Reviews of new releases from John Gilmore, Black Box Recorder, and Purr Machine.   Purr Machine Ging Ging (Re-Constriction) Of related interest: Switchblade Symphony, late Cocteau Twins, Siouxsie When it comes to atmospheric female electronica, the most crucial element is the Voice--lyrical content and musical originality are secondary to whether the woman on the mike has the pipes. The most popular archetypes of the Voice are the weepy/wispy girl (Portishead's Beth Gibbons), the bodiless and ethereal spirit (Cocteau Twins' Liz Fraser) or the bold and operatic banshee (Switchblade Symphony's Tina Root). What eventually sinks Purr Machine is that its singer, Betsy Martin, is a student of all three styles but master of none. The music is excellent--brooding darkwave techno that roosts equally well in a haunted house or hip industrial nightclub--but Martin can't decide whether she wants to sing like angel or whine like a brat. She probably thinks she's being saucy, à la Siouxsie Sioux; I just find her nasal warble irritating--she sounds like Alanis Morissette's bitchy little goth sister crying over spilled nail polish. When Martin bothers to bring her vocals down out of her nostrils and into her throat, the songs ("Perspicuous Minds," "Phoebe") soar. Unfortunately, too often she strains to sound genuinely pained--sorry, Betsy, but this hurts me more than it hurts you. John Graham   Black Box Recorder England Made Me (Jetset) Of related interest: The Auteurs, Serge Gainsbourg, Marianne Faithfull Luke Haines is an evil pop genius. The man behind the Auteurs and Baader Meinhof has made some truly insidious records--insidious for both their unrelenting cynicism and how gracefully they get under your skin. On his latest masterpiece, the name says it all. Black Box Recorder is the audio chronicle of the plane crash of English life, from the façade of quaint British homes to the gray skies of typical Sunday afternoons. The lyrics pack the bite and incisiveness one expects from Haines, but the music moves in new directions. Rather than the crunchy guitars and spy-movie funk of previous efforts, he chooses the more mannered pop of Burt Bacharach to buoy his ax-grindings. He also shelves his own crackly rasp and turns to soft-toned ingenue Sarah Nixey, letting her lilting tones add a deceptive airiness to his bitter words. The result is disturbing, unshakable pop that leaves one breathless and drained. More mopey than Morrissey, more sarcastic than Monty Python, Black Box Recorder puts all the doom-and-gloomers to shame in one simple line: "Life is unfair/Kill yourself or get over it." It's dark to the core, thoroughly British and universally irresistible. Jamie S. Rich   John Gilmore For My Father & Frank (Fellini Records) Of related interest: The Chairman himself, Wilf's Piano Bar Before you say "not another Sinatra tribute," be advised--this isn't just any ode to the blue-eyed, golden-throated wonder. For starters, Gilmore is the piano man at Wilf's Restaurant and Piano Bar at Portland's Union Station, where the Rat Pack would've felt more than comfortable. And the "father" in the title is Voyle Gilmore, John's dad and the producer of Sinatra's greatest recordings, the tracks that made the man and established his swinging legacy. From the opening bass line of "I've Got You under My Skin," that legacy is under steady stewardship. Concentrating on the great recordings his dad was a part of--heavy on the Swingin' records and ballads like "All the Way" and "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning"--Gilmore nails Sinatra's vocal tones and phrasing. The Portland piano man isn't from Jersey, though (it should be "nee-ah" and "ee-ah," not "earrr" and "nearrr"), and this essential ingredient of good Frank is sorely missed. My second kvetch is that "The Lady Is a Tramp" is loaded down with local camp that should've been left at Wilf's (Bob Packwood, "oysters shucked by Jake" and Wilf's menu all make appearances in Gilmore's version). Small complaints aside, when the last ivories tinkle on "One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)" Gilmore has done his idols proud. Bill Smith - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Willamette Week | originally published July 21, 1999