Café Tacuba is one of those bands where owning one of its albums will make you look cooler and smarter than you already are.
That’s because Café Tacuba is one of those bands that slavishly works to produce challenging, uncompromising recordings. The Mexican quartet play loosely traditional Latin music with an attitude and energy that’s all about rock ‘n’ roll.
They’re intercultural pranksters who can turn a merengue hit into a Mexican huapango. And when they’re not turning Latin music on its proverbial head, they’re pushing the acceptible limits of even the most artsy of art rock. (Kronos Quartet even worked with them.)
Now Café Tacuba has released a career retrospective, Tiempo transcurrido.
For a greatest hits collection, the album holds together incredibly well, almost sounding quite homogenous.
But in a very good way. Over the course of nine years, Café Tacuba hasn’t lost its course.
Moody tracks from 1999’s experimental Yosoy don’t sound out of place next to more out-going tracks such as the rough-hewned “El ciclón” or the electro-punk bombast of “Pinche Juan”.
Musical jokes such as “No controles” and “Ojalá que llueva café” — the aforementioned merengue-turned-huapango track — share a spiritual kindredness to the kinetic “Las flores” and “Ingrata”.
Such musical adventurousness makes the multi-rhythmic “Chilanga banda” and the dissonant “El aparato” feel positively normal.
Ramon Albarran’s nasal squeal, a voice that could easily grate in the wrong setting, never wears out its welcome. If anything, no one else is suitable for Café Tacuba’s genre-defying work.
Even clocking at 74 minutes and containing 22 tracks, Tiempo transcurrido feels like it finishes way too early. The album ends abruptly with “La dos”, not giving listeners the comfort of a fade out.
Few bands can break such rules so effectively. Café Tacuba has made a career out of it but still manages to squeeze in a few hooks amid all that rhythmic complexity and harmonic discomfort.
Tiempo transcurrido is a smart album, the best of the best. Getting it will make you smart too.
There’s a good reason Ozomatli chose Wozani to open for the band on its headlining tour in 2001.
Wozani and Ozomatli share a similar catholic (as in “comprehensive”, not “Roman”) interest in music. For Ozo, it’s Latin, hip-hop and jazz. For Wozani, it’s African, soul and — dare I say it — post-punk.
In concert, Wozani is a jubilant ensemble, welcoming but confrontational, energetic but grounded.
But on the band’s seven-song album, A Call for the People to Come (a translation of the band’s Zulu name), Wozani is much more introspective, almost a far cry from the exuberant band that primed Ozomatli’s audience at a concert in Austin.
Guitarist Jamila Guerrero-Cantor sticks to an acoustic instrument on the album, giving Wozani’s music a more subdued, organic feel even on such up-tempo tracks as “Throw Me Down” and “Nature.”
As such, songs such as “Friend” and “Nature” come across as almost folk-rock instead of grunge and alt-rock, respectively. Even “Kiya”, a workout of West African and rock music, sounds dramatically different without a chiming electric guitar.
Does such an intimate recording do an injustice to the band’s stage presence? Absolutely not. If anything, Guerror-Cantor’s acoustic playing emphasizes Wozani’s incredible skill as songwriters. Amplifiers do not equal talent.
Singer LamaKhosi Kunene has a wonderfully tender voice, and with Johari Funches-Penny and Shalott Wilson providing harmonies, the results are stunning.
While Wozani’s music may be introverted, it’s lyrics are certainly straight-forward. “I don’t want to be your fucking friend,” Kunene and friends sing on “Friend”.
“You can be a woman and be born with a dick,” Funene proclaims on “Seasons”, “or you can find a good man to pay all your rent.”
Wozani is an incredibly promising band, armed with tight, talented musicians and a set of worldly, throught-provoking, and most importantly, well-written songs.
See them live if they come to town, and make sure you get a CD on the way home.
It’s been three years since Ozomatli first took a bow with its self-titled debut, a disc so musically diverse, a sequel would be hard pressed to follow in its footsteps.
Embrace the Chaos, Ozo’s second album, is not only a suitable follow-up, it actually stakes out its own creative stamp.
This album exudes more energy than its predecessor and is packed to the hilt with Latin rhythms and heavy hip-hop beats, melodic African percussion breaks and outbursts of horns.
The more traditional rock backbeats that informed Ozomatli’s debut are noticeably absent on Embrace the Chaos — this is strictly a Latin affair, with a little bit of help from a bunch of hip-hop friends.
And therein lies in its inexhaustive energy.
Latin rhythms are some of the most difficult to navigate, and singer/trumpeter Asdru Sierra charts them well when he pits his melodies against the band’s tight arrangements.
