uniform, noir production deserves more – to the contrary, it’s an accomplice – or the screenplay is Mamet-sharp (“Take a walk on the wild side”! Really?), but because of those squeaks, because of that scene in “Born To Die.”

Either Del Rey’s having a laugh at the chaos she’s created, or her inability to deliver on her campaign is a mortal flaw. It beggars belief that Born To Die not only fails to build on “Video Games” and “Blue Jeans,” but relies on them. As flashes in the pan go, this sets some kind of record. That her hype died a sudden death on January 31st is probably little consolation to her foes, same with the fact she’s set herself up for a nice little career in acting.

4/10

Steve Forstneger

The John Lennon canon is now at the tipping point: with the release of the new 38-song Working Class Hero (Capitol) collection, there are now more posthumous album releases by the ex-Beatle than there are actual solo albums he recorded while still alive. So do we need another repackaged collection of the same old Lennon music that’s been repackaged nearly a dozen times before?

The answer, simply, is no. Lennon’s estate and Capitol Records may need the virtually overhead-free income, but what does this new two-disc set do for us fans? Not much. If you’re a big Lennon fan, you already own all of this – probably in recent vintage where the masters have been tidied up. If you’re a casual Lennon fan, any of the three earlier “best ofs” (one’s even called The VERY Best Of) cover most of the same ground. Of course, if you don’t own any John Lennon solo material and are looking for somewhere to start, this is a pretty good bet. While we can argue whether this lives up to its subtitle – The Definitive Lennon – as a fan I can attest to the fact that it’s got all the hits, a nice selection of second-tier classics, and a few pleasant surprises.

If you listen to two-and-a-half hours of Lennon’s music uninterrupted, you’re struck by an undeniable fact: this is a very simplistic songwriter. A great many of his most emotionally powerful songs (“Imagine,” “Woman,” “Mind Games”) are nearly nursery rhymes musically, and even some of his looser, more straight-up rock cuts (“Instant Karma,” “Power To The People,” “Cold Turkey”) succeed more on the basis of his passionate delivery and a smattering of mild discordance than anything you could call musically masterful. But that simplicity is also precisely why so many people find meaning in Lennon’s music: for all his genuine wit and egotistical bluster, Lennon wrote very heartfelt, sometimes naïvely innocent songs that spoke directly to the heart of the human condition. If it seems childish to “Imagine” or want to “Give Peace A Chance,” or if it’s hokey for a dad to revel in the joy of his “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy),” or if we’re all saps for wanting to find “Real Love,” then shit: shame on us for forgetting our better natures.

Two nice treats included on this collection come from the 1984 album Milk And Honey, which Lennon was recording when he was murdered in 1980. “Grow Old With Me,” based on a Robert Browning poem, is a disarmingly genuine and vulnerable supplication, and “Borrowed Time” finds Lennon musing on the “dramas” of youth. It’s a buoyant affair, set to something of a Calypso groove, and it shines a light on the whimsical and silly side of Lennon that is too often overlooked.

– Michael C. Harris

Reprinted from December 2005.

You may have noticed that we skip coverage of some pretty big-time releases each month. Sometimes, that’s because the artists hold on to music until the last second, at which point we’ve already planned the next issue. But not this time, boyo! Common, Pistol Annies, and Elvis himself merit mention.

Common has always been at the vanguard of conscious rap and, being on the edge he’s made some iffy decisions like Electric Circus. Universal Mind Control? His club-rat bid was downright lobotomous. While history has shown that the Chicago-bred rapper often over-corrects a folly like a hydroplaning, fishtailing motorist, The Dreamer/The Believer isn’t a full-throated call to his more reflective self. True, it reunites him with producer No ID, and the opening track’s coda features a spoken-word piece by none other than Maya Angelou. But the true reveal is the guest on the ensuing cut, “Ghetto Dreams,” which features the equally mercurial Nas. More tellingly, the song’s first verse — which directly follows Angelou’s call to consciousness — jerks itself to a girl who looks as good as she cooks. As a collection, Dreamer/Believer rivals Be for side-for-side bangers, and No ID takes a star turn with a masterful mesh of his ’90s and ’00s selves. Common still shows bald spots that tempted Maxim-owned Blender into naming him one of the worst lyricists of all time (with his acting career on the side, “The Bitch In Yoo” is always on the margins of his “toughest” rhymes), but better he be himself than something he’s not.

When former editor Michael C. Harris undressed Lydia Loveless‘ debut LP, we found ourselves nodding in agreement. So how could Pistol Annies possibly stand up? For one — like Danzig vs. all those Satanic metal types — the Annies seem to be in on the joke. Hell On Heels, despite its awful cover image, zips through 10 tracks while using country as an idiom and a setup, and actually turns its attempts at authenticity to elucidate failures (not toughness). Miranda Lambert, Ashley Monroe, and Angaleena Presley preen and pose, but with a sympathy for their archetypes. “Takin’ Pills” doesn’t toast to oblivion the same way the title track sees through its own posturing. Lambert, as Arsenio Orteza writes in our January issue, shows less inhibition in this context, which either helps or is helped by her colleagues.

Elvis Presley’s 75th birthday — two years ago — unleashed an unfocused bleeding of his catalog, but few people could argue the sense behind reissuing Elvis Country. With a rollicking rendition of “I’m 10,000 Years Old” segueing the cuts like a chopped commercial, it drags post-comeback King back to his roots, and not without fanfare. “Country” in the ’70s sure as hell meant something different in the ’50s, but few could have predicted that opener “Snowbird” would have its melody doubled on sitar. (Let that sink in, for a moment.) The big single, “Funny How Time Slips Away,” still marks as one of his great unheralded vocal performances, while gospel tries like “I Washed My Hands In The Muddy Water” and the stitched “10,000″ version find his religious attempts at their zenith. Filling space, the accompanying Love Letters From Elvis is a slight letdown — a campy reminder that ’60s Elvis was just a couple years away — but, in a chronological sense, he would never be this good again.

– Steve Forstneger

Supergroup Chickenfoot is Sammy Hagar teamed with fellow Van Halen exile Michael Anthony, Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith, and guitar god Joe Satriani, formed out of live jams at Hagar’s club, Cabo Wabo Cantina in Mexico.

No one should pop this or the first (that’s right, III is the second LP) Chickenfoot record on expecting anything completely different, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Hey, if it isn’t broken . . . It’s classic Hagar-era VH redux, with Satriani riding the wave up and down depending on room for what he does best. No frills melodic rock hammers the first few cuts, then Hagar confronts mortality with hard-rock gusto on the riff-heavy “Up Next,” in tribute to John Carter, their late manager who died of cancer in the middle of recording. Satriani seems to let loose from his otherwise mathematically precise prowess more and more as the band progresses, the apex of that evident on “Lighten Up,” which harkens back to the classic, orgasmic grooves of Montrose, as does the 18-wheeler rock of “Big Foot.” The closer, “Something Gone Wrong,” is what the band name evokes and what I’d hoped for this project: a Southern-fried slice of what all four bring to the table. No matter the influence, Hagar and company (whoever that may be at the moment) bring the party to the, well, party. (Saturday@Metro.)

– Penelope Biver

Wye Oak and Funeral Party are in town this month, and we also have Burzum, Edwyn Collins, Human Improvement Process, Green Day, and Frank Sinatra for you!

