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Cherry
Poppin' Daddies, OPM
Crystal Ballroom
1332 W
Burnside St., 225-0047
9 pm Sunday,
Nov. 5
$15
advance, $17 door
Cherry Poppin' Daddies: Soul Caddy (Mojo)
Eugene's chart kings may have snatched the gold ring with
"Zoot Suit Riot," but they've always wrapped their somewhat
slimy tentacles around more musical styles than any natty
swing cat could handle. For pre-"Riot" fans, however, Soul
Caddy's schizophrenic investigations of hammy glam rock,
'50s doo-wop, rudeboy rock steady, punky metal and more
are no surprise--it's just what the Daddies do. And since
Steve Perry can seemingly pen songs in any genre he wants,
I hafta ask: why aren't the Cherry Poppin' Daddies writing
rock operas yet? Potential plot synopsis: Boy from small
town works his way through the dark, dingy clubs of his
local music scene, scores a surprise hit, goes Hollywood,
then tries to return home only to find the locals jaded
and bitter. Perry should have a fine time creating art imitating
his life.
Various Artists: Hot Caribbean Hits
(Victory World)
The beige cancer of globalization never sleeps. Chicago's
Victory Records, a province of (sub)urban hardcore thugs
rich in hooded sweatshirts, tattoo sleeves and skateboarding
scars, has launched a world music imprint. They've
gone at it with depressing fervor, too; this comp's remedial
title, mondo tropicalo cover art and impoverished graphic
design are on par with Putumayo Records' not-ready-for-Starbucks
hackery. Even the new sub-label's logo looks like the work
of a Luaka Bop intern. The Trinidadian pop harvested here
ranges from mildly amusing (the original version of "Who
Let the Dogs Out"! At fucking last!) to flatly unlistenable.
Most of these hot hitmakers need to find bands and lose
the "Reggae/Dancehall" function on their synthesizers. If
Victory World doesn't muscle up, it's gonna get stomped
in the great moshpit of life, yo.
Medeski Martin & Wood: The Dropper (Blue
Note)
A menacing storm of drumbeats, combustible as a pine forest
in August, rolls out of murky static. An electric guitar
turned bad and depraved sprays everywhere, bass dense enough
to suck in light and heat, stray noise running through everything
like cracks in a riot victim's windshield. A suggestion
of good-timing acid jazz is shrugged off, almost with a
mocking sneer. The whole mess implodes into dub on ice before
spinning into electric sprawl. And that's just the first
song, hoss.
Patricia Barber: Nightclub (Premonition)
Patricia Barber is every would-be jazz cat's wet dream--a
steely singer and expansive pianist with a perfect barside
voice and flinty ambition to spare. Barber's latest, an
album framed as an ode to jazz's archetypal arena, drips
so much studied cool it's almost ridiculous. It would be
easy to laugh at Barber's earnest reinvention of the torch
singer, but she drops just enough emotional ice into the
bourbon fire of her voice to let you know that this might
not be the best idea.
Plastilina Mosh: Juan Manuel (Astralworks)
The Beck of Mexico? Latin disco-funk kingpins sleaze through
the dance club, slyly nodding to both contemporary electronica
kids and '80s New Wavers. Absolutely nothing intelligent
or original about it, but with some chemical assistance
you could dance to it. I suppose.
The Paper Chase: Young Bodies Heal Quickly, You Know
(Beatville)
Denton, Texas, is fer sure a long way from Sweden, but
there's something about the Paper Chase that reminds one
of defunct Scandinavian spazzoids Refused. Maybe it's the
filed-down-to-a-deadly-knifepoint stabs of jagged guitar.
Or maybe it's the oblique lyrical nods to abstract punk
poetics. But more than anything, it's the trio's stubborn
willingness to throw everything from wild noise-rock and
whimpering emo to loopy tape experiments and plinking piano
breaks somewhere into the mix. You'll have to open your
mind pretty wide to allow this far-ranging beast to fit
in, but once its claws are buried, the screams become symbiotic
and sweet. Hell yeah and hallelujah.
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