The rather inaccurately titled “Timido” and “Dos Cosas Ciertas” don’t let up on the dance rhythms. “Mi Alma” switches back and forth between a kinetic waltz and a straight-forward drum machine. “Sueñnos en Realidad” is the booming percussive song Paul Simon should have written around the time of The Rhythm of the Saints.
“Vocal Artillery” is perhaps the most interesting sonic collage — a hip-hop beat lays the foundation for a dark, Klezmer-like trumpet line, over which three rappers freestyle.
Ozomatli was born out of activisim, something not altogether played up on the last album. The title track on Embrace the Chaos, however, takes listeners straight to Ozo’s roots.
Samples from the aftermath of the band’s interrupted performance anchor the song’s opening and conclusion. It’s an interesting experiment that works musically but also seems a bit heavy-handed.
In the end, Ozomatli is all about the band’s namesake — the Aztec god of celebration.
Embrace the Chaos is an invitation for listeners to embrace jubilation, exuberance and joy. In this case, chaos isn’t a bad thing.
It took earning seven Grammy nominations and a slot on the Watcha Tour for the rest of the world to heed the title of Juan Esteban Aritzibal’s debut album.
Fijate bien. “Pay close attention.”
If you speak Spanish, you just might get a more meaningful experience from listening to Juanes’ appealing mix of Latin music and rock. Reportedly, the singer’s lyrics deal quite a bit with Colombia’s internal strife and sounds literate in doing so.
I don’t speak Spanish, so I couldn’t get anything out of the lyrics, no matter how closely I pay attention.
But it doesn’t take much brain power, let alone more than two listens, to realize Juanes is one helluva songwriter. Ah, the wonder of music — good tunes are understandable anywhere.
And Fijate bien has more than its fair share of incredible songs.
Unlike other rock en Español artists, many of whom align themselves with punk and rap, Juanes is a mainstream rocker. Nek may sound and look a bit like Sting, but Juanes has Sting’s ability to nail a hook.
Producer Gustavo Santaoalla, a guy whose work with the likes of Molotov and Café Tacuba makes him walk on water, embellishes Juanes’ music with some nice touches.
Strings and a quiet electric guitar infuse “Vulnerable” with a cautious optimism. Vallenato-style accordions drive the title track and “Podemos hacernos daño”, while salsa rhythms provide the foundation for “Para ser eterno” and “Sonador”.
But at its core, Fijate bien is a songwriter’s showcase. Juanes probably didn’t need to put a single Latin influence in his music to get his point across. Nor to sound any less good.
Pay close attention? Nah. Juanes makes it easy to just sit and listen.
Oh, how I’d like to give Madrigal a glowing review.
It’s Chara, after all.
One of the most unique voices in the Japanese music. A sort of saccharine Macy Gray, with a lot less sandpaper in her throat. A singer with a distinct vision of what her voice ought to achieve.
And on Madrigal, Chara again finds seeks out music that suites her unique set of pipes. It’s just not very memorable music.
There certainly are some bright moments. Former Smashing Pumpkin James Iha opens the album with two incredible songwriting contributions, “Boku ni Utushite” and “Skirt”. Of the two, “Skirt” is the hands-down gem, a sugary pop confection made bittersweet with Chara’s husky delivery.
The album’s first single, “Lemon Candy”, makes for a nice companion piece to “Skirt”, and “Caramel Milk,” which was written by Ivy’s Andy Chase, has a nice leisurely pace.
But for the most part, Madrigal is inconspicuous.
Only on a few tracks does Chara ever reveal the power her voice holds. She sounds great when she’s whispering, but she shouldn’t hinge an entire album on it.
The band nearly drowns Chara out on “Tameiki no Mi”. Her non-descript delivery on “Kanashimi to Bi” probably possesses more fire than the song lets on.
“Kokoro no Ki” just kind of waddles, and even on “TADD”, the fastest, boisterous song on the album, Chara barely registers.
As a result, what should have been a strong collection of neo-psychedelic rose-colored-glasses pop-rock turns into a belaboured performance.
The two versions of “Skirt” on this album aren’t enough to really make it interesting.
And that’s too bad. Chara is a riveting performer, and the hippie vibe that permeates this album fits her like a velvet, diamond-studded glove.
Freedy Johnston has such an emotive croon, it’s hard to look past his more introspective work to realize he can rock out.
1994’s This Perfect World and 1999’s Blue Days, Black Nights suits Johnston for the simple reason that his voice sounds incredible delivering a poignant melody.
By comparrison, his more outgoing work — 1992’s Can You Fly? and 1996’s Never Home — pale by comparrison, despite being strong, rocking records adored by critics.
Right Between the Promises manages to balance the quality of Johnston’s quieter works with the drive of his louder material.