BURZUM
Fallen
(Candlelight)

As a convicted murderer and violent racist, no other black-metal savant has gone further to contrive his image and thus discredits his music as mere sideshow. Varg Vikernes, who records as Burzum, has spent his entire career trying to resurrect Norway’s pagan past and now finds himself trying to salvage his musical career post-incarceration. Following 2010’s return-to-guitars Belus, Fallen likewise does away with the dark-ambient motif of his prison years. He screeches the lyrics in his native tongue, so admittedly it’s difficult to assess that portion of the recording, but the guitars and drums almost majestically ignore the genre’s most tired cliches. Sure, nearly every single guitar part is trem-picked or arpeggiated, but when the punishing meter drops out to reveal a straightahead 4/4 rock beat on “Budstikken,” you begin to feel there’s hope for him yet. — Steve Forstneger

EDWYN COLLINS
Losing Sleep
(Heavenly)

2010 was a pretty good year for Edwyn Collins. His seminal work with Orange Juice got released for the first time in the U.S., 25 years later. And five years after suffering a debilitating brain hemorrhage in his London home, he tracked his official comeback with some of England’s most famous musicians, including Johnny Marr, members of Franz Ferdinard, The Cribs, and his son, William, who stuck by his side during a most difficult road back. Losing Sleep is the kind of record you’d think a Scotsman coming out of physical (and mental) rehab would make. It’s full of self-doubt (“What Is My Role?”) and a promise for the future (“I Still Believe In You”). Fortunately, his previous incarnation as a post-punk/Motown shaman remains intact. Losing Sleep sounds like it could have been co-produced by Berry Gordy and Malcolm McLaren. What’s missing is the supreme self-confidence that his earlier quirky and soulful albums like Hellbent On Compromise and Gorgeous George contained. Like a pitcher coming back from Tommy John surgery, Losing Sleep is Edwyn Collins’ first rehab start. You know soon he’ll be back in form. — John Vernon

WYE OAK
Civilian
(Merge)

Wye Oak are nothing if not great at sounding mysterious. The duo are a musical quilt of influences (Cocteau Twins, Sonic Youth, shoegaze) that conspires to create a mood that is at once welcoming and full of menace. Jenn Wasner’s vocals feel otherworldly, as if they floated in from a million miles away. On “Two Small Deaths” they are swallowed by a murky universe of instruments that, at times, are difficult to discern from the white noise that envelops them like a creeping fog. Cryptic titles like “Fish” and “Plains” contain melodies as subversive as their monikers. They penetrate the subconscious, revealing themselves quietly over time like an epiphany. And although you’re never actually sure what Wasner is singing about, there is no doubt the subject matter is shrouded in pain and darkness. — Curt Baran (April 7th@Schubas).

FRANK SINATRA
Best Of Vegas
(Concord)

For those who don’t want to shell out the big bucks for the four-CD/DVD set Sinatra: Vegas, this single-disc summary provides a sampling of shows at The Sands in 1961 and 1966, Caesars Palace in 1982, and The Golden Nugget in 1987. While the first two sessions sound marvelous strung together with Ol’ Blue Eyes in top form belting out “The Lady Is A Tramp” and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” the two-decade jump isn’t as seamless. Though still strong, Sinatra’s slipping a bit by “All Or Nothing At All” and sounding even more weathered during late-’80s takes of “Pennies From Heaven” and “Angel Eyes.” — Andy Argyrakis

GREEN DAY
Awesome As Fuck
(Reprise)

As a description of the band and/or the music itself, this album’s Walmart-unfriendly title is either comic hubris or self-delusion. “Awesome“? This? But as a reaction to the ride on which Billie Joe, Mike, and Tré found themselves when they recorded these 17 intensities in 16 cities, it’s understandable and just the shibboleth to let the inarticulate hordes for whom they speak know that, even while pushing 40 and with a Broadway musical just around the corner, they’re still American idiots at heart. 21st Century Breakdown provides five songs, “21 Guns” benefits from the communal vibe, and “Cigarettes And Valentines” makes its debut. What was almost certainly not retouched in the studio: “San Diego, let me hear you scream!” “What’s in your heart, Michigan?!” and (twice) “Let’s get fuckin’ crazy!” — Arsenio Orteza

FUNERAL PARTY
The Golden Age Of Knowhere
(RCA)

East-L.A. trio Funeral Party spent all of 2010 hitting the major music festivals, touring with 30 Seconds To Mars, and making various magazines’ “best bands of 2010″ lists, so now would seem the perfect time for their debut LP, The Golden Age Of Knowhere. Named after a Cure song, the band come out of the gate with a youthful aggressiveness and energy combined with a surprising musical maturity. The throaty vocals over erratic and building guitars reveal that frontman Chad Elliot paid close attention to Jared Leto, and that the band have listened to a lot of Cage The Elephant, as well. The LP really has no filler tracks, but it doesn’t really have a standout single either. (April 30th @ Riviera with Deftones and Dillinger Escape Plan.) – Carter Moss

HUMAN IMPROVEMENT PROCESS
S.T.A.R.S
(The Execution Kolllective)

In the increasingly saturated circuit of grim extreme metal, Human Improvement Process incorporates dub and electronic elements in a mildly successful attempt to differentiate its death/metalcore stylings from its peers. “One Second: Our Eternity” is a dub-inflected, swooshy piano piece that introduces the EP and sets the stage for the saw-toothed guitar riffs and conventional breakdowns of “Ascension Of Silence” that signal the heavy lifting has begun. Despite the opening cut, HIP keeps up the aggressive pounding with a standard metalcore assault, but the sharp, melodic hooks that underpin the “Weight Of Guilt,” as it steadily blows up with layers of serrated riffs and buzzing crackle, and the crushing severity of “The Process” shows potential for HIP to stand out in the crowded field. — Patrick Conlan

Due to a production error, these reviews were omitted from the April edition of Illinois Entertainer.

The Witmark Demos: 1962-1964 (The Bootleg Series Vol. 9) (Columbia/Legacy) does not purport to do anything unexpected or unknown. Like the rest of the “Bootleg Series,” most of its contents have circulated for years, though this version falls much more squarely in the camp of historical documents than the others. The difference between it and Royal Albert Hall Concert lies in the title: Dylan was a young folk singer hired to write songs for the Witmark subsidiary of Warner Bros. publishing.

The two-discs almost stiflingly comprise fables and morals, a litany of classic tales that begin to morph from passed-down folk songs into legitimate Dylan originals, but only slightly. The Robin Hood archetype in “Rambling, Gambling Willie” could have been contrived in any of the previous 100 years, and though his mastery of protest anthems (“The Death Of Emmett Till,” “Masters Of War,” “John Brown”) took on a life of its own, it wasn’t until he risked himself by plugging in his more personal emotions (“Tomorrow Is A Long Time,” “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” “Mama, You Been On My Mind”) that you feel his vocabulary really expand.

That said, The Witmark Demos eats up an awful lot of time to demonstrate that maturation, even if it’s to underline how thoroughly Dylan destroyed Tin Pan Alley and rewrote the music-publishing bible. The only real pleasure to be derived comes from hearing Dylan play piano on some of the acetates, which maybe he’ll do a little of on Saturday.

– Steve Forstneger

At long last, Majordomo/Shout Factory finishes trotting out the ’90s Jon Spencer Blues Explosion catalog, unveiling Orange and Acme with the loving care of actual, venerated blues recordings.

