ALBUM REVIEWS, 2001

INDEX

Aaliyah, Aaliyah (Virgin) * *  *

Aaliyah D. Haughton may always be best known in Chicago as the controversial 15-year-old bride of R&B impresario R. Kelly, but there has always been more to the story. The talented Detroit singer split with her mentor shortly after they married, following the phenomenal success of her Kelly-produced debut, "Age Ain’t Nothing But A Number."

Though she scored an impressive success with her sophomore effort, "One In A Million," much of the credit that time was awarded to a different man--producer Timbaland. Now, after a five-year wait, this self-titled third album finds Aaliyah finally emerging as her own woman. And my, how she’s grown!

Like Janet Jackson’s "Control," part of this disc’s strength is hearing the now-grown-up Aaliyah asserting herself as nobody to trifle with ("I refuse to take it anymore," she wails at one point). At the same time, she’s eager to seduce us--"Rock the Boat" may be the silkiest, sexiest bedroom jam of the year, less innovative musically than anything Missy Elliott has given us, but more inviting and less frighteningly freaky in the lyrics.

Despite the high-gloss mainstream production, Aaliyah’s singing is undeniably thin in spots; she is nowhere near the vocal presence of natural R&B up-and-comers such as Jill Scott, Macy Gray and Alicia Keys. But like the original Ms. Jackson, she wormed her way into our hearts as a teenager, and we can’t help but cheer her on as an adult.

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Tori Amos, Strange Little Girls (Atlantic) * * * 1/2

Speaking of freaky female auteurs, Tori Amos has never been content with the Lilith Fair singer-songwriter stereotype that’s been foisted upon her ever since her 1992 breakthrough with "Little Earthquakes." It’s important to remember that she was a big-haired lite-metal vixen in an earlier incarnation; that she was attacking her grand piano with punk-rock venom long before she started playing with a band, and that she recorded Kurt Cobain’s favorite Nirvana cover with her version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

Here, Amos delivers an entire album of brilliant and perversely chosen covers. Some hit their target, some fall wildly short, but all of them are as calculatedly unpredictable as the artist herself.

In Amos’ hands, "’97 Bonnie and Clyde" becomes the artful look inside the mind of a lunatic that Eminem’s champions have claimed for that sensationalistic rapper, but Tori does a much better job of conveying the genuine horror behind the words. Also successful are her versions of "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" by the Beatles and "I Don’t Like Mondays" by the Boomtown Rats (are you sensing a violent theme here yet?), as well as the beautiful "New Age" by the Velvet Underground and the haunting "I’m Not In Love" by 10CC.

Less effective are her readings of Neil Young’s "Heart of Gold" (too predictable) and Slayer’s "Raining Blood" (too Slayer). But overall, Amos proves once more that she can’t be confined in any narrow box, and she is as powerful an interpreter of other people’s work as she is of her own material.

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Laurie Anderson, Life On A String (Nonesuch) * * *

Back in the Reagan era, songwriter and performance artist Laurie Anderson was cursed with having crafted a debut single that so perfectly encapsulated her worldview and her aesthetic that everything since "Big Science" has seemed like a let-down. But as last year’s double-disc "Talk Normal: The Laurie Anderson Anthology" proved, for all of the talk by critics about the minimalism of her music, the Chicago native turned mainstay of the New York art world has crafted many memorable melodies to enhance her haunting tone poems and postmodern monologues. Here, she works with co-producer Hal Willner to deliver her strongest set of tunes in a decade.

On her first studio album in seven years, Anderson abandons the swirling ambient backgrounds of the Brian Eno-produced "Bright Red," as well as the dense conceptual conceits of recent performances. Three of these songs hail from the theatrical production "Songs and Stories from Moby Dick," but the rest are just songs for songs’ sake, and they benefit from tasteful contributions by the likes of Dr. John, Bill Frisell, Mitchell Froom, Van Dyke Parks, and Anderson’s significant other, Lou Reed.

