CULTURE ARCHIVES From The Archives From The Archives MUSIC ARCHIVES Pazz & Jop

1990 Pazz & Jop: Hard News in a Soft Year

The night Voice music editor Joe Levy and I began tabulating the 17th (or 18th) Pazz & Jop Critics’ Poll, the war had been on for more than a week, and my CNN habit was in remission. So we played music uninterrupted as we counted from 8:30 till 4 and 9:30 till 1. Though Public Enemy led for the first quarter (wouldn’t that piss people off?) before giving way to Sinéad O’Connor (who dominated straighter, smaller polls), by bedtime Neil Young looked like the shoo-in we’d figured. We were having fun, sampling dark horses (matched Replacements surrogates Soul Asylum and Goo Goo Dolls) and cracking wise about other people’s tastes (today Tim Buckley, tomorrow Essra Mohawk). Glimpsing the top of the mountain (289 voters, 34 more than the 1989 record), we broke for lunch, picked up a paper, and there it was: oil slick all over the front page, for me an even worse nightmare than the bombing of Tel Aviv. Suddenly fun was beyond us. Back upstairs, after a brief TV fix, I felt compelled to hear music that was painful and familiar: Wild Gift, Exile on Main Street.

As it happened, our return-mail date was January 17, so that many out-of-towners found themselves trying to say something clever about their fave albums as the UN deadline passed and the countdown began. Geopolitics put our little world in perspective — or so it seemed in late January. But one reason the gulf war is the most disastrous event of my conscious lifetime is that it tempts us to obsess on it at a time when so much else desperately requires our attention. Culture vulture though I am, I wouldn’t put the death of rock and roll up there with nationwide bank robbery, semitropical winters, the future of excommunism, or even the budgetary suicide every public school parent is up against — especially since I suspect the obituaries are premature yet again. But there they were, set off by Billboard chart-watcher Paul Grein’s observation that 1990 was the first year since 1963 that not a single guitar band had a number one album. And as I pored over the mountain, I realized that for many critics, especially sharp young ones and bitter old ones, 1990 seemed like a turning point. Something is happening, and nobody really knows what it is — me included, so don’t get your hopes up.

Poll results reflect this uneasiness only insofar as they represent small departure from recent trends — fail to provide so-called trendmakers the breakthrough they crave. Never have albums seemed more irrelevant. As Mike Rubin notes in the “Yesterday’s Papers” section — and I recommend you read the conversations I’ve constructed from the ballots before winding through my inescapably inconclusive comments, which I’ve held down to make room — 1990 was a year in which press coverage of the usual profusion of product gave way to larger thematic concerns. Or maybe smaller. Hard news, maybe. Or maybe just what hard-news hardheads (the guys who churned out videogame criticism and called it military analysis) dis as “back-of-the-book copy” — reported, even investigated, “stories” instead of celeb profiles or (ugh) reviews.

Censorship was the heavy deal all year, and don’t tell me it’s a red herring, not with retail chains prescreening sex ’n’ violence and so-called parental warning stickers keeping tapes out of Saudi Arabia. Though metal took its licks, rap obsessed the watchdogs, generating racial controversy and racist hysteria even as the Oreo and the Sno-Cone topped the charts, and rock/rap sexism (though not, fancy that, homophobia) ballooned from boring old left-lib plaint into national nightmare. Everywhere, Public Enemy and Madonna angled for the ink Sinéad O’Connor dove into. Predictably, all these headline-stealing issues and personages inspired mucho respondent analysis — especially rap, which remains “the new punk” on formal and cultural momentum alone. But to my surprise, it was Silli Vanilli that really stirred the critics up. I assume you know how dumb the shit was — John Leland found ghostsingers behind Frank Farian’s video-friendly concoction a year before Rob and Fab confessed their sins. And the voters were hip, only rarely bemoaning the shame and scandal of it all. But among many conservatives, as I’ll label them — the Clubrats described toward the top of the long section called “Mass Culture Theory,” or professionals like Geoffrey Himes, who spends his life reviewing the “news events” hardheads demand (the reason concerts rather than records dominate daily rock coverage) — the story struck a spark.

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So suddenly I get eight or 10 letters hyping live over Memorex, and with common sense on their side. After all, which came first — the juke joint or Sun Studios? But even if Sam and Elvis did recreate a roadhouse music, which is highly debatable, so what? The medium may not be the message, but the medium sure changes the message, and Stayathomes like different kinds of messages than Clubrats. Or vice versa. Himes’s “unmasked emotion” is cant — it happens once in a while, usually when the sound man fucks up, but the most you can expect from someone who’s singing the same song for the 200th or 2000th time is the variation on authenticity quote-unquote that the forgotten popular culture theorist Reuel Denney termed “self-stimulation.” David Sprague’s “wild abandon,” on the other hand, is more subject to performance discipline and its obverses, though it sure gets faked a lot. And the question of who can “really” play or sing isn’t altogether meaningless — while technical skill obviously doesn’t guarantee artistic innovation or listening pleasure, it does help sometimes, even on record. But the main thing that happens at shows is that you see other people there. The artiste first of all, with all the extra inflections that fabricated intimacy, physical detail, and interpretive variation can afford. Even more important, listening to music live puts you in contact with other listeners. Instead of imagining a pop community, you encounter one.

