Taylor Swift: Fearless - Platinum Edition
RIYL: Julianne Hough, Miranda Lambert, buying stuff twice
Even by the record industry’s inflated, pre-Internet standards, Taylor Swift’s Fearless was a huge album, particularly for a teenage singer/songwriter on her sophomore release: in less than a year, it sold more than five million copies in the States, spun off a record-breaking 12 Top 40 hits, and provided some of 2009’s only tangible evidence that someone other than Michael Jackson can still sell records. All of which is presumably the only justification Swift’s label needed to join the obnoxious “deluxe reissue” trend by tacking on five brand new recordings, a “piano version” of album track “Forever & Always,” and a bonus DVD containing five music videos, four behind-the-scenes featurettes, a photo gallery, and the infamous CMT Awards clip that found Swift donning a sideways cap and rapping alongside T-Pain as T-Swizzle. It’s a ton of extra content, to be sure – and at Amazon’s loss-leader early price of $14.99, it’s a heckuva bargain, too. And it’s also worth mentioning that in today’s era of a la carte digital distribution, this kind of repackaging isn’t quite as crass as it was before iTunes and Amazon’s MP3 Store came along. Still, Fearless: Platinum Edition fails to resonate on two levels: first, although the new tracks aren’t bad at all, they don’t feel like missing pieces of the original album – which ties into the second problem, which is that at 19 tracks and almost 100 minutes of music, this is a bloated, unfocused version of a record that was pretty close to perfect as it was. Why not release an EP – or better yet, why not save these songs for the next full-length album? Simply to drop a piece of premium-priced product on store shelves in time for the holiday season, when Swift’s many teenaged fans can hit up their loved ones for a copy. Fearless still does a fine job of illustrating Swift’s gifts as a songwriter and performer, but this version just isn’t as much fun. (Big Machine 2009)
Toiling within the ranks of the indie underground, Devendra Banhart has managed to elevate himself into the highest ranks of the so-called “freak folk” hierarchy. His last album, Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon, made a pitch to expand that tag, with Banhart attempting to meld his obtuse approach with the idyllic imagery of the L.A. environs that spawned such ‘60s lynchpins as Neil Young, CSN, the Mamas and the Papas, Joni Mitchell, and various others that made music in those hallowed hills. Likewise, his recruitment by the majors – in this case, Warner Bros. records, home to many of those aforementioned icons – seemed to indicate a concerted effort to break through the barriers. 
It seems but a blink of the eye when in reality it’s been three decades since Rickie Lee Jones scored her breakthrough hit, “Chuck E.’s In Love,” and subsequently garnered her Grammy for Best New Artist. In the 30 years since, Jones has mostly flown below the radar, at least in terms of her commercial appeal, but her sassy, soulful style continues to leave its imprint and make her a recurring staple. Jones has always seemed most comfortable playing the role of both barfly and ingénue, crooning twilight ballads with a knowing air of cool and sophistication, while also taking sharp turns at practically every juncture. 