JSBX, of course, were a ’90s garage-rock band that caught the imagination of Matador/Sub Pop/Merge subscribers, delivering a wildman archetype to counter the Christ-posing and navel-gazing souls spearheading Alternative Nation. Like Greg Dulli, Spencer was his own creation and one based heavily on an amalgamation of musical forbearers — mostly Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, and James Brown. Unlike Dulli, he was dominion of his fans, largely shyboy indie rockers who needed him to prove to themselves that they weren’t just sad-sack, record-collecting mopes. Spencer was the exception that proved the rule, even if his stage persona was understood as an ironic gag.

If you haven’t been following along, the reissue campaign would seem to be run by chimps: starting with a greatest hits (in time for a quick reunion tour), beginning in earnest with 1996’s Now I Got Worry, then tracing back to the beginning for the first four outings, and finally covering ‘94 and ‘98 with these two. Upon inspection, Majordomo submits that Worry is the band’s essence, the if-you-buy-just-one centerpiece, which is debatable if allowable. But the truth is most of the people who know the band know them from Orange.

Presented here with some extra tracks and the European version of the tag-along Experimental Remixes EP, Orange — though not the most typical of the band’s albums — still stands on its own. The historical context provided by the extras doesn’t really tell the story, and maybe actually would be better paired with Worry (so rough are the bonus tracks) and Acme (where hip-hop influence is more pronounced). It’s so strong an album, the band had to embellish Worry’s fuck-you attitude to avoid becoming pigeonholed. Spencer no doubt knew the difference between his character and the real him, but here’s the first time he successfully sells himself as immersed in the role and makes it an essential ingredient, throwing everything behind opener “Bellbottoms” to establish the idea.

Though hip-hop clearly flows through Russell Simins’ trap kit, it’s a red-herring. The telephone rap by Beck and later Spencer’s G-funk theremin transmissions are idiot’s-grin in-jokes. White drives Orange is a basic refinement of the band’s well-worn principles. The Stooges’ “Seek & Destroy” can be heard almost every time the pace picks up, but wisely it’s a trick used sparingly. At times it seems Spencer makes it a responsibility to act like an amateur (“Baby, baby/You sure like to fuck!/Fuuuuuuuck!”), but improved musicianship always comes back to bite him. The underrated “Ditch” and “Dissect” will never steal thunder from “Bellbottoms,” “Sweat,” “Blues X Man,” and “Full Grown,” which all cater to Spencer’s legend, but they couldn’t have moved on without them.

If Orange opened JSBX to their potential in the studio, Acme — especially after the primitive Now I Got Worry — bore the brunt of that realization. A host of producers (including Dan The Automator, Steve Albini, and Jim Dickinson) helped assemble an initially thrilling if disjointed listen. If anything, the shoehorning of engineering schools derails the most important element of any rock album: thrust. Trying to listen through the elements (aside from the simple pleasures provided by “Magical Colours,” “Blue Green Olga,” and “Bernie” only makes you more aware of how unchained the Spencer monster has become on “Lovin Machine” and “Torture.” Included with the reissue is the ‘99 followup Xtra Acme USA.

– Steve Forstneger

Late hip-hop artist Camu Tao had his hand in enough collaborative projects over the years (Nighthawks with Cage, Central Services with El-P, etc.) that most heads never viewed him as a soloist. But on King Of Hearts (Fat Possum/Def Jux), an album recorded before he lost his battle with lung cancer two years ago, Camu reinvents himself with his official debut – so much so that it’s hard to now describe him as a “rapper.”

Sure, the bouncy “Major Team” and select tracks still see Camu flip a slick, rapid-fire flow some may recognize, but consider that the album begins with him singing on the heavily ’80s-influenced quirky pop cut “Be A Big Girl.” From there, the producer/vocalist brings his best hand-clapping new wave jam with “Bird Flu” and then gets frantic with the future shock of “Get At You.” King Of Hearts can sometimes be off the wall, but not head-scratchingly so.

At his strongest (see “The Perfect Plan”), he couples his love for low-tech but perfectly catchy production while sharing moments from relationships and everyday life. Even though Camu was still testing the waters with his vocals, you appreciate the unrestrained quality of the music throughout. It’s impossible not to think of what Camu Tao could have created if he was still here, but his debut should be celebrated for the accomplishment that it is: one of the more exciting solo debuts from an indie hip-hop act in awhile.

– Max Herman

Katy Perry’s bound to strike it rich with Teenage Dream (Capitol), since she can sell at least one of the tracks to NBC.

The success of Perry’s “I Kissed A Girl” was easy to write off as a degrading pander to fratboys who like watching girls kiss on spring break. Whatever Perry’s reasons behind it — and everything points to her being in on the joke — she, Kesha, and, to a lesser extent, Uffie, have taken Lily Allen’s Myspace nous and drowned Britney Spears’ and Jessica Simpson’s as they pretend to cling to the remnants of their womanly virtues. Theirs is a post-feminist argument — an irony invoked by exotic dancers and prostitutes — that sexuality can be used to challenge male-dominated society, and if they torch the Christian overtones of Southern debs, sobeit. Even if their argument is legit, however, and “California Gurls” is Perry’s latest stab at satire, the wrong audience is listening. And she appears to know it, and doesn’t know what to do about it.

Her is-she-or-isn’t-she-smart-enough game is the only thing that makes Teenage Dream mildly worth hearing. Musically, it’s an Auto-Tuned, last-three-years-of-Top-40 recyclery with a major-label benefactor. Her producers are shockingly unimaginative given the resources at their disposal. Perry’s strength — moral ambiguity — gets completely undercut by a self-seriousness that dominates the second half of the album and simultaneously exposes her chief weakness: an anonymous singing voice. Her largely teen audience is likely to overlook any lyrical sophistication — which, honestly, is sophisticated only in the context of TMZland — and latch onto perky pop nuggets (“California Gurls,” the title track) and schmoopy ballads (“The One That Got Away,” “Not Like The Movies”). As long as it sells, who cares?

It’s just that Perry clearly aspires to Madonna (even though her publicity photos recall a pedophiliac’s reproduction of a famous Jennifer Aniston shoot). Perry and Madge both try to equate pleasurable sex with losing virginity (“Hummingbird Heartbeat” vs. “Like A Virgin”), but Madonna was never so consumed with titillating teenage boys as Perry is with the limp (and ultimately NBC-friendly) “Peacock.” Madonna was after men, and more their brains and wallets than cocks.

– Steve Forstneger

After 15 years, six studio albums, and a fistful of compilations, soundtracks, and EPs, Mogwai has finally released an official live album. Sure, there have been plenty of live versions of songs available before, but nothing previously released comes close to conveying the spacious bliss, skyrocketing build-ups, and shock-and-awe crescendos the way Special Moves (Matador) does.

Available as a triple LP or CD with accompanying download, the album comprises performances culled from Mogwai’s three-night residency at Brooklyn’s Music Hall of Williamsburg in April 2009. As a cohesive set showcasing Mogwai’s dynamic sonic fury, it far exceeds Government Commission and the other various live tracks that have littered past EPs and the Young Team reissue. If your speakers and neighbors can handle it, crank up “Mogwai Fear Satan” or “You Don’t Know Jesus” and succumb to the blood-chilling catharsis, as the avalanche of frenzied guitars rip apart the tranquility. The pacing of “Friend Of The Night” and the elongated phrasing in “2 Rights Make 1 Wrong” both produce blistering, brilliant highlights, even at their vastly different intensity levels. The production and sound quality are superb, capturing precise instrumental detail and the raw, cavernous hurricane of sound that rattles your bones and ruffles your hair. With a track list that hits virtually every one of its career highlights, Special Moves stands as the definitive document of Mogwai, live.
 