This isn’t the main thing the conservatives care about, of course. That would be art in all its truth and beauty — especially truth, a truth associated with unmediated perception and “human” scale, though some wise guy might wonder why it so often comes in a four-four box. Relatively speaking, their opposite numbers, who I’ll call the couch potatoes, are relativists, skeptics, pop intellectuals. Truth and beauty aren’t their game. One reason they stay at home so much (almost as much as the average fan!) is that they like to read and watch television, which ain’t so easy when you hang out in bars three-four nights a week. Whether this makes them smarter or stupider is beside the point — either way they feed on secondhand information. I say civilized human beings have always shown this sort of bent for abstraction, though not to the extent of fashioning pomo theories out of it. And although that doesn’t end the discussion — people who like rock and roll have always had their problems with the way civilization quote-unquote defines the civilized (as non-Islamic, say), not to mention the human  it’s why I side with the couch potatoes even as I dream of getting out more.

So say it loud — what all our deliberations and computations add up to is a bunch of ABSTRACTIONS. The points are abstractions, the results are abstractions, and, oh fuck, in many ways the albums are abstractions too. Sure they have physical reality, even in the digital form so few critics resist any more. And sure our judgments proceed (can proceed, should proceed) from our aural experiences. But not only are these experiences intangible in themselves, they generate intangibilities of a greater order of magnitude. We have the presumption to construct imaginary communities around them even though we can’t swear our significant others went to the same heaven we did last night. And we assume they can stand in for barely expressible ideas — certainly when we write about them, and too often when we vote for them as well (many critics feel obliged to augment their favorite records with representative black/white/female/male/indie/pop/disco/metal/jazz/worldbeat mentions, a piety I deplore). One reason voters are forever discovering that they prefer singles to albums is that singles aren’t so burdened with abstraction. They’re usually experienced publicly, on the radio or the street or the dance floor, and — in the famous guilty pleasure effect — less subject to superego review (although I confess to leaving Bell Biv Devoe’s jack-swinging “Poison” off my list solely because I found its sexism intolerable). Albums are still supposed to resonate like Great Works even though we suspect the concept of the Great Work is an oppressive fiction.

Statistically, that fiction held this year. As music has factionalized and consensus softened, the top Pazz & Jop albums haven’t been getting such Great numbers — in recent years only Prince’s Sign ‘O’ the Times has won big. So it’s no surprise that the 1990 triumph of Neil Young & Crazy Horse’s Ragged Glory was less than sweeping — its points-per-voter quotient fell about midway between that of 1988’s controversial It Takes a Nation of Millions and 1989’s flukey 3 Feet High and Rising, which had the shallowest support of any winner in poll history. Although the point strength of the top 10 albums was respectable, the wan kudos volunteered on The Rhythm of the Saints and Interiors and Graffiti Bridge and even Time’s Up made you wonder how much the critics raved about their faves after their reviews were in. But I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got and Fear of a Black Planet were powerful second- and third-place finishers in both votes and corroborating commentary. Different as the top three records were — the Young an atavistic garage stomp, the O’Connor a singer-songwriter effusion bursting with rock/rap/worldbeat juice, the PE the impossible followup to a revolutionary LP — they obviously entered many different voters’ lives (61 named at least two, 10 all three). And most of us can take comfort in the one overarching value all three artists share: they don’t have much use for the American flag as it’s currently displayed. Ragged glory indeed.

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In general, though, the album list was inconclusive if not stagnant if not meaningless. Though rap is said to be hurting artistically, it landed exactly as many albums in 1989 as in 1990 — six, with Queen Latifah placing the same record twice, 3rd Bass a late-’89 release, and the other full-fledged debuts by unreconstructed middle-classniks Digital Underground and A Tribe Called Quest in a year when street Afrocentrism was the power move. More debut albums charted in 1990 (10 counting Ice Cube and the Texas Tornados) than in 1989 (eight counting Bob Mould), but only sophomore-in-disguise Cube made top 10, whereas last year De La Soul–Neneh Cherry–N.W.A–Soul II Soul placed 1-5-6-9. Thanks partly to inspired poaching by Deee-Lite, Lisa Stansfield, and 3rd Bass, the top 40’s black-artist total dipped from 14 to 11, but once again half the top 10 was black. There were seven albums by women in 1989, six (counting Deee-Lite) in 1990. Dance heroes Soul II Soul broke in a little higher in 1989 than dance heroes Deee-Lite did in 1990. Non-English-speaking Caetano Veloso finished 27th in 1989, non-English-speaking Youssou N’Dour 25th in 1990.