Odds are you’ve never heard of Los Cenzontles (the name translates to “the Mockingbirds”), but they’ve been a major force in traditional Mexican music since forming in 1989. Twenty years and 17 albums later, they’ve teamed up with Taj Mahal and Los Lobos’ David Hidalgo (who also worked with the group on last year’s Songs of Wood and Steel) for American Horizon, a sprawling, 15-track concept album that, in the band’s words, “tells a timely story of immigration, work, and the American Dream.” Not the sort of thing you’re going to hear coming out of Sean Hannity’s car stereo, in other words, but if you’re looking for a beautifully moving collection of roots music that literally transcends language, get ready to spend a few weeks curled up inside the restless grooves of this album. You won’t be able to understand the literal meaning of much of it if you don’t speak Spanish, but don’t worry – you only need a soul and a pair of ears to be able to feel American Horizon’s bright strains of joy and sadness. Think of it as a sort of spiritual cousin to the Buena Vista Social Club, and you’ll be on the right track. Mahal and Hidalgo receive second billing, but don’t buy Horizon looking for flashy cameos; instead, their work here reflects a pair of careers spent knocking down musical barriers. It’s one of the most heartfelt – and purely interesting – records we’ve heard all year. (Los Cenzontles 2009)
A chip off the old rock? Well, not exactly, although admittedly Sam Shrieve shares his dad’s penchant for making a mark at an early age. The elder Shrieve was, of course, the frenetic drummer for the first Santana band, the youngest musician to play Woodstock and the piercing on-camera presence that practically stole the show from his colleagues. Young Sam takes a more refined route and while his glamorous good looks are obviously destined for full exploitation, his music is considerably more cerebral than either dad’s tribal tempos or than the typical pinup poser. Consequently, Bittersweet Lullabies proves an apt title for these pleasant soft pop musings, alternately celebratory (“Beautiful,” “”Kiss You,” “I’m Sorry”) and unabashedly sentimental (“Welcome to Your Life,” “”I’ll Be There,” “”Sanctuary”). An aching take on the oft-covered “Hallelujah” actually cuts through the competition and fits perfectly in the mix, as sure a sign of Shrieve’s proficiency as any of his originals. A solid support cast, including veterans Bill Frisell and Lyle Workman, lend additional credibility, but Sam’s the man when it comes to carrying the bulk of the musical weight. Dad must be proud, although wondering where the rhythm went. Nevertheless, this impressive initial outing carries a weight all its own. (Colorburst Soundfield 2009)
Despite his indelible imprint on several generations of Southern California soft rockers – from Poco to the Eagles and various side duties along the way in support of his like-minded peers - Timothy B. Schmit has only rarely taken the solo spotlight via a mere handful of individual albums over the expanse of the past 40 years or so. With Expando, Schmit does what he’s always done beast, offering up a set of unassuming, inoffensive mid-tempo pop songs that spotlight his lilting vocals and amiable, good-natured melodies. 
Their name has long been synonymous with toothless, Wonder Bread-flavored AOR, but once upon a time, REO Speedwagon really did aspire to be a kick-ass rock band – and they showed flashes of getting there over a 15-year period, occasionally managing to work up a decent sweat during minor FM classics like Hi Infidelity and Good Trouble, only to be thwarted at every turn by the soft, pale presence of vocalist Kevin Cronin. He’s had his moments as a songwriter, but as a singer, Cronin is about as rock & roll as Liberace, and his fondness for schmaltz has steadily robbed the band of whatever limited credibility it might have enjoyed. And speaking of schmaltz, here’s Not So Silent Night, a fascinatingly dreadful collection of holiday tracks “with a unique REO Speedwagon musical twist,” which is publicist-speak for “corny as all get out.” Not that Christmas albums need to rock, necessarily, but Cronin really castrates the band here, tossing in shiver-inducing spoken-word sketches, terribly inappropriate ad libs, and borderline offensive cover choices (you can’t help but wonder if John Lennon would still be a pacifist if he could hear this version of “Happy Xmas [War Is Over]”). He’s always had the charisma and vocal authority of a hairless kitten, but Not So Silent Night really begs the question of how Kevin Cronin has managed to keep his grip on REO Speedwagon all these years. Of all the veteran bands who should have gone out and found themselves a nice young replacement singer from the Philippines by now, this one surely tops the list. (Sony Legacy 2009)
If 2009 were to yield a list of its strangest LPs, I, for one, would nominate the aptly named Life with a Slow Ear for at least an honorable mention. Not that its ragged, homespun ruminations offer anything especially unusual in and of itself; heading up the country and getting back to the roots is a popular path these days, especially for musicians who hunger for a respite from a daily diet of scorching guitars, amplifiers turned up to the max and rhythmic onslaughts that could replicate a small tsunami. 