“Broken Mirror” has the sing-song quality that made “Bad Reputation” a dark horse hit six years ago. “Waste Your Time” hammers along with the energy of his earlier work.
“That’s Alright With Me”, on the other hand, indulges in a breezy, jazz-pop feel, while “Radio for Heartache” and “Save Yourself, City Girl” dig into more mainstream American folk-pop.
Johnston even tries his hand at a bit of cryptic-ness, writing a dissonant, arhythmical hook on “Back to My Machine.”
Right Between the Promises is not only well-written and well-performed but well-rounded.
Johnston covers the breadth of his talents, and he does it pretty succintly — the album clocks in just short of 40 minutes.
Right Between the Promises, however, has garnered a bit of criticism from writers who expect Johnston to keep producing poetic short stories in song form.
And yes — this album isn’t big on creating mini-universes, populated with half-drawn but intriguing characters. (Evie is nowhere to be found.) Fans holding Johnston to that harsh criteria may find themselves disappointed in that regard.
But really — Johnston could sing in Gaelic, and his songs would lose none of their emotional strength.
Right Between the Promises is an excellent, concise disc from one of America’s best songwriters. That’s all there is to it.
It’s a primitive declaration, but there really isn’t anyway other succinct way to describe this Korean-born fury of a singer who now calls Japan home.
Just one listen to Youjeen’s first album, The Doll, and it’s enough to get everyone at a bad party slamming.
J from the now-defunct Luna Sea has evidently taken Youjeen under his proverbial wing — his name appears all over the credits as songwriter and producer.
And while Youjeen may only be a vocal piece, she’s a pretty damn intriguing one.
She rants against commercialism and capitalist social classes on the album’s opener, “Apple for Your Thoughts.” Then she turns into a latter-day hair-metal vixen for “Hey Jerks”, but afterward transforms into a grunge frontwoman on “Happy Happy Doll.”
Like Meg Lee Chin from England, Youjeen knows how use the full range of her vocal abilities to get her point across. She can sing sweetly for a few verses, but then turn into a growling, screaming banshee a few seconds later.
It’s a powerful talent that keeps listeners riveted to Youjeen, even when her music veers from creepy to angry.
On “Witch”, she alternates between shy and fragile, fierce and aggressive. She keeps her growl in check for “Another,” but her belting power is no less impressive.
Musically, The Doll indulges in the greatest rock excesses without losing a focus on attention-grabbing riffs.
“Someday” finds Youjeen surrounded by rumbling guitars and dramatic strings. “Witch” sports a dischordant hook over which eerie synthesizer effects lend a touch of Marilyn Manson.
“Good-bye”, on the other hand, shows Youjeen can be an introspective rocker, but not before “Fly away” and “Imitation,…you” lay heavy on the metallic-punk riffs.
The Doll is cock rock at its best. Youjeen cuts through the crap that rock ‘n’ roll has become and gets to its hearts and guts. Or to take the penile analogy further, she’s got rock by the balls.
Reading other reviews of Vespertine, it’s easy to think that it’ll be love on first listen.
It’s. Not. True.
Yes, Vespertine is a remarkable work. Yes, Björk has carved out yet another striking sonic palette. Yes, this album is every bit as good as every critic on the planet who’s wet himself singing high praises for Björk says it is.
But make no mistake —
Vespertine rewards only the hearty listeners who can give it at least five to seven spins.
There really isn’t anything out there at the moment that sounds like Vespertine. Boy choirs, lush strings and music boxes co-exists in harmony with needles skipping on record surfaces, thundering timpanis and bizarre percussive effects.
All throughout, Björk threads everything together with her distinct, fragile croon, drawing listeners in with a whisper.
Vespertine is nothing if not beautifully crafted. “Pagan Poetry” builds slowly to a wonderful climax when Björk exclaims repeatedly in a capella, “I love him/I love him.” Then she reaches the crux: “But this time/I’ll keep it to myself.”
“It’s Not Up to You” saunters along at a leisurely pace, but the song ebbs and flows, washing the listener in a sea of strings and harps for a second, then backing off and letting Björk spell out a nugget of truth: “If you leave it alone, it just might happen.”
“Frosti” appoximates the soothing sounds of a gamelan orchestra with music boxes, while “Aurora” overdubs harp work by Zeena Parkins with a distorted backbeat.
All told, Vespertine just writhes in beautiful sounds.
But it’s a beauty that’s presented inconspicuously. Björk treats a backbeat as a nice suggestion — her asymmetrical melodies come across as enlongated improvisation.
On 1997’s Homogenic, Björk still managed to wed hooks into some seemingly obtuse melodies, but on Vespertine, it takes a lot of attentive listening to figure out what’s melody and what’s texture.