In fact, the only album “trend” I see is, of all things, white rock and roll. Early in the decade new indie groups bum-rushed Pazz & Jop every year, but not lately. In 1989, the only indie-style poll debuts came from NRBQ, who are older than Gavin Edwards, and Galaxie 500 (who plunged to an astonishing one mention in 1990); in 1988 the Cowboy Junkies (who plunged to a less astonishing zero mentions in 1990) were the new kids on the block, though art-rockers Jane’s Addiction and metalists Metallica and Guns N’ Roses also made their dents; in 1987 it was two more sad stories, 10,000 Maniacs and That Petrol Emotion. This year five newish bands charted for the first time: the Black Crowes were 31st, Faith No More 27th, Yo La Tengo 19th, and World Party 15th, while the Chills scored our cult record of the year, finishing 12th even though they made 11 fewer ballots than 13th-place Deee-Lite. Precedent suggests that some of these artists will never darken our poll again; except for the smart, sublime jangle-pop of the Chills’ Submarine Bells, I found all their music slightly annoying myself. But flashes in the pan they’re not — only the flashy Black Crowes placed a debut album. With the junk syncretism (kitchen-sink eclecticism? styleless mish-mash?) of Jane’s Addiction up from 34th to 24th, it’s my reluctant conviction that Faith No More will be around. And World Party might just turn into a Squeeze for our time — Beatles fans (also Tim Buckley fans) with their fun-filled conscience on Karl Wallinger’s sleeve. Hold the obits, please. Critics can be so stubborn.

On the singles list, meanwhile, things changed plenty, and in the opposite direction. Women sang lead on only four of our 1989 top 25; in 1990, the figure was 12. And for all the rap-dance futurism of last year’s comments, 12 rock/pop singles underwhelmed seven rap and six dance singles on the list itself; this year, rock/pop singles were down to eight and dance up to 11. For all you category-haters out there, I’ll hasten to emphasize that mine are dubious. People obviously dance to rap, especially the likes of “Bust a Move” and “Humpty Dance,” while dance records like “Buffalo Stance” and “Poison” get half their shit from rap (to make matters worse, I counted Snap’s “The Power” as dance and Chill Rob G’s as rap even though the tracks are identical). “Tom’s Diner” is a dance record that owes an immense debt to rock (or folk, or whatever); “Epic” is a rock record that owes a medium-sized debt to rap. In fact, though dance singles obviously achieved some critical hegemony in 1990, with the crucial side effect of a surge in female voices (a bow to Martha Wash, who belongs on MTV no matter what you think of authenticity as concept and construct), this category-hopping is the story. For all their syncretic dreams and cute little experiments, the Pazz & Jop albums categorize pretty easy. The singles, which in the top 12 or so all got airplay in a dismal year for pop radio, ignore genre boundaries the way Neil Harris planned it.

I don’t think rock and roll is dying, even in its square old guitar-defined form. Not because Warners signed the Chills, or because the Black Crowes are younger than the Rolling Stones, or because Yo La Tengo is the most shameless critics’ band since the Pet Shop Boys. The poll has never had that kind of precise predictive value. It’s just that after 17 (or 18) years I know years are funny things — they’re all atypical. Grein didn’t count Sinéad or Bonnie Raitt because girls who play rock and roll ruin neat theses. Two rappers, one worse than the other, topped the pop charts for more than half of 1990, and though rap isn’t dying by a long shot, I bet that never happens again. Springsteen takes over the racks in April. And so forth. But though it hit a blank with the commercial shortfall of Amerindie (a hardy cottage industry in any case), the poll has always had general predictive value. What it predicts is that’s something’s gonna happen and we don’t know what it is. What I’m hoping is that eventually we’ll figure it out.

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For years young critics have been pointing toward the rock-dance fusion Billboard has been bruiting lately — maybe not in the form of one famous professional (Phil Collins, say) jiving up his schlock by hiring another (Shep Pettibone), but that’s biz for you. Critics rarely understand biz — they just sense what people need to hear a little quicker than bizzers do. So for a neat thesis we can posit rock-dance fusion as if no such thing had ever happened before — though in fact it was a fad (and a Pazz & Jop theme) 12 years ago, and what Brit New Pop was about, and also, from another angle, what rap was, is, and will be about. This thesis carries with it the usual unexceptionable abstractions — serious fun on the mind-body continuum. And not only is it all over the singles chart, it’s revitalized the EP chart, which is topped by some postpunk guitar heroes’ dance record (because they’re reserving the real stuff for a new label?), a gangsta rapper moving on indie-rock turf (or getting paid more per song), and guitar uglies gone New Romantic (really new age). Extry, extry: Amerindie redoubt goes DOR.