Released in conjunction with Special Moves, Burning is a documentary-style film by Vincent Moon and Nathanael Le Scouarnac of La Blogotheque’s Take-Away Shows, that compiles concert footage from the same set of shows. Filmed in stark, grainy black-and-white stock, the film aims to present a tightly wrought perspective of the actions and momentum generated to perform the music, and the rhythmic interaction of the band. The tracking and framing reference cinema verite’s observational perspective, but the vertiginous angles and severe closeups are closer to surrealistic montage, and demand intense visual acuity. Claustrophobically tight, blurry shots recall the photography of Uta Barth, and such juxtaposition reveals some beautiful moments and some frames capture startling images. The blown-out glint from a crash cymbal bleeds into the sparkle on a Strat; a shimmering highlight and a blurred hand zig-zag across wobbly, vibrating strings. Hands hammer violently and swaying bodies undulate with poetic grace, even as they grind out ear-shearing feedback and thrashing rhythms. Cliché shots of amps and effects pedals are limited; instead, we see acute angles of drum racks, and the gentle curve of guitar tuning pegs. A long shot casually reveals additional band members, as the sound deepens with each additional instrument; a knowing look and casual nod ignites the explosive whirlwind in “Mogwai Fear Satan.” Although the film’s track list also showcases Mogwai’s best, it doesn’t simply reprise Special Moves (or conversely, Special Moves isn’t simply the soundtrack for the film), so the album and film are unique documents capturing Mogwai’s rapturous live performance.

– Patrick Conlan

Union Square goes full tilt on the purveyors of John Peel’s favoritest song, and Terrence Flamm reviews it.

Springing from Northern Ireland in the late 1970s, The Undertones were punk rockers who were more interested in romantic relationships than political upheaval. Their 1979 self-titled debut, a non-stop collection of Ramones-influenced songs conjured from an adolescent point of view, brought them worldwide attention. Subsequent albums didn’t fare as well, but as Union Square’s recently released, digital-only compilation of The Undertones, Hypnotised, Positive Touch, The Sin Of Pride, and The Best Of The Undertones proves, the band recorded compelling music throughout its career.

Led by the distinctively voiced Feargal Sharkey, The Undertones pondered the mysteries of the opposite sex on “Boys Will Be Boys” and “Girls Don’t Like It,” but also tapped into Ray Davies-style satire on “My Perfect Cousin” and “Male Model.” Later material found the band successfully moving into new wave territory, as on the soulful “Save Me” and the enticing “Beautiful Friend.” Still, The Undertones were at their best on the early, adrenaline-pumping classics like “Teenage Kicks,” “(She’s A) Runaround,” and “Get Over You.” It’s hard to tell if this digital collection will spark renewed interest in the band, but as Sharkey wisely observed on “More Songs About Chocolate & Girls,” “It’s never too late to enjoy dumb entertainment.”

– Terrence Flamm

Prior to the band’s comeback at Pitchfork fest this weekend, Majordomo/Shout Factory dropped a load of JSBX tracks in our laps and ran.

I’ve often dreamed about the day my daughter will adjust my pillows, slide my food tray/stand thingy over to the window, and ask, “Daddy, tell me about the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion.” I won’t have to say a word (good thing, because I’ve lost the capacity for speech), and I’ll dump four sets of CDs in her hands comprising 145 tracks and let her sort it out.

The best (well, not the best) part is they’ve included the best-possible line: “No one in their right mind would ever think there is a career in making music like this.”

And as reissue campaigns go, this one’s just as unlikely and difficult. The JSBX had been stinking up the New York underground since Pussy Galore quit, around 1991. But when Majordomo started this madness, it first released the Dirty Shirt Rock ‘N’ Roll career compilation in late March.

It was a nice primer for the summer tour, but then we were handed 1996’s Now I Got Worry and the European live album Controversial Negro — curious selections because the anniversary math didn’t add up and 1994’s Orange was actually their breakthrough album. Then came a bonanza: Year One, a compendium including all the tracks that made up the band’s early recordings (A Reverse Willie Horton, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Crypt Style, History Of Sex), and a two-disc version of Extra Width featuring the Mo’ Width companion and 24 bonus cuts. To quote P.G. Wodehouse, at first they are excitingly challenging and rewardingly mind-blowing, but soon you realize you haven’t got a clue what’s going on, are stabbing hopelessly in the dark, and want your mommy.

We’ll attempt to sort this into chronological order. The most crucial piece of business is Year One. Even during the JSBX’s Matador heyday, these albums/EPs were hard to find and pricey bets ($17.99 back in the day) for ramshackle outings known more for their dicey sound quality than the beginning of something great. But, gussied up and remastered, the songs do help shape the controversy surrounding the band at the time. Spencer took a lot of heat and racism charges for essentially alleging that the blues was simply tossed-off garbage (38 cuts in 72 minutes) that he could howl over like Elvis (white devil who stole rock ‘n’ roll) on meth to a punk beat. And listening to it, yes, that’s what it sounds like. What’s striking is how much more competent guitarist Judah Bauer and drummer Russell Simins sound than they used to (credit the remaster). Opener “Twenty Nine” refreshes itself among the band’s always-spectacular first tracks, while the reckless “Rachel” improbably stays together throughout its 2:24. While the liners reveal “Support A Man” to be a plea from Spencer to his future father-in-law, it actually comes off as a precursor to “Wail!” (just as “Like A Hawk” would resurface in “Blues X Man”). “Maynard Ave.” remains a lightning rod for his critics, though the closing quintet exposes the Blues Explosion’s most aggravating art-school (fuck the “damaged” part; this is pure entitlement) tendencies.

You can forgive Majordomo some of the chronology issues because Extra Width is no cut-and-dried case. Paired with the Australian-only Mo’ Width EP and a rash of singles and etc., the recording was all over the place. Taken at face value, Mo’ appears to have been recorded first, though Extra is clearly the definitive version of these songs. And that’s where the separation has been created in the BX catalog. Before, it was all about pressing “record” and capturing whatever. Extra Width was going to be an album, with sounds (specifically ’70s) being tested and discarded or accepted and . . . they were going to try.

Unleashing a basketful of what-ifs, the album presents Jon Spencer in such a form that if there were ever going to be a “return to,” this was it. The talismanic track remains “Afro” and its nuclear guitar solo, but the Latin percussion in “Pant Leg” exhibits a debt to garage rock and “Train #2″ lays the foundation for their future fascination with grooves (and hip-hop). Hyperaware of their more-sanitized environs, Spencer transparently sings out of tune when he can and sometimes laughably tries transferring his stage persona to the record — something that would explode in cartoon proportions for Orange — but the devil is in the details, and their attention to the sonics this time (opposed to the concept) would bear fruit in the years to come. For its part, Mo’ Width errs on the side of Extra despite the harmonica wail of “Johnson” and a throwaway deconstruction of Webb Pierce’s “There Stands The Glass.”

