'Tis the season, hombres.
I was going to start off with A Christmas to Remember,
the new Amy Grant Noel album. Nothing warms the cockles
of my Judeo-Christian-Consumerist heart like the tinsel-wrapped
holidays. Still, after just a few elevatoring chimes of
"A Christmas to Remember" ("Setting our hopes on a big snow
tonight/We'll wake up to a world of white"--feel the majestic
power!), I realized I'd have to be very, very drunk to do
justice to this wonderwork. Since 10 am is too early to
start knocking 'em back even for me, I'll have to give Amy
G. a free pass.
If the crap weather and annoyingly premature decorations
at Lloyd Center aren't clear harbingers of the upcoming
Season of Joy, a glance over the new toys brought to you
by the merry elves of the music industry should clue you
in. And if that's not enough to stoke your most loving/acquisitive
instincts, take it from Jewel.
The Alaskan folk strumpet joins the onrushing crush of Xmasy
albums with Joy: A Holiday Collection. Let heav'n
and nature sing--Jewel gambols through all the hits on this
mirthless potboiler, an album spineless and stone-stupid
even by her standards.
Jesus. You'd think I had all the holiday cheer of a Serbian
war criminal who goes out drinking in Pale on New Year's
Eve and wakes up hung-over in The Hague. Don't get me wrong.
There's plenty of hot music out there to grab for your plentiful
loved ones in the frantic, monthlong countdown to the Nativity.
It's just that, if I'm going to get my stocking stuffed,
I don't want any of this under-the-mistletoe treacle that
only spins once a year. So keep away from me with Golden
Drive Records' Christmas Songs That Tickle Your Funny
Bone and An Old Fashioned Family Christmas
(although the idea of a family that includes Jim Nabors,
Johnny Cash and Robert Goulet is intriguing).
For my money, nothing summons the requisite pagan vigor
of the Yuletide like a bracing dose of thug rock. Portland's
own Cavemanish Boys come through with the goods on
Get a Load of..., their suitably snarling salvo on
Blood Red (seasonal colors, even). Channeling the ghosts
of backroom brawlers throughout time, the garage-rocking
'Boys put in a bid for the bad side of everyone's Naughty
and Nice list.
A more earnest, even more energizing draught of Ye Olde
Punk Rock comes courtesy of American Steel, a great
band fit to take Lookout! Records back to the label's glory
days. In the wake of Young Pioneers' tragic break-up,
I've been in the market for a new fave band, and American
Steel's flaying combo of raw-throated sing-alongs, three-chord
surge and emo angst may do the trick. Unfortunately, the
band occasionally succumbs to the urge to mess around with
reggae, which is apparently universal to all whiteboy musicians
regardless of genre. Oh well--Rogue's March is still
the most caffeinated album I've heard in a long while.
For those wishing to voyage far from the shores of Rock,
the local experimental imperialists at BSI Records
have conquered an exquisite stretch of territory. British
dub tinkerer The Rootsman maps a land of unholy ritual
and dark secrets on his Versions of the Unseen EP.
And while Rootsman's rattling electro tastes like a drink
from the primordial soup, new discs from Smithsonian
Folkways dip the ladle right on in it. Bamboo
on the Mountains captures chilling, reedy drones
from the Southeast Asia highlands; Celebrating Divinity
brings holy word down from the desolate mountains of Peru.
And, of course, there should always be something sweet
and tender under the tree. Little Wings offers art-cushioned
heartbreak on Discover Worlds of Wonder, their very
Flaming Lips-ish Walking Records album. If you want
to hit the emotional truths suggested by the Wings' elegiac
pop dead on, though, I've got a tip: Dolly Parton
breaks a long silence with The Grass Is Blue on Durham,
N.C.'s Sugar Hill Records. Parton's just one of the legion
of country's sterling '70s talents now more or less exiled
from the Nashville whorehouse. She says this soaring album
of classic bluegrass reminds her of her Smoky Mountains
homeland. By the sounds of it, it's a land where the fires
burn hot--a perfect target for a holiday migration.
While Amy Grant and Jewel could maybe tell you where the
Smokies are, Parton's honey voice goes places I'm pretty
sure they don't know about.
Feel it, little friends: Each disc shall receive five minutes
to impress/depress before summary judgment is rendered.
I stole the idea from Spin, so forward all complaints
to that estimable publication.
My personal resolution never to listen to Ani DiFranco
again prevents me from reviewing To the Teeth, her
new album on Righteous Babe. She does seem to have a new
hairdo, however.
Non-bitchy
note:
Anyone who wants to buy one of the three-month passes being
hawked by would-be all-ages club The Glass Factory
in an effort to pay for code-mandated building improvements
should report to Ozone Records, $50 cash in hand.
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Willamette Week | originally
published November 23,
1999
|