But the thesis doesn’t explain the out-of-nowhere showing of pop pigfuckers Pavement, who finished fourth (surrounded by Two Nice Girls and major-label product of wildly disparate quality) on one of the tiny labels the EP list is supposed to give a crack to. It doesn’t explain a reissue chart dominated by Brobdingnagian CD reclamations of music that safely predates postmodern fuss. It doesn’t explain the top three albums, each of which honors the great god beat in its own cerebrally undanceable way. It doesn’t explain Sonic Youth even if their drumming’s better, much less Living Colour, whose jagged, pretentious art-rock qualifies as DOR only if you subscribe to the theory of natural rhythm. It doesn’t explain Rosanne Cash, whose songs sang clear when she toured without a drummer. It doesn’t explain Los Lobos or the Texas Tornados, roadhouse-rooted though each may be. It doesn’t explain Jane’s Addiction or the Black Crowes, Iggy Pop or Eno/Cale, Reed/Cale or Robin Holcomb, Van Morrison or Bob Dylan, the Pixies or the Replacements. It doesn’t even explain the Pet Shop Boys.

All right, we’ve been here before. Electoral processes are rarely unanimous, trends are never monolithic, and different critics like different kinds of music. Big deal. Radical pluralism or a thousand points of light, it’s an old story, and as such a long way from the divine rupture of something-is-happening-and-we-don’t-know-what-it-is. Indeed, I’m almost as sick of the metaphor as you must be. Like any concept, pluralism risks turning into a shibboleth unless it absorbs new data — it’s losing its explanatory aura. But what can I do? According to many respondents, 1990 was the latest in the endless line of worst years ever, yet having freed myself to seek out only good records, I put together my longest Dean’s List ever. And as usual my picks were all over the place, including 13 and counting representatives of a black Africa that from Ladysmith to the Oriental Brothers has far more to offer than the estimable Youssou N’Dour. Internationalism is built into the dance-rock thesis — I don’t just mean Hull’s own Beats International, I mean Snap — but as the term is usually understood it remains a far-future projection of indeterminate shape. Even for this radical pluralist, whose list was dominated by what we jokingly call rock and roll — 17 guitarslingers as far-flung as Ministry and the Flatlanders and the Beautiful South, as differently same-old as Sonic Youth and Living Colour and the Chills and the Pixies and, well, Neil Young.

As Elena Oumano says somewhere hereabouts, we dance to Armageddon to the beat of our own drummer. And as Joe Levy says somewhere else hereabouts, there’s no reason to think guitar rock won’t be a viable residual subgenre for a long time to come. It would be tasteless to make any grand claims for its ability to save or even improve the world at this horrible moment, but it certainly speaks to a little group of paras and professionals who’d like to see the world save or improve itself, and who take hope in the best of popular culture — “people’s” culture, to and/or from as the case may be, generously accessible in both its renegade-seeker and utopian-hedonist forms. Looking over my own list, I was struck by all the high-ranking faves I’d classify as pop rather than rock, pop with historical perspective — Red Hot and Blue and The Civil War, and also Evan Lurie’s all faux, all true tango and Madonna’s blindly underappreciated camp. They reminded me of Jason Weisbard’s modestly visionary suggestion — a grander version of whatever inspired a vocal minority to campaign for the return of the video ballot — that our interest group comprises not just rock critics but all popular culture fanatics. And what are our interests? How about free expression for those human X-factors Victorians referred to as the dangerous classes? Spiritual growth from the ass up? Pop history as art history? The old ideal of art as community? Trial by disco for Allan Bloom? Like that.

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Reclaiming mass culture is a couch potato’s dream. Insofar as live-over-Memorex partisans hope to encounter a community instead of imagining one, it’s a community fixated on difference — a community of people who already agree with them. There’s admittedly something very abstract about the commonality couch potatoes posit as an alternative — real human beings are far more unpredictable than any work of art, however “complex,” “vital,” and so forth it may be, which bothers aesthetes no end. But there’s something even more abstract about the Clubrat-Stayathome polarity itself — most of us fall somewhere in between. So let me tell you a story and turn the speculation over to my colleagues.

Like most of the voters in this pluralistic interest group, I didn’t put Ragged Glory in my top 10 — thought it dragged, basically. But though those who don’t get Young may dismiss his victory as pure reaction, I like the record, which makes good on several potent fantasies — eternal renewal, the garage as underground, the guitar as shibboleth and idea. And I wasn’t going to miss his gig, especially not with Sonic Youth opening. When’s the last time two such Pazz & Jop eminences shared a bill anywhere, much less Madison Square Garden? (Answer: in Chicago a month before, when Chuck & Flav and Kim & Thurston occasioned a police riot you may have read about.) But between the display ad and the event fell the bombs, which transformed the concert as they have everything else. Ordinarily the kid from the cheap seats wearing an American-flag T-shirt with the legend TRY BURNING THIS ONE…ASSHOLE would have served as a neat symbol of mass culture and its contradictions. Now he brought to mind Toby Goldstein critiquing Madonna’s morality one minute and nuking the barbarians the next.