The “Mo’ Mo’ Width” odds disc represents their primal noise-rock side’s last stand (until Now I Got Worry), a generally forgettable addendum that features a handful of key cuts like a kiss-off to their former label (“Caroline”), an early version of “Brenda,” and some jump-blues Xmas cuts that would make Brian Setzer shit his drawers.

Which brings us to Now I Got Worry. For historical context, this was their make-or-break moment. Alt-rock had become a viable commodity by ‘96, Matador was in Capitol Records’ sights, and the band were handed a budget for the “Wail!” vid, for which they chose Weird Al Yankovic as director. Spencer clearly had no intention of aiding his label’s merger, opening the disc with the abrasive “Skank” and “Identify” — even though “Wail!” comes third, it takes three more tracks then to get back to accessibility with “Chicken Dog.” An argument can be made that here is the salad days of their punk-blues/studio-maven concoction — others might dispute it as an identity crisis. The 12 bonus cuts (the others are radio promotions) only underscore the second hypothesis, with “Chocolate Joe,” “Dig My Shit,” and “Roosevelt Hotel Blues” standing up.

Controversial Negro is, well — live albums rarely do justice and this set continues that tradition.

– Steve Forstneger

Persistent chamber-pop heartthrob Matt Pond pushes his band in the other direction on this spring-released autumn album.

Appearing: Tuesday, June 8th at Lincoln Hall in Chicago.

Watching Matt Pond PA continually throw itself against the brick wall as indie pop gained momentum in the 2000s was both frustrating and compelling. Two exceptional releases for Polyvinyl — The Green Fury and The Nature Of Maps — failed to gain traction, however, and after them Pond seemed ready to do anything to break his band commercially (move to Brooklyn, tour with Liz Phair, cover songs for WB dramas), all with the same result. Quiet since 2007’s Last Light, it would be reasonable to assume MPPA were recalibrating everything for a lightning return. Not quite. If anything, Dark Leaves gently moves down the road with limited thrust or determination. It’s not a lazy record and the dream hasn’t died, but the songs are less insistent. If you were to cherrypick lines, “Remains” readily offers “I can’t remember which movie taught me purpose” and “This is not how I want to be forgotten.” It’s difficult to discern if a snare drum is popped before the seventh track, “Ruins,” but that’s not really what characterizes the album: it’s that MPPA are back to just making albums again.

– Steve Forstneger

South Africa’s “Mbaqanga” age evolved in the shadows of apartheid, marrying Zulu folk with Western jazz and pop found on the (literally) black market.

As is to be expected from any compilation attempting to draw a ring around a scene or sound, Next Stop . . . Soweto wanders for stretches, frequently stopping the bus in tourist spots where even the language barrier can’t preclude vapidity. As also is to be expected, when you get real musicians (Mahlathini & The Queens, Amaqawe Omculo) locked into a groove cultural obstacles vaporize. Invariably, this ass shakin’ never ceases to flaunt the resilience and spirit of the world’s oppressed.

–Steve Forstneger

By all reasonable accounts – ignoring the kinds of people who insist Mastodon’s Remission is better than Leviathan – High On Fire’s 2007 Death Is This Communion is its magnum opus. That’s partly because High On Fire is High On Fucking Fire and doesn’t bother with shit that doesn’t rule and partly because of the Oakland trio’s collaboration with Jack Endino, whose organic, epic, raw-but-never-rough production helped that shit rule even more.

Appearing: Friday, April 2nd at Lincoln Hall in Chicago.

HOF’s newest – fifth overall – album is an interesting proposition then because Endino doesn’t return. The group used a different producer on each of its past four efforts, so it’s hardly unexpected, but Snakes still sort of feels like a lost opportunity because of the switch to Greg Fidelman (who kiiiiinda sucked on the last Slayer, too). He doesn’t ruin the album, but his dry, punchless production and awkward, clumsy mixing – shame on you, too, Don Gordon – doesn’t do the material any favors. Frontman/guitarist Matt Pike is a bona fide Bad Motherfucker (it surely says so on his wallet), so Fidelman can be excused for bumping up Pike’s carton-of-Reds-and-bottle-of-Beam howl and enormous, genre-defining guitar in the mix some, but too often his fascination with Pike makes him lose track of bassist Jeff Matz and skinsman Des Kensel (a powerhouse and mood-establishing drummer) altogether. Recording 101: A power trio is only as powerful as each member of the trio.

But the thing is, Fidelman’s grandmother could have produced Snakes. Wouldn’t of mattered. High On Fire is on top of every aspect of its game right now. “How Dark We Pray” proves Pike, Matz, and Kensel’s songwriting continues to evolve; “Ghost Neck” proves Pike’s guitar can save them when it regresses; “Bastard Samurai” proves HOF can play slow(er) without sacrificing impact; and “Fire, Flood & Plague” proves sometimes it best to just go as fast as possible. Snakes has moments ( Pike’s blood-boiling “repelled” screams on the title track and the building intensity of “Bastard Samurai,” for example) literally capable of spreading goose bumps. Those are the times   you listen, lean back in your chair, close your eyes, and think “Holy shit.”

Does it have as many of those instances as “Communion”? No. But Communion could very well be a once-in-a-career album, so in this case there’s no shame in releasing a follow-up that’s only slighty less mindblowing. 

– Trevor Fisher

For all the grumbling that Alkaline Trio have strayed from the rawer sound present on the act’s initial outings, the three-man punk outfit don’t seem to have any trouble getting bodies out to see them.

Appearing: February 27 and 28 at Metro in Chicago.

The group hit Metro this weekend for two sold-out shows in support of their latest effort, the just-released This Addiction. The record is somewhat of a return to form for the Trio, underplaying the over-polished power-pop sensibilities present on the group’s last few efforts (2008’s Agony & Irony and 2005’s Crimson). Instead, This Addiction plays it comparably straight, with short bursts of rough and repeating riffs propelling “Off The Map” and “Lead Poisoning,” while the group expand the formula on the synth-backed “Eating Me Alive.” Of course, die-hards are no doubt eagerly anticipating selections from the group’s early catalog.

– Jaime de’Medici

Even though it may not have been evident at first, in hindsight it’s obvious that Neil Young would be Buffalo Springfield’s breakout star. It’s his songs – not Stephen Stills’ or Jim Messina’s or Richie Furay’s – that eventually transcended their era. There’s some hippie-dippy flower waving going on, especially in his earliest songs, but by the time the group recorded its second album, Young had rolled past his bandmates, lyrically and sonically.

So it’s little surprise that Young’s 1968 self-titled solo debut – one of four new remastered reissues and a previously unreleased live set from 1992 that’s just now being released – sounds like a splintered Buffalo Springfield record. Filled mostly with folkie acoustic songs about youth and love, Neil Young (6) isn’t the statement of purpose many first solo albums tend to be.

Young would make his real declaration of independence on 1969’s Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere (10), an electric wave of guitar feedback and epic-length songs recorded with Crazy Horse (who get co-billing on the record), the backing band he’d use on some of his best albums though the years (including Tonight’s The Night, Rust Never Sleeps, and Ragged Glory).

From the opening “Cinnamon Girl” to the 10-minute closer, “Cowgirl In The Sand,” Everybody is Young’s first classic and one of his best records, an album of unbridled intensity and feral playing. Highlight “Down By The River” includes the first of Young’s many terrific guitar solos – a spiraling surge of pierced notes and breathtaking agility.