With his previous albums, Greg Laswell established his penchant for cinematic soundscapes, purveying a downcast disposition and a haunting, shrouded motif that provided spectral settings for his weary ruminations. Now, he's taking a brief detour from his own musings via this enticing five-song EP, which retraces songs by Echo and the Bunnymen, Morphine, Mazzy Star, Kristen Hersh and Kate Bush -- and, in some cases, actually bests the originals. These songs were somewhat gloomy to begin with, and Laswell makes no attempt to alleviate the mood. Even so, he manages to add a new dimension; by giving a shadowy and shimmering sheen to “Killing Moon,” a lurching yet assertive stance to Hersh’s “Your Ghost,” and buoying the tempo on “In Spite Of Me,” Laswell effectively puts his imprint on each. Likewise, “Take Everything” retains the laconic feel of Mazzy Star’s original, while transforming the song into a stately piano recital, and his take on “This Woman’s Work” strips the song of its harsh veneer and replaces Bush’s signature sensuality with an emphasis on its gentle soul. Ultimately, like every effort in his repertoire, Covers affirms that Laswell’s an original. (Vanguard 2009)
It ought to come as no surprise that a combo which has taken its cue from iconic Anglo folk music should carry those interests further - in this case, creating an album rich in Celtic and Baroque tradition. But in accepting a commission to pattern a soundtrack for the Public Theater’s production of Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night,” Hem’s allowed their Elizabethan extremes to run rampant, augmenting their usual mellow musings with a contingent of pipes, flutes, whistles and orchestral flourishes all in keeping with the trappings of the period. Mostly instrumental, it gives vocal nods to a theatrically superior cast that includes Anne Hathaway and Raul Esparza, but it’s a relatively unknown David Pittu who proves best suited to singing the sonnets, especially on such traditionally-tied verses as “The Wind and the Rain,” “Hey Robin, Jolly Robin” and “I Am Gone, Sir.” As the titles suggest, this is neither rock, nu-folk nor any combination thereof, but rather a sound that owes its origins and inspiration to the Bard. Hem enthusiasts will likely note this as a momentary detour in anticipation of a band project due early next year. For their part, theater purists will probably appreciate the effort and admire its authenticity. (Nettwerk 2009)
In an era when pretenders to the R&B throne spring up like swine flu in the local emergency room, it only takes a glance back at Otis Redding’s career to remind us that no one has ever managed to recapture his electrifying, unfettered energy and passion. Like Sam Cooke, James Brown, Aretha, the Four Tops, the Tempts, Wilson Pickett and Solomon Burke, Otis was one of a kind: a man who relied not on gimmicks or false sentiment, but a genuine, explosive talent that took every song to the precipice between triumph and tragedy. From the stage at Monterrey to ballrooms across the nation and venues around the world, Otis proved he was the ultimate interpreter of gritty, sweat-stoked, heart-wrenching soul, a man whose fiery appeal transcended race or nationality, rock or R&B.
That cha-ching sound you just heard was the royalty cash register for another mainstream pop/rock songwriter, as a country music artist has not just cut a song by the band Train, but made it the title track for his MCA Nashville debut. The artist is David Nail, and while Nail has endured ups and downs and at least one failed move to Nashville, the story has a happy ending, or at least a happy middle upon the release of I’m About to Come Alive, which might also be symbolic for the young artist. Nail has co-written about half the material here, and it might be curious that he’d go with a full blown cover song as his title track, but if you follow Train at all, you know it’s one of their best and most heartfelt songs. And it comes a couple years after Gary Allan had success with Vertical Horizon’s “Best I Ever Had.” But back to Nail, because he and producer Frank Liddell have managed to put a set of tunes together that is as good or better than anything Nashville has produced in the past decade. And the same can be said for Nail’s powerful vocal ability. Of course the title track is stellar, but there are some other beauties on here, especially “Red Light” and the Garth Brooks-ish “Looking for a Good Time,” the latter of which features some pretty guitar work. (MCA Nashville)
If you’re looking for the soul-stirring genius of John Coltrane’s peak years, you’re not going to find it anywhere on Prestige’s five-disc box set, Side Steps. As an insight into Trane’s early development, however, this is exactly the place to start – and end – your search. The set chronicles the tenor legend’s brief period as a hired gun for established players like pianists Red Garland, Mal Waldron and Tad Dameron, fellow tenor player Gene Ammons (for whom Coltrane provided his services on alto instead), and even Sonny Rollins. No, none of those brilliant 1950s Miles Davis sessions for Prestige are here (Trane was a regular member of Miles’ band, as opposed to a freelancer), and as Miles had him under his regular employ, those recordings don’t fit the theme. But there’s plenty of prime hard bop to be enjoyed here, all recorded during the years 1956 and 1957, packaged with illuminating essays, detailed discographical information and plenty of photos. Newbies to Trane will want to start with his Atlantic Recordings, but working backwards from that point, Side Steps goes one further to complete his recorded history with class and style. (Prestige 2009)