Young has made some exceptionally asinine political comments in his time, so I didn’t know quite what to think when he skronked out an invisible Hendrix-style “Star Spangled Banner” after Sonic Youth went on and off. Wasn’t so sure about the giant yellow ribbon hung around the giant microphone prop, either. Sure was nice to see that peace symbol up there, even if it was Freedom’s logo. But though I’ve heard complaints about the predictability of his set list and the automatism of his abandon, I don’t think he’s ever exalted me like that. I admit his every-word-counts claim on “Blowin’ in the Wind” — as if to say, “This is my song now, Bob, but I’d love for you to try and take it back” — put me in a receptive mood, especially after the huzzahs for “Before they are forever banned.” But though he didn’t utter a nonlyric for two hours, that painful and familiar beat provided respite from Armageddon, with warhorses like “Powderfinger” and “Cortez the Killer” and for that matter “Rockin’ in the Free World” ideologically focused for once. And when during a delirious encore of “Welfare Mothers,” he kept yelling “Day care, day care,” I felt he understood. I didn’t especially deserve the respite, of course — not the way they do over in the gulf. But we haven’t figured out how to effect the transfer. All we can do is contest symbols and abstractions — rhythms and sonorities, flags and ribbons — as we mourn and marvel at the incursions they make on our physical lives. Ain’t much, is it?

Oh shit. Peace. And salaam.

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Top 10 Albums of 1990

1. Neil Young & Crazy Horse: Ragged Glory (Reprise)

2. Sinéad O’Connor: I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got (Ensign/Chrysalis)

3. Public Enemy: Fear of a Black Planet (Def Jam)

4. Sonic Youth: Goo (DGC)

5. Living Colour: Time’s Up (Epic)

6. Ice Cube: AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted (Priority)

7. Paul Simon: The Rhythm of the Saints (Warner Bros.)

8. Rosanne Cash: Interiors (Columbia)

9. L.L. Cool J: Mama Said Knock You Out (Def Jam)

10. Prince: Graffiti Bridge (Paisley Park/Warner Bros.)

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Top 10 Singles of 1990

1. Deee-Lite: “Groove Is in the Heart”/”What Is Love” (Elektra)

2. Sinéad O’Connor: “Nothing Compares 2 U” (Ensign/Chrysalis)

3. Digital Underground: “The Humpty Dance” (Tommy Boy)

4. Madonna: “Vogue” (Sire/Warner Bros.)

5. (Tie) Faith No More: “Epic” (Slash/Reprise)
Lisa Stansfield: “All Around the World” (Arista)

7. Black Box: “Everybody Everybody” (RCA)

8. Madonna: “Justify My Love” (Sire/Warner Bros.)

9. Soho: “Hippychick” (Atco)

10. Public Enemy: “Welcome to the Terrordome” (Def Jam)

—From the March 5, 1991, issue


Pazz & Jop essays and results can also be found on Robert Christgau’s site. His most recent book, Is It Still Good to Ya? Fifty Years of Rock Criticism, 1967–2017, was published last year.




Chances are you know Suzanne Vega from 1990’s “Tom’s Diner,” her originally a cappella track that skyrocketed to radio ubiquity after British producers DNA set it to a dance beat. But it’s hard to understate Vega’s importance outside of that song: The intimate, accessible folk of her 1987 platinum breakthrough, Solitude Standing, opened up commercial avenues for female singer-songwriters like Sinead O’Connor, Fiona Apple, and the Indigo Girls. Though Vega’s popularity was arguably superseded by those that followed — especially after producer and ex-husband Michael Froom took her ’90s efforts in a more experimental direction — there’s no question that her wryly observational lyrics and pop-friendly arrangements are just as compelling now as they were 20 years ago.

Sun., May 4, 8 p.m., 2014


Sinéad O’Connor

Irish anti-Pope, pro-pop musician Sinéad O’Connor is more than just controversy, a symbolically shaved head, and one amazing Prince cover—she’s, at the very least, about nine emotionally raw and melodically compelling albums more. Her bluesy, harrowing voice carries songs over waves of somber piano chords or and acoustic strums. Whether you’re turned off by her lack of a censor and the largely public deterioration of her psyche, there’s no denying that her songs can command a room.

Fri., July 26, 8 p.m.; Sat., July 27, 8 p.m., 2013


Joan as Police Woman+Metric+Holly Miranda

Joan Wasser’s work as Joan as Policewoman is a great example of an artist using “understated” to her advantage. While Wasser is renowned for her work as a collaborator, over two albums (plus an online-only covers set) as Joan as Police Woman, she’s discovered a means of channeling influences as disparate as Nina Simone, Sinead O’Connor, and Jon Brion into music that’s as challenging to her as it is to the listener. Maybe there isn’t a single here, but that doesn’t matter when it’s as quietly, intensely powerful as this material can be. This show is part of Celebrate Brooklyn and also features Holly Miranda—her hazy, soft-toned Magician’s Private Library has been slept on a bit—and the shadowy electro pop of Metric.