The following year’s After The Gold Rush (9) is Young’s paean to the ’60s, a song cycle of crashed hopes (the title tune), sad passion (“Only Love Can Break Your Heart”) and burning rage (“Southern Man”). There’s some celebration – especially the giddy “When You Dance I Can Really Love” – but mostly Gold Rush sounds like a requiem for a decade defined by the large, and increasingly unmistakable, chasm between youthful dreams and ruthless reality. It’s one of Young’s gloomiest albums but a crucial piece of his catalog.

On his fourth LP, 1972’s Harvest (7), Young chilled out and was rewarded with his only No. 1 album. Partly recorded in Nashville, Harvest is Young’s first “country” record. It’s also loaded with guest spots from part-time bandmates Crosby, Stills & Nash, Linda Ronstadt, and James Taylor. Stripped of Crazy Horse’s fury, and mostly acoustic (with plenty of pedal steel guitar), Harvest contains some of Young’s most popular songs, including “Heart Of Gold” (also a No. 1 hit) and “Old Man.” But the solo concert recording of the anti-drug “The Needle And The Damage Done” is the record’s most substantial track.

Young immediately planned a sequel to Harvest, but the album was shelved as he pursued other avenues over the years. He finally got around to recording Harvest Moon – a sort-of follow-up featuring many of the musicians who played on Harvest – in late 1992. The new Dreamin’ Man Live ‘92 (6) gathers solo acoustic performances of Moon’s 10 songs from a series of gigs played before the album’s release. It’s essentially an unplugged Moon, which is one of Young’s most easygoing records anyway. Still, it offers an intimate portrait of an artist who’s refused to settle into a single groove during his long career, as these five mostly terrific albums confirm.

– Michael Gallucci

Of the nickel advice we dole out to young bands, a stalwart is “if you’re going to release music, you better be able to handle people not liking it.” A lot of people might end up enjoying Andrew Belle’s The Ladder, but an equal number will look to light up message boards in his effigy.

Appearing: Saturday, January 23rd at Schubas in Chicago.

First, there’s a lot to take pride in. Despite having an attractive, somewhat grainy set of pipes, he’s never showy with it or backing you into a corner at sincere-as-hell knifepoint like many singer/songwriters. The album might keep within a relatively confined rhythmic and dynamic range, but plays smartly within its boundaries. The title track nods to My Morning Jacket and Fleet Foxes without lowering to mimicry, while the drafting of Katie Herzig to make “Static Waves” a duet is a masterstroke. The song, reminiscent of Sondre Lerche’s “Modern Nature,” is cute without cloying and bears an irrepressible melody. When it comes time to crescendo on “Don’t Blame Yourself,” he brings the symphony in and out teasingly before ending his rapture in less than four minutes.

Unfortunately, the elephant in the room is Coldplay. Belle’s voice can be such a dead ringer for Chris Martin — it even fancies a falsetto now and again — and, as an professed admirer of Adam Duritz, carries such a burden with it you begin to wonder where the fun of “Static Waves” went. Combined with the last three cuts (on a 10-track outing) averaging five minutes, he risks sinking all the goodwill won at the opening.

– Steve Forstneger

Fans of Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers might know Mulatu Astatke’s spy jazz for the way it soundtracked Bill Murray’s hunt.

Radically different from the heated, percussive, rave-ups of the West African jazz and rock that has swelled in visibility lately, Astatke, an Ethiopian and thus closer to Middle Eastern heritage, created a much more intrigue-filled brand. The renowned father of Ethio-jazz was actually trained in the U.K. and U.S. (hence this compilation’s title), and seems to have been implicitly weaned on Henry Mancini’s “Pink Panther” music. (While not nearly so slapstick, Murray’s character was sleuthing not unlike Clouseau.) New York – Addis – London, a largely instrumental affair, does tend to overplay its lurking tones with a particular riff repeated throughout, though it does cause you to dive deep and get tangled in the reefs of percussion and lockstep guitar-and-organ melodies. Acting as poles on this compilation, you feel how easily Astatke’s stock-in-trade fits beneath the Arab vocal style of Tilahoun Gessesse for “Lantchi Biye,” while “Wubit,” with the female Muluken Melesse, pulsates like tribal J.B.’s funk. A couple of Latin detours (the tango-based “Girl From Addis Ababa” or “I Faram Gami I Faram” and Cuban “Asiyo Belema”) don’t reveal much; the signature “Mulatu” and “Yegelle Tezeta” are the best place to find this international man of mystery.

– Steve Forstneger

Whatever its artistic merits, Untitled is Weird Al-proof, an utterly ridiculous R&B spoof with its creator an amalgam of Luther Vandross, Luther Campbell, and Steve Stiffler.

Kelly breezed through the underage-porn/rape shitstorm with relative flair and has decided to ignore it on his first album since acquittal. There are no crass rebuttals or I-told-ya-soes, just Mr. Rated R. going about his business whether morning, noon, or night. Consecutive songs about muff-diving? Yes! Yodelling during sex? Who doesn’t? Despite the promise of earlier albums (particularly the double R), Kelly is loathe to ignore the dancefloor before he’s too old and uses Untitled as his own erection set. For a 42-year-old dude, however, he’s starting to show it. While his bedroom travelogues aren’t as stiff and predictable as LL Cool J’s or 50 Cent’s, it’s either total sexual freakdom or nothing. Kelly the seducer is a phantom on Untitled — it’ll be interesting to see how long he can keep up the charade while he’s got real shit on his mind.

– Steve Forstneger

Locally based Irish native Michael Londra has taken the logical step and made a holiday album — and, like he told the Sun-Times, he doesn’t rock the house.

Londra’s tenor voice was built for projection, and so it does throughout these dozen tracks. Over a heavily arranged and epic soundtrack, he’s at sweeping ease with originals (the title track), traditionals (“Silent Night”), and even Celtic offerings (“Don Oíche Úd I MBeithil”) and soars in parts where others strain. Depending on your view, the sequencing is either genius or crippling (“Winter, Fire And Snow” and the title track sound of a single piece), and the lack of pace begins to drag near the end — “O Come, O Come Emanuel” isn’t very anxious for its savior’s arrival and there’s a desperate need for “Ye Faithful” or “Joy To The World.” But if you require something to make the room a little warmer while you tear through wrapping paper, Wexford’s son will be there to open the flue.

– Steve Forstneger

– Max Herman

The title of Fuck Buttons’ debut, Street Horrrsing, really opened my eyes. Suddenly I was envisioning a pirate barebacking a pony down Columbus Drive. And the band’s name? No more was it a salacious euphemism for a woman’s sweet spot, but a repudiation: “I love zippers and can never get enough of snaps, but fuck buttons!”

Intonations matter. Take Tarot Sport, for example. Fuck Buttons haven’t altered the script much, but instead of the brimstone boils that highlighted their first album, Tarot glides in spots, crackling like a distant firework. Opener “Surf Solar”’s 10-minute length portends an epic firebombing, but what originally comes off like an intro fade-in continues to sizzle and simmer without foaming over — if I can get away from the stove-top metaphor it’s like skipping stones off the sun to a thumping beat. “Rough Steez” intimates that perhaps the wiring is beginning to melt in the heat, and “Olympians” celebrates with an anthemic progression that continuously builds momentum where Horrrsing wrecked it. The only issue is “The Lisbon Maru,” which almost mirrors the debut’s “Sweet Love For Planet Earth.” No amount of inflection can hide that.

