The killing fields of rock and roll are crowded.
In this most Freudian field of music, new generations continually
wipe out the old. The Nirvana-led upsurge of alt-rock--that
domesticated crossbreed of punk and metal--prompted rock
fans to pour a little on the pavement for hair'n'Spandex
rockers, choreographed Paula Abdulites and lacquered Depeche
Modists. Then, just as hordes of wannabes fought for the
last inch on the grunge bandwagon's bumper, electronica,
NuMetal and hip-hop showed up with a warm cup of hemlock
for the Temple of the Dog generation.
Still, this turning of the page hasn't stopped a few stalwarts
from carrying on--and in at least one case, surviving in
style. Recent weeks have seen a spate of albums from mid-decade
heavyweights; we assess a few here. Let's do the time warp
again.
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Bush
The Science of Things
(Trauma) |
It's hard to believe Bush isn't prefabricated, an English
alt New Kids. Its guitar-twitching hooks crescendo too easily.
Its rock hair greases only so much. Singer Gavin Rossdale
feels just rotten enough to possess angsty appeal without
seeming too creepy for teenage bedroom walls. It's difficult
to conceive of a band more relentlessly ready for VJ questioning.
Built from the debris of the Nevermind youthquake,
Bush bloomed in 1992. By 1995 the band had released a hit-laden
debut, Sixteen Stone, which, largely on the strength
of mid-tempo growlers "Comedown" and "Everything Zen," has
gone quintuple platinum without leaving a noticeable artistic
residue. Operating mainly by the "If it ain't broke..." credo,
Bush's two subsequent full-lengths amount to an ossified canon,
but the lads remain Billboard's honeys. The first single
from this year's The Science of Things clutches the
top spot on the Modern Rock chart as of this writing. Ultimately,
Bush's curse is also its unnerving charm: Each song may be
a slightly distorted version of the previous one, but they
all echo Nirvana just enough to freeze your hand momentarily
before you adjust the radio dial. (MM)
Foo Fighters
There
Is Nothing Left to Lose
(RCA)
Flashback to 1994. The triumphant glow of the undergroundies
who saw their music, fashion and vie bohème
validated (then devoured) by the mainstream faded to black
when Kurt Cobain pulled the trigger. The idea that naked
punk rock and its anti-establishment values would grow and
prosper in the basement victory gardens of disaffected teens
coast to coast seemed to wither as well.
Exit--temporarily--Dave Grohl. With Jackie O-ish dignity,
the Nirvana drummer refused to use Cobain's death as a springboard
for his own fame. He just took quietly to the basement and
tinkered until he had completely rebuilt himself as a musician.
No longer a shaggy-haired cipher pouncing the skins like
a crazed caveman, Grohl stepped forward in 1995 as a thoughtful
songwriter and talented guitarist in his own right. His
new vehicle, the Foo Fighters, heaped on taut, melodic punk,
teaching basement kids never to discount the drummer and
never to bow to tragedy.
That tradition of stubborn optimism continues on FF's latest.
There Is Nothing Left to Lose is not the soundtrack
to hopelessness that the title suggests. The whoosh of electronica
and hip-hop's thump may have stolen the flirting glances
of music critics, but the Fighters keep the rock-and-roll
faith. In a recent interview in Alternative Press,
Grohl says, "I get angry when I hear records that don't
sound like rock bands--they sound like producers." Nothing
Left proves Grohl true to his conviction. The surging
hooks and chugging guitars are more than nostalgia wrapped
in a security blanket. They're an ode to a vision for which
Grohl is the torchbearer and a legacy he won't turn away
from. It rocks. (CBB)
Stone
Temple Pilots
No. 4
(Atlantic)
Ah, yes, we all remember Stone Temple Pilots, don't we?
How could we forget such memorable songs as "Alive," "Jeremy"
and "Black"? Oh, wait...that's right: Those were P-Jam's
hits. Like there's a difference. STP--those pseudo-Seattle
San Diego scammers who probably mailed their first demos
with an Emerald City return address--never had their own
personality anyway. Even back in heroin chic's glory days,
STP singer Scott Weiland's addiction seemed like a ploy
to texture this uniquely flavorless band. The styles have
changed, Weiland's habits remain, and No. 4 ain't
gonna win any new converts. The band tries to expand its
sonic palette by including chamber strings, increasing its
use of acoustic guitars and even tossing in a zither. The
most noteworthy change is that Weiland's faux-Vedderisms
now occasionally transform into a growl reminiscent of Alice
in Chains' Layne Staley. And those are the good songs. Once
a copycat poseur, always a copycat poseur. (JG)
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Chris
Cornell
Euphoria
Morning
(A&M) |
Soundgarden won fame and fortune as a sort of "thinking man's"
Led Zeppelin. What the vainglorious Seattle hair-farmers failed
to realize, obviously, is that removing the cosmic stupidness
from Led Zep's metallistic equation leaves nothing but mundane
Marshall stack-jacking stupidness. The vocal excesses of some
dude who hasn't seen a barber in a while have their time and
place, but if said jackanapes isn't ruminating on the sulph'rous
mists of Mordor, the war-march of the Elven Hordes or the
Hobbits' murky legacy, what's the point? Sadly, such niceties
were lost on Soundgarden, which shuffled offstage a few years
back after one self-serious "Blackhole Sun" too many.
Now, Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell crawls out of genteel
retirement with Euphoria Morning. While this solo
slump proves Cornell still doesn't quite get it, it does
further his slow transformation into a perfect Robert Plant
manqué. Like Plant's post-Zep doodlings, Cornell's
new work incorporates the most boring elements of his old
band, the most unfortunate subsequent pop developments and
numbing bar-band banality. In fact, while it seems highly
unlikely that Euphoria Morning has a very long half-life,
Cornell may have discovered his own path to musical longevity.
Ladies and gentlemen, let us now rejoice together, for we
have found the Phil Collins of the 21st century. (ZD)
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Willamette Week | originally
published November 10,
1999
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