RIYL: The Specials' "Ghost Town," Radiohead's In Rainbows, film noir soundtracks
If you read enough reviews of Heligoland (spoken as 'Hell Ego Land'), Massive Attack's new album and first in eight years, you'll eventually be able to play Bingo with them. At some point, the phrases "dark," "brooding," "trip-hop," "atmospheric," and "guest vocals" will pop up in the majority of them, and as overused as those expressions are, they fit. Of course, the other reason many reviews will say these things - again - is because, well, what else is there to say about Massive Attack? They have carved such a unique niche for themselves that talking about their music is akin to dancing about architecture. Some bands just are. Massive Attack is one of them. It's a sweet place to be if you can swing it, but it makes objective analysis of their music almost impossible.
Up to this point, however, no one has ever needed to write "twelve years removed from their last good album" when discussing Massive, but that is exactly where the band finds itself; you have to go back to last century's Mezzanine ('last century' is a trick writers use for melodramatic effect) to find their last consistent piece of work, so the band needs this one to stick. And for the most part, it does, certainly when compared to the 2003's hazy 100th Window; with a more focused approach on songwriting rather than groovemaking, Heligoland plays like Radiohead's In Rainbows if they had gone the Santana route and recruited a slew of guest vocalists. (Bingo!) Longtime friend Horace Andy sings on the odd "Girl I Love You," which begins in the vein of "Angel" but ends with a horn section jazz-out not unlike Radiohead's "The National Anthem," and the skittery "Babel" is like "Bela Lugosi's Dead" done as a drum 'n bass track. That's a good thing, in case you were wondering.
Massive's achilles, however, has always been their tendency to stay in a groove until it becomes a rut, and Heligoland is no exception. There is a lot to admire about the album, but it's difficult to love; for as much time as they spend exploring dark themes both musically and lyrically, it's lacking in emotional impact, and not even Damon Albarn can save the album's final third from coasting to the finish line. Still, bringing the band back to a duo (100th Window was basically a solo project by Robert "3D" Del Naja) was a step in the right direction, but now that they've made two albums without Andrew "Mushroom" Vowles, it's evident that present day Massive Attack is much like Think Tank-era Blur without Graham Coxon. The band still exists, but things will never be what they once were. It is now up to us to accept this and hope for the best going forward. (Virgin 2010)
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Record labels have always been eager to sell music fans repackaged goods, and since the dawn of the CD era, the marketplace has been more flooded than ever with remixes, so-called “deluxe” versions, remasters, and all manner of different versions of the same thing. Still, even during a century that has brought us three different iterations of The Essential REO Speedwagon, Dave Matthews stands out as a mighty king of the leftover; since 1997, he’s released approximately 375 live albums, not counting the interminable Live Trax series, whose volumes now outnumber the population of Guam.
Love Bites is the Buzzcocks' second album. When it first came out in 1978, it was probably the closest punk rock came to a concept album at the time, the concept being just how much love can bite. Almost every single song on Love Bites is a blistering pop-punk piece of bitterness about the darker side of love and lust. Screw Morrissey and the Cure - no one has ever laid pop misery down like Pete Shelley and crew do here. If songs like “Just Love,” “Real World” and the immortal masterpiece “Ever Fallen in Love” don't move you on some level emotionally, then you have either never faced the pain of a broken relationship or you are dead inside. Love Bites is a brutal trip to the dark side of love, but it's one that sounds so damn good that it's impossible not to revisit it again and again. Being miserable never sounded this good before or since.
With "I Don't Mind" and 14 other songs! In 1978, the Buzzcocks issued this album for the first time, solidifying their musical imprint in rock and punk's history. It's been resiussed and remastered a couple times since, but this time out fans get a John Peel session tacked onto the end of the original LP, plus a second disc filled with demos and a crucial live show at the Electric Circus in 1977. Suffice it say the main album here is as good as it ever was, with "Love Battery," "Orgasm Addict," and "Fiction Romance" upping the jittery, nerve-grinding ante. Pete Shelley and co. already had their own original Manchester take down cold, though perhaps these sides were less accessible than "Ever Fallen in Love," but that's usually the point of these recordings. 
Kevin Barker's tenure as a sideman for the likes of Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, Vashti Bunyan, Vetiver, and Espers appears to have prepped him well. On this, his first outing as a front man, Barker meshes the rustic perspective garnered from his well-heeled resume with an off-handed saunter that often recalls Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead in limber jam band mode. 
With an album name like Transference, generally meaning misdirected emotions or a kind of displacement, it should come as no surprise that Spoon side-step their usual M.O for their seventh studio album. For those who grew accustomed to the band's neatness on albums like Gimme Fictionand Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, Transference will feel unkempt, while early adopters of the band might appreciate the album's raw qualities.