– Steve Forstneger

At the Entertainer, we do it for you. We suffered through some 14 albums of some obnoxious old band called The Beatles, who’ve plagued the universe with new versions of their old albums. The following are our results. Beware.

Please Please Me
There aren’t any statistics, but so much of the rock ‘n’ roll landscape is littered with classic debut albums people forget that Please Please Me is lacking. Granted, the long-form, artistic statement hadn’t been invented for pop music in ‘63, but the tagline on the cover (“Love Me Do and 12 other songs”) isn’t far off. Only a fool, however, would be able to ignore the legendary, kamikaze versions of “I Saw Her Standing There” and “Twist And Shout,” which aren’t in need of any digital remastering but benefit from it nonetheless. Elsewhere the harmonies feel both clearer and colder, and the jangling chords jangle more. As debuts go, however, there’s no reason to start here.

– Steve Forstneger

With The Beatles
Though the cover shot is iconic (en-sured so when they retook it years later), Please Please Me’s photos veer from touristy to lawyerly to, well, you explain the blown-up car. With The Beatles‘ art sees the label grasping the band’s iconography barely months later. The liner notes admit to trying to replicate the debut’s success, but the band make the curious move of staking out territory via covers and only once, with “Money,” cowing to formula. This set is still among the least necessary in their catalog, and the painstaking remastering does little to raise its profile. “Hold Me Tight” might actually suffer from it, and repeated listens remind you how a few, short steps in the other direction could’ve been disaster.

– S.F.

A Hard Day’s Night
It’s cool, especially if you grew up after John Lennon’s murder, to draw a line at Rubber Soul and dismiss the Beatlemania years. But you can’t ignore that chord. It announces this soundtrack album, it yells “Action!” at the Mirage in Las Vegas, and it goes by the unwieldy name of F add9. It’s symbolic of what The Beatles would become: something instantly recognizable but impervious to description. Slobbering hyperbole aside, if you had to start telling the band’s musical story somewhere, this might as well be it. The only album composed entirely of Lennon/McCartney credits, A Hard Day’s Night encapsulates early Beatles better than the 1962 – 1966 compilation. As such, the remastering passes by unnoticed, because the songs are that good, that uncompromised by how they were recorded. Urgency, tunefulness, hand-holding, slapping a hand away — the line between boy-band pap and self-assured artistry begins and ends here . . .

– S.F.

Beatles For Sale
. . . though some say that line gets bent on Beatles For Sale. Yammer all you want about “A Day In The Life,” this album’s first three tracks are when you first really grasp the Lennon/McCartney divide. The trio — all Lennon – didn’t fortell the whole band’s direction as much as his own, and “No Reply” and “I’m A Loser” bespeak a Blood On The Tracks hurt. Unfortunately, this steady beginning also makes For Sale something of a mess. “Eight Days A Week” is clearly the album’s focus, but, as the ensuing Help! would bear out, The Beatles were beyond it. The remastering is a lesson in elevating bits of percussion you never knew existed and you can envisage Lennon’s anger a bit more clearly, but, until Let It Be, it’s really the last time the band would let so many iffy tracks pass through the filter.

– S.F.

Help!
There is no greater Beatles song than “Help!” The latest version increases the volume without distorting the song further, and that chugging rhythm guitar almost sets the song ablaze the more it smokes. The harmonies are just as they were on Please Please Me, but they’re begging for an out, wed to a minor key that encapsulates the delirium of Beatlemania better than “A Hard Day’s Night” could. The rest of the album — there’ more? – is exactly the sort of thing Rubber Soul supporters hate to have to explain. “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” grasps Donovan, and “Ticket To Ride” bows to the Maharishi. And then there’s “Yesterday,” which still confounds Macca bashers, even in light of the underrated Lennon prowler “You’re Going To Lose That Girl” and his perpetual affair with early rock, “Dizzy Miss Lizzy.”

– S.F.

Rubber Soul
Sgt. Pepper is the classic, Revolver the creative breakthrough, Abbey Road the triumphant coda, and Let It Be the sad end. So where does that leave the Rubber Soul? The Beatles’ sixth album is an often-overlooked gem, a magnetic, hypnotic hybrid of the band’s pop past and soon-to-emerge experimental and influential future. It is bulging with hits, including “In My Life,” “Michelle,” “Nowhere Man,” as well as “Drive My Car,” “Run For Your Life,” and “I’m Looking Through You.” But it still lacks immediate top-of-the-head status. With the new remastering, Rubber Soul rightfully blossoms sonically to become, perhaps, the best Beatles album you’ve never heard. As with all the new Beatle remasters, there is an exciting clarity, crispness, and heft to the sound, and with the defined stereo spilt of instruments and vocals on this album, even the casual listener will hear the difference. Most revealing here is how solid singers and masterful musicians The Beatles were. The band is always praised for the songwriting of Lennon and McCartney, but on Rubber Soul, the remastering reminds us of the artistry of George Harrison and the precision of Ringo Starr. For example, on the enigmatic “Norwegian Wood,” Harrison’s sitar now demands equal attention with Lennon’s previously dominating lyrical narrative. And you can’t help but notice Harrison’s quirky guitar pickings on “What Goes On.” Starr’s steady timekeeping and beat on “In My Life” now shares equal prominence with Lennon’s timeless vocal, and one of the best Beatles’ pure-pop moments, “You Won’t See Me,” gains new freshness as the sugary harmonies punch McCartney’s perfect lead vocal. The pre-hippie vibe of “The Word” is now a collaborative musical chant, and on the seductive “Girl,” Lennon’s husky, longing breaths spray spit on your face. Thanks to the overdue remastering, this album could be the most important discovery of The Beatles’ catalog.

– James Turano

Revolver
I guess if any artist deserves the fanfare and falderal of a complete remastering treatment, The Beatles — unquestionably the most important band in rock ‘n’ roll history — would be your band. Why’d they wait so long? Why do I now own crappy-sounding versions of many of these albums? And really, what’s to say about a remastered Beatles set from 43 years ago?

Revolver sure sounds good now. It sounds good in my car, on my computer, but it sounds really good on my home stereo. Great care was taken to clean the original analog tapes and dump it all down to ProTools to remaster each track, and you can hear it. A little extra guitar echo here and there on “Taxman,” more prominent swirly ringing on “Love To You,” and you can hear the space between the layers in Lennon’s “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Neat stuff. Try this: move the balance back and forth, right and left, on almost any song. Starr’s drums are always on the left and his cymbals are on the right. Isolating the sound like this will help you realize what a fucking monster of a bass player McCartney can be at times.

Curiously enough, Revolver is one of my least favorite Beatles albums, though it contains a couple favorites, especially “She Said She Said.” Now I have a better sounding version of it to shit-can down to an MP3 for my iPod . . .

– Michael C. Harris

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
Sgt. Pepper has taken a beating over the past several years. Despite being pretty much hailed as a ground-breaking concept album on its release in 1967, hindsight says it’s a dated collection of some of The Beatles’ most dynamic music (“A Day In The Life,” the title track, “Fixing A Hole”) yoked to their most self-indulgent and sub-standard (“Within You Without You,” “When I’m 64,” “Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite”) crap that rival the worst moments of Let It Be. Forty-two years later, it’s clear the Sarge is a victim of four decades of unrealistic expectations and critical blow-back. Yet it’s still a pretty good little record. Sonically, it’s impressive to hear the band’s first “mixed for stereo” album remastered for a new generation, especially when pulled into four measly tracks of 2-inch tape. McCartney’s bass is distinctly more pronounced and, yes, funky on “Lovely Rita” and “Fixing A Hole” and most of the record. Starr’s cymbals and snare drum snap like never heard before, and The Beatles’ impeccable harmonies are more in your face. After the “first” listen, Sgt. Pepper offers a ton of sonic “wow” moments. Enough to merit re-purchase? Go for it.