Thu., Aug. 5, 7 p.m., 2010


Voicebox 24: Noise From The Front


“Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?” — Ernest Gaines

Matt & Kim
It’s A Fact (Printed Stained),” from Matt & Kim (iheartcomix, 2006)
[From music listings for Friday, June 22]

Third World
Now That We’ve Found Love,” from The Best of Third World (Island/Def Jam, 2004)
[From music listings for Thursday, June 21]

Cursed Mirror,” from Come Pick Me Up (Merge, 1999)
[From music listings for Sunday, June 24]

Downtown,” from Impeach My Bush (XL, 2006)
[From music listings for Wednesday, June 20]

Team Dresch
Growing Up in Springfield,” from Personal Best (Chainsaw, 1995)
[From music listings for Saturday, June 23]

Sinead O’Connor
I Am Stretched on Your Grave,” from So Far… The Best of Sinead O’Connor (Chrysalis, 1997)
[From music listings for Tuesday, June 26]

Dangerous Vision,” from Zones (Flicknife, 1983)
[From music listings for Monday, June 25]

House Gone Up in Flames,” from One Man Revolution (Sony BMG, 2007)
[From music listings for Tuesday, June 26]

Allan Holdsworth
Temporary Fault,” from I.O.U. (1982)
[From music listings for Wednesday, June 20]

Violent Femmes
American Music” from Why Do Birds Sing? (Slash, 1991)
[From music listings for Friday, June 22]


Scrapbook of Solitude, Part II

SYNOPSIS “Yes, yes, it gets worse,” he says. And what follows is the proof. Which this time is—once again—not in the pudding but in the tunage. Can it get worser still? Probably. Wait and see, kiddies.

NEXT WEEK: Surprise!

Playlist for Episode 31

“Ballad of the Sad Young Men” by Anita O’Day
From a little-known 1959 musical called The Nervous Set that we think is overdue a revival. But what do we know?

“The Next Question” by Urban Verbs from Urban Verbs (Wounded Bird, 2003)
Less annoying than related band Talking Heads, and sadly less popular. Thanks, Carl!

“All the Young People of Today” by Eurythmics from In the Garden (RCA, 1981)
She speaketh the truth.

“Heart Shaped World” by Chris Isaak from Heart Shaped World (Reprise, 1989)
If we could still cry, then this would start a wee river down the Lower East Side.

“Rumors” by Johnny Crawford from Rumors (Collectors Choice, 2004)
What are words worth, anyhow. We almost played a Siouxsie & Co track, but this was somehow ever more painful. But we’re tough and we can take it.

“Dimstar” by Gay Dad from
Leisure Noise (Sire, 1999)
Mostly boring, cynical britplop for boring, cynical consumers of britplop. Save for this track, which we love. And the Peter Saville cover: Oh, cyan! Why wasn’t there ever a parody band called Adult Children of Asian-American Lesbian Chainsmokers?

“Winston’s Diary” by Eurythmics from 1984 (For The Love Of Big Brother) (Disky, 2001)
If we could get away with it, we’d just play this soundtrack over and over for every episode until they came and led us quietly away to that special place they eventually take people like us.

“Death of a Ladies’ Man” by Leonard Cohen from Death of a Ladies’ Man (Sony, 1977)
He’s another one we don’t much care for here in the Treehouse. But sometimes we do. And we’re all about the exceptions, yes?

“Willow Weep for Me” by Frank Sinatra from Only the Lonely (Capitol, 1958)
Yes, we’d have played the Kid Montana version if we coulod only bloody find a copy. Maybe you can? Maybe you can share?

“Ode to Billy Joe” by Sinead O’Connor from Help: A Charity Project for the Children of Bosnia (Polygram, 1995)
Note the disturbing foley. Subtlety was never Missy’s middle name. . .


Ain’t Struggling

Celtic crosses round her neck, white stole but no dreads, Sinéad O’Connor explains away her spiritual mix-and-match steez in convincing enough NPR rhetoric: Catholicism is her religion, Rasta is her movement. That “white girl flies to Kingston to do expensive reggae karaoke” bounce she worked at Webster—I would say that’s her movement. Still, can’t knock this way stellar backup band—Sly and Robbie, who produced O’Connor’s roots covers album Throw Down Your Arms, performed with her, as did Burning Spear, many of whose songs O’Connor took up that evening. And definitely can’t knock O’Connor’s scratchy-smooth alto, so powerful she often held the mic two feet from her mug and still outpiped most jokers invited onto Webster’s stage. For struggle music, she ain’t struggling.

O’Connor’s made something of a big deal of how she only does “spiritual” numbers these days. But her reggae cover choices had something else to them—they’re some of the genre’s most melody driven. That dense, impossibly busy groove of “Marcus Garvey” obeyed her pitch-perfect lead; those horn flourishes on “Y Mas Gan” and its feisty bassline never dared upstage her lullaby delivery. To the question “What does reggae sound like?” maybe now O’Connor’s gorgeous a cappella rendition of “Jah Nuh Dead,” patois intact, will suffice for an answer, at least as much as the upstroke guitar sound/hand motion most people make when pressed.