The lush but spartan instrumental backings and percolating worldbeat grooves harken back to the Peter Gabriel-helmed "Mister Heartbreak," and they represent Anderson’s friendliest, most inviting sounds in a decade. Lyrically, her take on life in modern America is still unrelentingly bleak--"Freedom is a scary thing/Not many people really want it," she intones in "Statue of Liberty"--but with the exception of the failed Broadway show tune "Dark Angel," her message is all the more effective for being set against such imaginative musical backings.

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Babyface, Face 2 Face (Arista) * 1/2

If you’re looking for a scapegoat to blame for the airless, heartless, overproduced digital sheen of a lot of modern R&B, Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds is a prime culprit, along with Antonio "L.A" Reid, who took time away from running the post-Clive Davis Arista Records to executive-produce this label debut by his old chum and partner.

Though much of the music he’s produced for other artists and the sterile, sweet little nothings that’s he crafted for himself have sold well, Babyface’s boring balladry has never sounded less inspired than it does here, arriving in the context of deeper, more layered, and more musically challenging work from natural R&B/neo-soul artists such as D’Angelo and Maxwell (who put some of the sweat and sinister vibes back into makeout music) or the more mainstream Chicagoan, R. Kelly. (Kelly’s productions are more intriguing, if no less slick, and his freaky themes will never be confused with Babyface’s Hallmark Card-reject lyrics.)

Edmonds makes a bid at courting street cred on "Baby’s Mama," crooning over Snoop Dogg’s rapping and paying tribute to Dr. Dre’s trademark synth sound. He includes a handful of atypically up tempo tracks at a bid to win the dance floor, and he’s paying lip service in interviews to the influence of neo-soul artists such as Bilal and Jill Scott, claming to be reconnecting through them with older greats such as Curtis Mayfield.

But all of this is just so much empty hype. For the most part, "Face2Face" is dominated by the same slow, tired-sounding "shoo-be-dooing" that launches "How Can U Be Down," the sort of the generic, tepid, and plodding ballad that epitomizes this piece of slick corporate product.

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Better Than Ezra, Closer (Beyond) * * *

It’s been three years since the last album by Better Than Ezra--long enough for many to have concluded that the New Orleans trio was another victim of alternative-era burnout. Many had pegged the group as a one-hit wonder after the single "Good," but singer-songwriter Kevin Griffin always had more to offer. In the new "Extra Ordinary," he sings, "I got more hooks than Madonna got looks," and it’s not just idle boasting.

BTE isn’t reinventing the wheel: The band plays solid heartland rock, fitting in somewhere between John Mellencamp’s mainstream hokum and the Replacements’ underground edginess. This is its strongest collection of tunes to date, and former Chicagoan Brad Wood (Liz Phair) adds some nice touches to the production, ranging from late-era R.E.M. strings to tasteful Beck-style electronics courtesy of DJ Swamp.

Inspirational moment: "Lifetime," a great tune about finding true love while R.E.M. was playing on the stereo and "three and a half minutes felt like a lifetime." Who can’t relate to that?

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Bjork, Vespertine (Elektra) * * * 1/2

Comparisons between Bjork’s fifth album and the work of Sigur Ros are inevitable, and not just because they’re the only two internationally renowned alternative-rock stars that the tiny frozen nation of Iceland has ever produced.

The lovably wiggy diva has been moving slowly but surely in the direction of Sigur Ros’ icebergs-in-the-moonlight ambient Muzak for several albums now. To date, it’s been a disappointment; her last two efforts were pale shadows of 1995’s masterful "Post." But on "Vespertine," she finally manages a credible fusing of her ebullient vocals and enigmatic, electronic backing tracks.

This is not to say that "Vespertine" is as good as Bjork at her full-throttle best--the flashes of anger in her early solo efforts and the Sugarcubes are still missed. But she has surpassed Sigur Ros at their own game. Few voices in modern rock are as potent as Bjork’s, an instrument that is worthy of the opera-house settings of her upcoming tour.