It’s hard to believe Jag Star has been making music for a decade now, but this Knoxville-based band has returned with its fifth studio album, Static Bliss, and it’s more of the same ear candy that has garnered much success for them in the MTV world of TV placements. Fronted by singer Sarah Lewis, Jag Star’s sound is so tailor-made for those MTV shows that it’s almost like they were written specifically for them. It’s melodic, teen-anthem edgy pop that just jumps out of speakers, and Static Bliss is a continuation in that vein. And though Jag Star has achieved all of their success and notoriety to date without the support of a record label, their stuff measures up to anything out there. Part of the reason for that are the songs themselves, and the band’s tightness and delivery - but it doesn’t hurt that they commissioned producer Travis Wyrick (P.O.D., Pillar, 10 Years), who is known for delivering made-for-radio recordings. 
Sade’s been releasing babymaking music for so long that the kids who were conceived to the strains of their first single, “Your Love Is King,” are old enough to have children of their own. You’d think they’d have run out of ideas by now – or, at the very least, run out of people willing to purchase their albums – but Sade’s last release, 2000’s Lovers Rock, actually sold more than its predecessor, 1992’s Love Deluxe.
Fucked Up's The Chemistry of Common Life was the best album of the decade (
On Your Mark, Get Set... receives bonus points off the bat for the band title, which riffs on our 
MOTOR is hardcore (too hardcore for lowercase letters, apparently), and they want you to know it. With song titles like “Bite the Bullet,” “Death Rave,” “Le Bitch,” and “Jacked Up” they're advertising their abrasive acid house before you even listen to them. With house going the way of electro and disco thanks to artists like Justice and Daft Punk, it's nice to see someone take it back to the acid house roots of the late '80s/early '90s while adding their own spin to it. In the case of MOTOR, that spin is a dark and menacing vibe that is usually reserved for darkcore drum and bass and hardstyle. Acid house was already jarring and abrasive enough, so when you add the dark and evil vibe that MOTOR is going for, you get nonstop jarring, pounding rhythms, vicious synth riffs, countless hoovers and screeching sirens custom designed to raise the roof at a midnight rave. There's no other way to put it - this shit is intense.
After nearly a decade attempting to make their name among L.A.’s alternative elite, the Watson Twins scored their big breakthrough when they were chosen by Rilo Kiley’s Jenny Lewis to share the billing on her first solo outing, Rabbit Fur Coat, in 2006. Since then, they’ve been able to carry the marquee rights on their own, earning themselves a deal with the venerable Vanguard label, which released last year’s major label debut, Fire Songs and subsequently, an even better sophomore set.
David Sanborn has used his recent move to Decca as an excuse to renew his focus on the music that inspired him as a kid: Only Everything, like 2008’s Here & Gone, functions as a sort of loose tribute to the Ray Charles blues axis, with particular emphasis on the work of sax players Hank Crawford and David “Fathead” Newman. It’s certainly a step in the right direction, given Sanborn’s history of burying his formidable talent under synth-powered smooth jazz (listen to most of his ‘80s output – or better yet, don’t) or just aimless, albeit impeccably performed, noodling (most of the ‘90s). But this is still David Sanborn we’re talking about, and although Only Everything is billed as a Hammond-heavy, rootsy jazz record, it really only lives up to that description in the context of Sanborn’s exceedingly polite discography. (It’s certainly a good deal more mannered than 1992’s Upfront, Sanborn’s last foray into Hammond territory.) The end result, for the most part, is an album of well-played covers that will leave you with an itch to dig out the originals – with the exception of the two vocal numbers, which are sure to be singles on every smooth jazz station around the country. It’s hard to understand why anyone thought it would be a good idea to have Joss Stone step up to the microphone for “Let the Good Times Roll,” or why you’d ask James Taylor to sing “Hallelujah I Love Her So,” but all parties responsible should be horsewhipped: Stone’s showoff performance is stuffed with unnecessary melisma, and Taylor’s about as ill-suited a vocalist as you could imagine for the Ray Charles songbook. Skip over those tracks, though, and you’ve got a fine, if frustratingly mild, addition to Sanborn’s catalog – and if you’re at all familiar with his work, “mild” is probably exactly what you’re looking for. (Decca 2010)
At the turn of the century – just about the time the record industry was experiencing its Wile E. Coyote moment before plunging into its recent sales abyss – Jeff Bridges decided to start a label, Ramp Records, and release a Michael McDonald album alongside Bridges’ own solo debut, Be Here Now. Neither release received much attention at the time, but as vanity-plate recording projects from actors tend to go, Bridges’ wasn’t bad; he had a rumpled, Dude-like charm as a vocalist, and although his songwriting tended toward the ponderous (“Buddha & Christ at Large,” anyone?), the songs communicated the same calculatedly offhand attention to craft as his acting. Point is, Bridges’ critically acclaimed turn as the booze-soaked songwriter at the center of "Crazy Heart" isn’t wholly revelatory – and Be Here Now might have stood a better chance at being a hit if he’d surrounded his songs with stellar, downbeat performances from artists like Buck Owens, Sam Phillips, and the Louvett Brothers.