So O’Connor privileged melody over meter, reggae per se over what reggae “means.” More bluntly, her show was hardly the Damian Marley hotbox of the week before. “If you have a cigarette lighter, get it out!” O’Connor suggested before “Vampire,” a Lee Perry cover that defines the “true Rasta man,” and among other things, rhymes with “fire”; nobody had one. Though to be fair, when O’Connor snuck the Christian spiritual “Veni Emmanuel” into “Door Peep,” some girl in V.I.P. did grab the votive candle off her table and lift it into the air. Gaude, gaude.


Laptop for Desktoppers

Pick Hits


(Clapping Music, 8 alle de Normandes, 78112 Forqueux, France)

In the studio—live, see below, he has a combo—Frenchman Yann Tambour is a solo laptopper whose works are invariably described by the few Anglophones who know they exist as mysterious and depressing. I say they’re moody, and note for the record that the mood they evoked on a recent European sojourn was always comforting—notably during a jet-lagged rush hour as we sought lodgings in a language we do not speak on an Appian Way that was more picturesque back in the day. Tambour’s music is slow and textural, deploying glitches and ostinatos in the service of a better-grounded groove than is laptop practice. Over this Tambour whispers now and then in a French it’s just as well I can’t make out, although my multilingual wife believes that on the first track he says either “there is still a time” or “there is still a liver,” both of which seem chipper enough to me. Unless—uh-oh—it’s “there isn’t yet a time” (or liver). Oh well. A MINUS

A Brief History of Rhyme: MC Hawking’s Greatest Hits

Absurdist comedy in which the virtually immobilized “young, gifted and tenured” theoretical physicist raps via a text-to-speech conversion program—about bitch-slapping his T.A. and drive-bying six “punk ass bitches from MIT,” about a bizang bigger than “the sound of my gatt,” about entropy and the end of all things, about the idiocy of creationists and others: “New age motherfuckers/Don’t get me started,/I made more sense than them,/Last time I farted.” It’s not all equally mind-boggling, but the concept, which the real Hawking finds funnier than shizzit, is glorious. As creator Ken Leavitt-Lawrence must know, it’s an affirmation not only of the primacy of reason but of its nihilistic gangsta power. A MINUS



(Buda Musique, 188 Boulevard Voltaire, Paris 75011 France)

In 1974, a world-class singer in a small world made a pretty darn good album in his local style. Am I smart enough to distinguish said work, marketed here as Éthiopiques 19, from the 1973 and 1975 Mahmoud Ahmed albums that have caught my ear over the years? No. Do I listen with pleased attention as his commanding and arresting if never quite unique or exquisite voice declaims over the Ibex Band’s two-sax tchik-tchik-ka from scene-setting “Alèmyé” to relaxed, drawn-out “Tezeta”? Almost every time. B PLUS


Lost and Safe


What new subspecies of wankery is this? Guitar and cello contextualized to sound like laptop doodling? Spoken-word samples so unlikely they might be written and performed rather than researched and found? Plus many minutes of actual singing, or sing-talking, who knows what exactly, about what who knows exactly? If these were actual songs I’d scoff at their inaudible indecisiveness: listen hard now, “Our heads approach a density reminiscent of the infinite connectivity of the center of the sun” in under five seconds. But though this may be pretension, it’s also delight, strange and humorous verbally and aurally. It’s not catchy, right. Merely memorable and enchanting in the manner of Another Green World—which stays well within the lines by comparison. A MINUS


Everything Ecstatic

(Domino, PO Box 1207, NYC 10276)

Kieran Hebden does pack a lot of ideas, or maybe they’re really just sounds, into a song, or maybe the term is album cut. But he’s always lyrical. There’s never that Conlon-Nancarrow- meets-Squarepusher sense of machine-scale speed exploited to evoke the workings of a mind that should take it easy already. Rounds was so lyrical, in fact, that it drove genre obsessives to the neologism “folktronica.” Many such folks are disquieted by Hebden’s constitutionally protected decision to dabble in the usages of drum’n’bass, which are every laptopper’s roots, after all. The drums get busy at times, but never fear—this sounds more like Rounds than it does like anything else. Just a little funkier. A MINUS


(Manteca, Union Square Music, Unit 1.1, Shepherds Studio, Rockley
Road, London W14 0DA)

You want beats, they got world beats, finally. Whatever they’re rapping about—and when they break into English, which happens, it’ll seem real enough unless humanism’s not your way—the 14 non-U.S. crews on this U.K. comp are funking some different shit, usually looped tunelets that are common currency there and fresh here. Front-loaded Latin, it excludes European materials till the final track, which saunters past with its arm around the shoulder of a casually mesmeric Greek guitar or bouzouki figure. Lots of Africans, a German Turk, and some U.K. Indians headline; Sergent Garcia and Oumou Sangare guest. Watch out, homeboys—they’re learning, and they’re very eager. A MINUS


Discover a Lovelier You

(Ashmont, 10A Burt Street, Dorchester MA 02124)