Tim McCarver was a heck of a baseball player and is, despite the fact that many of you find his broadcasting annoying, a fantastic color analyst who teaches us more about the game with each passing telecast. He’s also blessed with a set of pipes that have granted him a long career calling games. But for those of you expecting a train wreck on McCarver’s debut as a singer, Tim McCarver Sings Songs from the Great American Songbook, you might want to save those eggs and tomatoes for someone else. We’ll give you that he’s nowhere in the class of crooners who made or make their living doing that, because you can certainly hear the green in McCarver’s wavering vocals at times. But for the most part, McCarver does a stand-up job on songs, that, let’s face it, are not easy to sing. It’s a nice little set of tunes, and among the best are the opener, “On a Clear Day,” the bouncy “I Wish I Were in Love Again,” and the one that he makes very believable giving his background, “There Used to Be a Ballpark.” Nobody expects McCarver to quit his day job, but he’s going to exceed lots of expectations with this one. (Archer 2009)
Granted, any band that’s been around more than a decade and a half should have been picked up on the public’s radar by this time, and the fact that the Mother Hips have barely registered a blip doesn’t exactly offer any sort of attribute in their favor. It’s a misfortune they lament on “Third Floor Story,” a tale of record company imbroglio that ranks as one of several highlights on this otherwise agreeable new album, their seventh outing to date and possibly their best shot at routing the indifference that’s greeted them thus far. Indeed, based on the evidence offered herein, there’s no reason why this California combo ought not finally win the following that’s eluded them so long. Faithful purveyors of West Coast country rock, with more than a hint of a ‘70s sensibility, they serve up unfettered melodies that once would have invited radio play and the adulation of the masses. Songs like “White Falcon Fuzz,” “One Way Out” and “All in Favor” recall the dusty, free-wheeling affinity that made the Eagles, Neil Young, the Jayhawks and others of that ilk rank so prominently as heartland heroes. Perhaps their problem lies in the fact that they could be perceived as retracing terrain that was so widely traversed more than 30 years ago, and is now considered somewhat out of sync, especially given competition from boy band wannabes, unrepentant rappers and the various other pop pretenders that dominate the charts these days. Too bad – it may not be hip to like the Hips, but when it comes to mining a solid, road-weary sound, they become the Mother of reinvention. (Camera Records 2009)
No album in the last five years has brought out the big brother in us quite like Angel Taylor's Love Travels has. The former California coffeehouse singer has assembled an album of mannered piano pop so wistful that it should come with a bonus CD of heavy sighs to play concurrently with the album. If we ever meet Ms. Taylor, the conversation will start with us giving her a big hug, tousling her hair and assuring her that everything will be all right, sweetie. She's not exactly reinventing the wheel here, but the songwriting has a throwback feel to it, lifting songs like "Make Me Believe" and the Vanessa Carlton-ish "Chai Tea Latte" over the dreck that passes for adult contemporary pop today. And, thank heaven, Taylor has no use for melisma-inspired vocal runs, preferring to keep things simple. That is one trend we hope picks up some more steam. If you have a sensitive tween girl in your life, this is the album for her. And her mother. (Sony 2009)
Note to Alison Krauss and Bob Dylan: give Or, The Whale a call next time you’re looking for a hot young opening band to help carry your Americana torch. Indeed, a tinge of that days-of-old feeling permeates the sweet, harmony-laden sounds of San Francisco’s rising alt-country starlets in Or, The Whale. On the band’s self-titled second album, steel and acoustic guitars provide the rural flavor, and the vocals of Lindsay Garfield, bassist Justin Fantil, keyboardist Julie Ann Thomasson and guitarists Alex Robins and Matt Sartain seal the deal. They lead, coalesce, and otherwise intertwine in ways that suggest a deep down happiness that transcends the heartbreaking subject matter, like the agoraphobe in “Never Coming Out” and dead dog lament “Datura.” These are all fine and dandy, but the album’s clincher is the slow building centerpiece “Count the Stars,” where sound, feel and execution meet to achieve a harmonious balance that rivals the one inherent in the band’s own vocal strength. (Seany 2009)