I don’t get it.
There must be some reason to make such strict and severe music, all focused on rhythm, texture and (occasional) bass. But the absence of any melodic development, or song structure, or anything approaching primary emotions… well, there must be some reason for it that I don’t get.
At its best: Terminus
329. Placebo: Black market music
They’ve got that repressed teenager thing going on.
I just don’t like his voice.
328. Robbie Williams: Sing when you’re winning
With so-so songs (nothing more and nothing less) this is just 45 minutes in the presence of Robbie Williams’ personality – an empty experience to tell you the truth. Even his songs that sounded distinctive on the radio, lose their luster when you hear too many of them in a row. Disappointing.
327. Shivaree: I oughta give you a shot in the head for making me live in a dump like this
Competent post-Beck indie Americana with hip hop beats and wheezing keyboards. There’s nothing on the album as attention grabbing as the title, and that title is misguided to begin with.
At its best: Lunch
326. Rachel Portman: Chocolat
I could make up some review, but it’s just pointless music. Not bad for what it is – incidental music of no consequence. Why would anyone release this separate from the movie? To hear Johnny Depp do an impression of Django Reinhardt?
325. Clint Mansell: Requiem for a dream
All things considered, this fits rather too comfortably into the genre of uncomfortable soundtrack music. It seems a little generic, but then, it probably benefits from seeing the movie – which I haven’t.
324. Ozric tentacles: Swirly termination
God bless ’em for keeping the flag of freak improvisation flying all these years, but I can’t.
323. Har mar superstar: Har mar superstar
A balding, out of shape indierocker’s caricature of an obnoxious hip hopper. I can’t believe this didn’t come out in the ‘90s – the decade for such things. Anyway, it’s nasty, dumb and brutal. So it could‘ve been great. If only it was great. But it’s not.
322. A perfect circle: Mer de noms
Let me make a list of the illustrations in the booklet:
- A black&white snapshot of a woman in black stockings and lingerie, standing in a room upholstered with some kind of plush leather, you can’t see her face naturally.
- A paper tissue which has been crumbled and then carefully spread out again. Scribbled on it ‘I’d sell my soul, my self-esteem a dollar at a time for one taste of you’.
- A dead bug pinned down in a display case.
- Something red and mushy and wet, which looks a picture of an organ inside the body.
- A picture of Christ wearing the crown of thorns.
- A drawing of an angry octopus.
These come out of some kind of post-grunge cd artwork catalogue, right?
Come to think of it, so do the bandmembers: Billy Howerdel (used to roadie for Tool), Maynard James Keenan, Paz Lechantin, Troy van Leeuwen. Some supergroup. I believe James Iha played for these guys as well.
Anyway, this may be the most spiritually empty record of the year. That Billy’s sure got his eyes on the prize. I think he may be a computer program.
I go back and forth – one spin in two it convinces me soullessness isn’t the worst thing in the world. It is ruthlessly effective.
At its best: The hollow
321. Till Bronner: Chattin with Chet
If you thought there wasn’t much distance between Chet Baker and trendy lounge-hip hop-jazz-electronica, think again. This stuff doesn’t really fit into any mindframe I can get into about things that should exist. It leaves a bitter taste to hear people stomping all over these beautiful songs.
At its worst: Ev’ry time we say goodbye – complete with guest raps.
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