Don’t let their name fool you – pinup on the album cover notwithstanding, there’s very little that’s even slightly villainous about this six-piece Atlanta outfit. Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you, especially for fans of the country-tinged Laurel Canyon rock of the ‘60s and ‘70s; in fact, at times, this eight-song self-titled effort suggests what might have happened if strands of DNA from members of Poco and the Eagles were stolen by a mad scientist 30 years ago and used to create a new band. The Villains’ strongest material boasts all the tight harmonies, spotless guitars, and sunny hooks you could hope for, and the album’s weak spots – like the shudder-inducing, Jimmy Buffett-esque “Where We Began” – are pleasantly few and far between. In a perfect world, an album with only eight tracks would kick ass top to bottom, but for Eagles fans weary of 25-year waits between albums – or country fans stuck between Willie Nelson and Rascal Flatts - The Villains will hit the spot quite nicely. Crank up “Let’s Forget About It Tonight,” pour yourself a cold beer, and be glad rock & roll is still alive. (DCM Records 2010)
The decision for the Flaming Lips to cover, in its entirety, Pink Floyd's classic Dark Side of the Moon has certainly been met with a lot of hostility by people who consider the original to be a sacred artifact of a bygone era that should be treated with an almost religious reverence. Those people have decided to hate this album without ever hearing it, and that's a shame, because if they did take the time to listen to it, they would have plenty of reasons to hate it on its own merits.
Wow. The farther along the Brian Jonestown Massacre goes, the more one can only ask the question, "Why?" Who knows at this point? Undeniably one of the most unoriginal and utterly boring albums in the BJM catalog, Who Killed Sgt. Pepper? is a testament to sheer laziness. Thirteen tracks chock full of distorted vocals, droning instruments, and a whole lot of nothing going on in general will certainly test your patience. "Let's Go Fucking Mental" pretty much sums up the whole feeling you'll have when dragging through this mess. Other way-out imaginative titles such as "Tempo 116.7," "Super Fucked," and "White Music" are literal, people. The Massacre is over. And why did they ever get any attention, anyway? For that biopic that painted the group as a bunch of complete assholes? Well, there you go. But let me tell you, there are a ton of much more talented rock and roll assholes out there worth hearing instead of these guys. The faithful will argue that this is another creative peak. Anyone with a working set of ears will tell you otherwise. You have been warned. ('a' Records 2010)
Jimmy Wayne became a country music star so fast in 2008 when the title track to his Valory Music debut, Do You Believe Me Now? rocketed to #1 on the Billboard country music chart, Wayne and his label did not want to waste any time before issuing the follow-up. Fast forward to November 2009, only 15 months later, and Wayne returned with Sara Smile. The title track, as you have likely already gathered, is a cover of the Hall & Oates hit from 1976 that ultimately reached #4 on the Billboard Hot 100, and has been a staple on soft rock radio for decades. And really, if you consider how much success the country music genre has had “borrowing” songs from the pop/rock world, releasing a track that already was a hit is a good strategy when trying to follow up on what was basically overnight success. The problem, though, is that “Sara Smile” is easily the best track on Wayne’s sophomore release, and it’s made better by the fact that Daryl Hall and John Oates sing backing vocals on Wayne’s version. The rest of the songs, while mostly catchy and serviceable, and having been written by the likes of Keith Urban as well as Nashville powerhouse songwriters like Hillary Lindsey and Rivers Rutherford, are pretty good, but not great. Along with the title track, the best of the rest are the upbeat opener, “Things I Believe,” written by Urban and John Shanks; and the sugary power ballad “Counting the Days.” And lest we fail to mention, Wayne is surely one of the better male vocalists in Nashville today, and he has the supporting cast for staying power. (Valory Music 2009)
David Bowie's 2003-04 "A Reality" tour wasn't billed as his last, but until he decides to jump back onto the stage for another go-round, that's exactly what it is. And while the double CD A Reality Tour serves as a five-years-late memento of that occasion (and companion piece to the 2004 DVD of the same name), it still comes off as fresh and exhilarating as the concerts themselves felt five years ago. A big reason for this is Bowie's achieving the sweet feat of placing copious material from his last two studio albums - 2002's Heathen and 2003's Reality - among his '70s, '80s and '90s classics in the best possible light. That is, "Afraid" and "New Killer Star" sound quite at home among older gems like "Breaking Glass" and "Ashes to Ashes." And while such a large amount of new material (ten songs out of 33) inevitably leaves no room for big hits like "Young Americans" or "Space Oddity" (I also clearly remember Bowie playing "Blue Jean," also left off this set, at the show I attended in 2004), the strength of all the material here - which also includes his takes on tunes he gave to Mott the Hoople ("All The Young Dudes") and Iggy Pop ("Sister Midnight") - is enough so that the stray hits aren't really missed at all.