Reviews of two new releases   The Jayhawks Smile Columbia/American Of related interest: The Beach Boys (now, not then), A Momentary Lapse of Reason Many famous frontmen have had the audacity to dismiss the mates who made them great and carry on as if their gutted bands were personal franchises; think of Roger McGuinn's latter-day Byrds. That's nothing, though, compared to the chutzpah of bands proceeding after their main singer and songwriter departs. Witness the living embarrassment of post-Roger Waters Pink Floyd. Who knows--maybe that bit of dubious common ground inspired the Mark Olson-less Jayhawks to bring aboard Bob Ezrin, überproducer of The Wall, to gussy up their vapid new album. The band squeaked by without Olson on its previous disc, 1997's Sound of Lies, but just barely. Second-stringer Gary Louris' bitterness about the simultaneous dissolutions of his creative partnership and marriage gave the songs something at least resembling substance. Now the only thing on the band's mind is desperation for a hit. The title song features some of the most banal lyrics ever. "Chin up, chin up," advises Guru Gary, "you don't really have a problem." Oh yeah, and what do you know about it, asshole? These Jayhawks don't belong on the top shelf anymore. File 'em next to Toad the Wet Sprocket or somebody. The holes in Louris' lyrics make one pine for the charming obliqueness of Olson's zen-koan songwriting. Unfortunately, Smile only poses a far more pedestrian question: What's the sound of one band crapping? Jeff Rosenberg     Kid Rock The History of Rock Lava/Atlantic Records Of related interest: USA Network, Grain Belt Beer, Mission: Impossible 2 Kid Rock wants you to think that he's a hardcore pimp doing the crime and avoiding the time. Yet, if this Detroit dickhead actually went down the river for his supposed exploits, the skinny, pale bastard would be the freshest fish on Cellblock 6 (where his homies are, purportedly, housed). "What's your name?" they'd ask, and he'd reply, "My name is....Biiiiitch! Bitch Rock!" And if you find that funny--if prison rape scenarios still make you giggle with a mixture of silly glee and nervousness (because, you know, chances are you and I would suffer similar fates were we incarcerated)--then The History of Rock is your kind of album! It's full of similarly stupid, cliché-ridden tales, all about how Kid Rock is an American badass. And you know what? He's right. He's American, he's bad, and he's an ass. And please, you can save all the bullshit about me being a high-and-mighty critic who doesn't appreciate music created for real people. History of Rock is awful in a truly painful way. This compilation of Kid's work from before he hit it big ironically makes a clear case for why Rock was been ignored for so long--and actually makes his breakthrough, Devil Without a Cause, sound decent by comparison. And don't be fooled when they say some of the songs were redone because the original masters were lost. Those masters were destroyed by someone with taste. God bless the effort. Jamie S. Rich - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Willamette Week | originally published May 10, 2000