Reviews of two new releases   Pig & Sow Je M'Aime Invisible Records Collaborators and commiserators: Diamanda Galas, Foetus/Steroid Maximus, In Slaughter Natives, Dante Alighieri An album blistered with the heat of psychosexual frenzy, Je M'Aime will seem pretty damn scandalous if you've never heard Raymond "Pig" Watts and Anna "Sow" Wildsmith. Two sonic/sociopathic troublemakers who cohabited in Berlin for years, Watts and Wildsmith craft music that leaps from techno-industrial angst into twirling pools of sultry erotica, twisted clouds of hormonal jazz and caverns of crypto-Satanic saturnalia. The opening strains of "The Rock" are instantly alarming: Wildsmith's monstrous, electronically mangled voice is buried under a collapsing thunder of noise. A rolling snare drum beats out a march behind profane flutes and Wildsmith's subtly lascivious introduction: "The night tumbles/ the day decays." In the wake of that musical trauma, the sticky-sweet kiddie-cabaret of "The World Is My Oyster" seems equally shocking in its apparent innocence--until it dawns on you that this children's tale tells of rape. "Blood Sucking Bitch" (featuring Foetus' Jim Thirlwell) sets the glossolalia of Diamanda Galas inside a riotous drum circle, while Latin chants summon growling demons. The title track and "Gentille Petite Fille" seduce with French lyrics and fog-shrouded horns. Finally, this tour through Hell's playground ends with "Manripe," a violent mantra on mankind's predatory lust. Despite all these heathen screams, however, Je M'Aime is peculiarly astounding--though schizophrenic, demented and as dark and deep as the Pit itself. Look before you leap. John Graham   Lonnie Johnson The Unsung Blues Legend Living Room Session Blues Magnet In the tradition of: Eddie Lang, Memphis Minnie, B.B. King Somewhere along the line, Lonnie Johnson got screwed by history. Maybe it was because he refused to paint himself into a tidy, genre-bound corner, instead fueling his voracious creative appetite with Tin Pan Alley standards as well as the blues on which he cut his teeth. For whatever reason, Johnson never received due credit as one of the founding fathers of the modern guitar. You can hear his clean, ringing style in players from Scotty Moore to B.B. King (to Eric Clapton to Mark Knopfler to Brian Setzer, for godsakes). After successes in the '30s and '40s alongside Eddie Land and Louis Armstrong, he dropped out of sight. Even as umpteen Delta bluesmen got the rediscovery treatment in the '60s, the urbane Johnson survived on modest gigs in Canada. When he did score dates in New York, he stayed with friend and blues aficionado Bernie Strassberg. This archival CD was recorded in Strassberg's apartment in 1965, when Johnson was 76. It's a rare document of an artist relaxed and among friends. That informality makes for some sweet soul music, showcasing not only Johnson's lean lines but his surprisingly rich vocals. On tunes as diverse as Kurt Weill's "September Song," Hoagy Carmichael's "Rockin' Chair" and Bessie Smith's "Backwater Blues," Johnson sings with raw power, as solo guitar runs cascade around him. On songs by Duke Ellington, W.C. Handy and Fatha Hines, he inhabits the material with chilling confidence. There was plenty of youthful spunk left in the old boy then, and this disc makes you wish the world had paid more attention. Bill Smith