– John Vernon

Magical Mystery Tour
When pouring over The Beatles’ cannon, it’s more than apt to classify Magical Mystery Tour as the Rodney Dangerfield of their releases. Never mentioned in the same breath as the heavy-hitters — due to its affiliation with the ill-conceived film project and inclusion of previously released singles for the U.S. release — Tour nevertheless satisfies on every level. While it isn’t conceptual in the Sgt. Pepper vein or is as experimentally daring as “The White Album,” it stands as having arguably the best collection of pure songs of any effort. It also finds them at the apex of their psychedelic predilections with “Blue Jay Way” and “I Am The Walrus.” When all is said and done, how can any album that has “Walrus” on it not rock your world?

– Timothy Hiatt

The Beatles
There’s this funny bit in The Beatles’ Anthology DVD where McCartney is talking about the “White Album” and how some people have said in retrospect it was too disjointed, too long, too self-indulgent, etc. Sir Paul responds by looking into the camera with disgust, and saying: “Hey, it’s The Beatles’ ‘White Album” . . . Shut up!”

The layered guitars on this set’s tracks like “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” are rich and vibrant; the pounding drums of “Helter Skelter” sound like cannons, right up to the point where Starr shouts, “I got blisters on my fingas!”; and the lush vocals of “Happiness Is A Warm Gun” sound as though they are in your living room.

Musically, The Beatles was a shared solo album while still very much a band project. Starr made his songwriting debut (“Don’t Pass Me By”); McCartney gave us some of the band’s best rockers (“Back In The U.S.S.R.,” “Birthday”); Harrison came into his own as a brilliant songwriter (“While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” “Pig-gies,” “Savoy Truffle”); and Lennon simply offered some of the best songs he ever wrote “(Julia,” “Dear Prudence,” “Sexy Sadie,” “Cry Baby Cry”).

– Bruce Pilato

Yellow Submarine
So there’s Harrison’s “It’s All Too Much” freakout and “All Together Now,” a glorified drinking song. The only reason to buy the Yellow Submarine soundtrack is if it’s the only Beatles album you’ll own. Just so you can be that guy.

– Steve Forstneger

Abbey Road
Abbey Road is arguably The Beatles’ recording apogee — the band’s 12th and final release of an extraordinary six-plus-year run and, as with the first, last with all four members in the studio at the same time. So after 40 years’ familiarity via original vinyl and 22 years’ via CD remake, how does 2009’s much-ballyhooed, remastered icon stack up? Quite nicely. Indeed, it sounds like the ’90s recording it is; as if the four lovable mop tops of 1964 had just drunk from the fountain of youth and re-entered the studio yesterday. Vocal parts and individual playing (particularly McCartney’s and Starr’s) sparkle above an overall brighter, punchier-than-one-remembers group sound throughout. And while all the re-engineering of the original tapes didn’t end up in a fully remastered vinyl version leaves an “apples-to-apples” comparison between side twos (“Here Comes The Sun” through “Her Majesty”) still out of reach, there’s no denying the range and brilliance of Abbey Road’s final 16 minutes, regardless of format.

Let It Be
As swan songs go, Let It Be disappoints because its genesis had so many different incarnations. The remastering of the disc allows for a thorough, overdue re-examination. Immediately apparent is the clairvoyant musical relationship between McCartney’s nimble basslines and Starr’s metronomic backbeats that occasionally give way to drum fills that now pop like fireworks.

The vocal interplay (specifically on “Two Of Us” and “Dig A Pony”) that volleys from Lennon to McCartney is notable in that it could easily have taken place in the Cavern Club and not in the basement of the Apple compound. And when it does get sent for a cup of tea, it’s replaced by some of Harrison’s cleanest, yet surprisingly unhinged guitar pyrotechnics.

Still, no amount of studio wizardry can salvage some of the lesser material. “Dig It” and “Maggie Mae” still sound tossed off, and even though Phil Spector’s production is relegated to window dressing, it still pollutes the simple, melodic beauty of “The Long And Winding Road.” But if the Fabs’ storied career taught us anything, it’s that nothing — inflated egos, psychotic producers, or messy breakups — could suffocate their ability to construct a timeless melody.

– Curt Baran

Past Masters
The bad news, in case you haven’t heard, is that these two discs of odds ‘n’ sods come packaged so tightly in a replica foldout LP cover that it’s all but impossible not to scratch them every time you slide them in or out. (At least vinyl came protected in paper or plastic sleeves.) The good news is that you needn’t slide these discs in or out at all to hear their contents. Originally left off The Beatles’ U.K. albums and released only on 45s or EPs, most of these 33 songs have nevertheless long been available on one side of the Atlantic or another on compilations with more user-friendly — and disc-friendly — packaging (1962-1966, 1967-1970, Rarities, 20 Greatest Hits, 1). Meanwhile, though only audio nerds will likely detect the audio superiority of these latest remasterings, average fans of various nationalities will easily notice the pointlessly extreme separation of the “wider stereo” versions of “Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand” (“I Want To Hold Your Hand” in German) and “Sie Liebt Dich” (“She Loves You,” ditto) and wonder why we couldn’t have gotten, oh, I dunno, a spruced-up The Beatles At The Hollywood Bowl or some other genuine obscurities instead.

– Arsenio Orteza

Son Volt’s Jay Farrar and Death Cab For Cutie’s Ben Gibbard met after being asked to record songs for the Jack Kerouac documentary that shares titles with this album. They then bonded and wrote some more.

Appearing: Monday, October 26th at Lincoln Hall in Chicago.

Kerouac’s Big Sur was released in 1962, like On The Road is semi-autobiographical, and, unlike On The Road, finds him plummeting into hell (he’d be dead in seven years). In the midst of painful alcoholism, the book chronicles a writer struggling with his fame and addictions, and an inability to function like a human being for those he loves. It’s dark, heavy shit and the album cleverly springs off with Gibbard singing “California Zephyr,” hitting the road once again and trying to find peace out West. The duo have taken some liberties with Kerouac’s text, though try to remain true. But as soon as Farrar’s somber voice grips the album on “Low Life Kingdom,” the whole thing starts to sink. The remaining mashes flow like tar, taking a yawning eternity to pass. Farrar and Gibbard fully understand that Big Sur is not a happy book, but never once consider including the delirium or violent pain of alcohol withdrawal — a frequent occurrence in the novel — to break up the album’s awful monotony.

Further, it appears to be a collaboration in name only. Despite their bonding, Farrar and Gibbard never sound like they’re sharing the same recording booth much less ideas. Farrar also has the unfortunate specter of his ex-Uncle Tupelo bandmates hooking up with Billy Bragg to record unused Woody Guthrie material on Mermaid Avenue. Those songs, expanded to a second disc, used Guthrie’s words as a launching pad to explore the sounds of the activist’s America. Farrar can’t even get his subject out of bed.

– Steve Forstneger