As a result, less patient listeners might find themselves playing the album and not remembering a single thing about it. Long-time fans might find themselves intially disappointed in an album that leaves an impenetrable first impression.
But stick with it. Vespertine pays off in the end.
By most accounts, ACO wasn’t always so interesting. Earlier in her career, the Japanese singer attempted to carve out a piece of the sultry jazz-pop pie already staked out by UA and Chara.
After three albums, the young ACO didn’t really go anywhere.
Then in 1999, she got bold, collaborating with hip-hop rockers Dragon Ash on “Grateful Days”, and in early 2000, ACO provided vocals for reknowned international club artist DJ Krush on “Tragicomic.”
She enlisted the help of Japan’s emerging musicians for her 1999 album Absolute Ego and found her voice.
ACO continues to grow with Material, an album that never turns back on her jazz-pop past but trains the 23-year-old singer’s eyes squarely on the future.
The opening synthetic chimes and heavily processed samples of “Melancholia” call to mind Post-era Björk, and from there, ACO delivers one seething, sensual song after another.
ACO is no powerhouse vocalist, and she could never give the likes of UA or Cocco or Do As Infinity’s Van Tomiko much competition.
But when her voice is drenched in thundering bass, ethereal synthesizer effects and booming drum samples, ACO’s bittersweet whisper feels totally at home.
Tracks such as “Hoshi no Kuzu”, “Shinsei Romantist” and “4gatsu No Hero” saunters at a leisurely pace, but ACO fills all the open spaces with an emotive wail all her own.
On “Canary wa Naku” and “Sora Shiranu Ame”, she turns into a space age cabaret singer, delivering a riveting performance amid some dark, ominous music.
ACO cites Kate Bush as an influence, and Material ably demonstrates it. “Interlude” incorporates samples of Bulgarian women’s choirs much the same way Bush employed Trio Bulgarka on her 1989 album The Sensual World.
ACO even goes so far to cover Bush’s “This Woman’s Work” from that album. If it weren’t for ACO’s accent, a person couldn’t tell the difference between the two singers.
While Material concentrates heavily on creating vast canvases of bizarre synthetic effects, the album is still a jazz-pop work at its core.
At a faster tempo, “Time” could have become a very blues-y, bouncy tune. “Anata ni Sagasu Uta” is a total torch singer’s anthem even without the lush string arrangements.
As a single, “Heart wo Moyashite” felt out of place, but as the conclusion to Material, the song becomes the culmination of an artist’s incredibly broad vision.
Material is an intriguing, appealing work, and ACO does an incredible job housing her voice in music suited well for her talent.
Timing is everything in the music industry, and bands live and die by it all the time.
Formed in 1996 and disbanded four years later, Oblivion Dust died by bad timing.
Fronted by a singer who could navigate both English and Japanese, Oblivion Dust wrote hook-ladened songs that never let up on the volume nor the distortion. Singer Ken Lloyd could carry a tune while throwing a few throat-crunching growls now and again.
As evidenced by the band’s final release, Radio Songs: Best of Oblivion Dust, Oblivion Dust’s hard, tuneful brand of metallic rock could have conquered the world — back in 1992.
At the beginning of the 1990s, Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkins made it cool to profess allegiance to both metal and punk. Those influences weren’t lost on the young lads who eventually formed Oblivion Dust.
If Lloyd had a Clorox-drenched growl instead of a nasal whine, Oblivion Dust may not have been distinguishable from other bands that called Seattle home at the early part of the last decade.
Some of the tracks from the band’s first two albums — Looking for Elvis and Misery Days — don’t hide these influences.
“With You” sounds like a Siamese Dream-era Smashing Pumpkins outtake. “Sucker” and “Therapy” attempts to combine some Trent Reznor-like rhythms with big, power chords.
When the band released its third album Reborn, it finally found its own voice, and its songwriting consistently hit the proverbial nail on the head — something that continued with Butterfly Head, Oblivion Dust’s last album.
Radio Songs slants heavily toward these two albums, going so far as to include songs from Butterfly Head that were never released as singles and leaving off earlier work such as “Falling”, “Numb” and “Blurred”.
As such, the collection bucks tradition of most best collections released in Japan. Radio Song doesn’t just merely collect all the band’s many singles on one disc, it actually attempts to present what could be perceived as Oblivion Dust’s best work.
Fans may protest the inclusion of the very Cure-sounding “Lucky #10” or the slight hip-hop deviation of “No Regrets”. But as a whole, Radio Songs holds together incredibly well.
Oblivion Dust was a hit band that never was, and Radio Songs allows everyone who missed out to catch up.