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My Big Hero No sooner had the term "trip-hop" been coined than dour troubadours such as Tricky and Portishead began creeping up the charts like spooky musical spiders. Now we've got 12 Rounds sneaking in from the corner. While the standard ingredients--slow, loping drums, the wavering hum of warped samples, the breathy rasp and gasp of some lovesick waif--are stirred around, this British duo adds a drop of bubbling evil to the cauldron, and vocalist Claudia Sarne has more vinegar in her than the majority of these sad-sack singers. Unlike Beth Gibbons, who makes me want to wipe her smeared mascara and coo comforting words in her ear, Sarne inspires a lusty desire to get dirty and devious; even with her trilling Jennifer Tilly voice she's able to pull off a laughable line like "Put me in the juicer and come drink me." Occasionally the music stumbles into the daylight, spinning too long in a sunny spot; these types of songs need to lurk in back alleyways where rats scurry and shadows cover any scars. For the most part, however, 12 Rounds know their way through the dark. If you take them by the hand, they'll probably show you the way, too. John Graham
Adam Cohen Before listening to Adam Cohen for the first time, I resolved to resist comparing him to his indelible old man, Leonard, even though I knew that I inevitably would. But evading this temptation turned out to be easier than I thought. The younger Cohen sounds very little like his father and is more reminiscent of such where-are-they-now white soul singers as Rick Astley. With a production job to match, this pairing of stale beats and soulless mood music is a throwback to the slick-sounding records of the '80s. Though the elder Cohen was able to put out gems despite glossy production (I'm Your Man), his son's debut suffers from too much time spent in the studio. (The LP was made at some 15 different studios--and it only has 12 tracks!) Perhaps he could have focused on writing lyrics. From a plea to a friend to admit that he's sleeping with his paramour ("Tell Me Everything") to a criticism of another object of affection for bedding the school football star ("Quarterback") to an expression of exasperation with a buddy who wants to "get to know" his sister ("Sister"), these melodramatic lyrics are embarrassing enough to make the Indigo Girls blush. Stephen Slaybaugh
The Contender Allow me to weigh in on this swing revival craze. If you read my interview with Big Bad Voodoo Daddy ("Greetings from Coolsville," WW, June 3, 1998), you may have assumed I was a booster. Fergettaboutit, buddy. Any appearance of support was merely a champion display of journalistic objectivity. And "Zoot Suit Riot"? That's what I'm gonna do next time I see some palookas gallivanting about in glaringly new and offensively overpriced "vintage" outfits. As for Royal Crown Revue, while they're better than both Daddies, they're still an easy target. No matter how baggy the pants, they're too big for their britches, and like everyone fighting in the retro-fashion ring, their performance is solid, but the singing sucks. Contender, my ass--all these wannabe tough-guy crooners are really just Gerry Cooneys: paunchy white chumps lacking punch. And though they try to avoid getting cornered by dancing across the musical mat, the Latin flavorings of "Morning Light" and "Port-Au-Prince" ring falser than the 16th-round bell. Okay, I'll admit, The Contender does have its share of fisticuffin' fun--any cheapskate brawl does--but I wouldn't bet too hard on Royal Crown Revue. Eventually these frumps'll end up forgotten and drunk in some lonely waterfront dive. John Graham
originally published September 2, 1998
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