Trying to be a better person,” swears Joe Pernice. But though he provides examples, the title on that one is the all too typical “Saddest Quo.” So in the end, he proves his good intentions the only way he knows how. Guitars chime, harmonies glide, hooks and choruses stroll by as easily as extras in an impressionist painting—all in the service of such topics as abject poverty, killing someone in a car accident, and our old friend the loss of love. On the loveliest album of Pernice’s pretty career, the most eloquent song of all is the wordless title tune. A MINUS


La Kahena

(Six Degrees, 602 20th Street, San Francisco CA 94107)

Although Bill Laswell is only a bass player on this conceptual compilation, which adds beats to female singers in a panoply of Maghreb traditions, it partakes of Laswell’s long-established commitment to celebrating Islamic difference as a strength us guys should respect and draw on. Algerian-born, San Francisco-based dance DJ Sabbah is so skillful, so imbued with rhythm in general and these rhythms in particular, that exotic-in-the-Maghreb underlays from jazz, reggae, and the clubs sound chosen and organic. Well before 9/11, Laswell understood better than most of us that such fusions were a pleasure and a necessity. Now they’re also a solace. A MINUS


Get Behind Me Satan


From Lil Jon to Thom Yorke, pop supports many cooler celebrities than Jack White, and though returning primitivism to the hit parade was a neat trick, his aesthetic ideas are as limited as Meg’s drum technique. So rather than carp about his failure to lead us to salvation, perhaps we should content ourselves with the hit parade. White’s commercial success has nothing to do with de Stijl or da blooze—just a strong, emotive voice delivering simple yet distinctive songs, which are fairly numerous here. “My Doorbell,” for instance, finds a fresh route to the abandonment theme and adds a little twist when his friends stop buzzing too. “Take, Take, Take” is that difficult thing, a smart song about what a drag fans are. You may prefer others, that’s part of the charm. And when he sticks to electric guitar he still rocks plenty. A MINUS

Dud of the Month


The Understanding


Just as jungle tended toward soundtrack music for B thrillers in exotic locales, chill-out tends toward waiting-room music for plastic surgeons who really want you to order that butt implant. Where once these Norwegians were extolled for their subtle melodicism, here their schlock candidly attacks the jugular. If they’re Air, Goldie was Tricky. C PLUS

Additional Consumer News

Honorable Mention



(Yep Roc, PO Box 4821, Chapel Hill NC 27515)

One difference from Gram & Emmylou is they both write the songs (“Two Different Things,” “Please Break My Heart”).




Ex-con, not gangsta (“Trouble Nobody,” “Locked Up”).


(Escondida, 150 Lafayette Street Suite 11R, NYC 10013)

Just like one of those dancehall comps named after a beat, which in this case goes surprisingly far but no further (Panjabi MC, “Jogi”; DJ Gem, “Kank Di Rakhi”).


Mars Loves Venus

(Lil’ Chief, Box 68-290, Newton, Auckland 1032, New Zealand)

That’s New Zealander Jonathan Bree, not Jonathan Richman, and his sweetie pie Heather-not-Katherine Mansfield (“Mars Love Venus,” “Beautiful Militant”).


Monkey Business


What all pop might be—so much brighter and kinder than it is (“Pump It,” “Don’t Phunk With My Heart”).


Divorcing Neo to Marry Soul


The intelligent black woman, from helpmate to party girl (“Woman to Woman,” “One More Drink”).


Live From Las Vegas


“You wanna hear me sing straight, buy an ablium” (“Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes/Pennies From Heaven [Bourbon]/Hello, Dolly [Vegas],” “Monologue”).


A Question of Temperature

(Yep Roc, PO Box 4821, Chapel Hill NC 27515)

With Yo La Tengo and wide-ranging covers, and loosened by both inputs (“Venus,” “Compared to What”).


O.C. Confidential

(Finger, 18092 Sky Park Circle South Unit A, Irvine CA 92614)

If only Green Day were this mad (they wouldn’t have gotten near a Grammy) (“Lockdown America,” “Monsanto Hayride”).




Lapsed Cracker after “before the great decline” (“Friends,” “Beauregarde’s Retreat”).



(Big Beat)

She can’t be saying “greatest tits”—she’s just too thin (“Chewing Gum,” “Greatest Hit”).


Cold Roses

(Lost Highway)

Nine songs per disc, evenly divided good-dull-OK, only the first disc—he’s full of surprises—is stronger (“Easy Plateau,” “Beautiful Sorta”).


The Modern Sounds of the Knitters


These days folk-country is exactly their speed (“The New Call of the Wreckin’ Ball,” “Skin Deep Town”).


Live at Nantes: Oblique Lu Nights

(Clapping Music)

Concert EP with humanly interactive groove, hubba hubba, and less twee than Tortoise it certainly is (“Nocturnes,” “Une Nuit à Ciel Ouvert”).

Choice Cuts


“Wake Up and Make Love With Me”



Sinéad O’Connor,


“Spanish Harlem”

(Travels in the South, Yep Roc)





Loco Motive

(Warner Bros./Raybaw)


Another Day on Earth



In the Clear



Last Exit



Before the Dawn Heals Us



The Sunlandic Twins






Before and After

(Hidden Agenda)