The Butthole Surfers, Weird Revolution (Hollywood) * 1/2

The Butthole Surfers’ first release in five years is a major disappointment for anyone for anyone who ever admired the Austin, TX madmen in their psychedelic heyday, when they delivered subversive weirdness with unaffected glee and accidental pop smarts to rival their obvious mentor and predecessor, Roky Erickson.

The newest from the Buttholes sounds like the work of a completely different band, and it isn’t even all that new. Earlier versions of many of these tracks were set to appear on the followup to the also disappointing "Electric Larryland," but Capitol pulled that disc weeks before its release, and the litigious Buttholes wound up in a protracted fight with the label. Now they’re back on Disney’s corporate music arm (of all places!), but there’s little reason for anyone to care.

Inspired by the alternative/industrial hit "Jesus Built My Hotrod" (and the cash that it must have generated), lead Butthole Gibby Haynes tries to clone that dismissible novelty on most of these 12 tracks, leaning on canned electronic rhythms, hokey vocal effects, kitschier than usual pro-drug lyrics, and a celebrity cameo from Kid Rock on the opening track and single, "Shame of Life."

Nothing is sadder than an aging oddball desperately trying to sell out--especially when nobody is buying.

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Mariah Carey, Glitter (Virgin) * 1/2

Mariah Carey’s recent hospitalization for "exhaustion" should not have come as a surprise: It’s got to be incredibly hard work being a 31-year-old diva desperately trying to act 13, especially when there’s a whole new pack of 17-year-olds nipping at your heels.

Having parted ways with Sony Music (where her former hubby Tommy Mottola ran the company) and signed a multi-million-dollar mega-deal with Virgin Records, "Glitter" was to have been the album that built on the aging Lolita’s accomplishments in the ’90s and took her career to the next superstar level.

But Carey temporarily derailed the promotional juggernaut when she was hospitalized in late July after a public breakdown that included a bizarre appearance on MTV’s "Total Request Live" and some disturbing "end-of-my-rope" comments that were posted on (and quickly removed from) her official web site, www.mariahcarey.com.

The postponed album finally arrives in stores today. And instead of looking forward, we find the Long Island-reared singer with the much-touted five-octave range reveling in’80s nostalgia and tired, retread sounds that are unlikely to excite a young pop audience that has been getting its kicks from Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.

"Glitter" is intended to cross-promote the movie of the same name, which Carey says was inspired by ’80s films such as "Fame," "Flashdance" and "Grease" (though its thinly veiled autobiographical plot actually has more in common with "The Bodyguard"). In it, she portrays a "troubled young artist" named Billie who, despite her talent and success, cannot get over the fact that she was abandoned as a child.

Collectively, now: Awwwwww.

If this sounds uncomfortably close to the always-fatal millionaire pop-star lament ("Sure I’m fabulously wealthy, but nobody really loves me!"), we’ll have to wait to see how it plays out on screen when the movie opens on Sept. 21. As a lyrical conceit, though, it’s inspired: It allows the fully mature Carey to coo about typically shallow pre-adolescent concerns without appearing ridiculous because she can claim that she’s just portraying her character, Billie.

A sample, from the stiffed single "Loverboy": "Ah, my girl/Got a new boyfriend/Yeah, yeah, oh/K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

Use your imagination and you can almost hear Barney singing that tune. Unfortunately, the music hasn’t been given nearly as much thought.

Producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, DJ Clark Kent, and DJ Clue and Damizza (both veterans of her last outing, "Rainbow") have crafted a bunch of generic hip-hop-flavored dance tracks that serve as uninspired canvases for Carey’s celebrated vocal trilling. The best hooks are all borrowed, and they haven’t been improved upon.

Nicking a loop of Cameo’s 1987 hit "Candy," the single "Loverboy" just leaves you wanting to hear the original, while Carey adds very little to her covers of "Didn’t Mean To Turn You On" and "Last Night A DJ Saved My Life." And co-stars Da Brat and Ludacris don’t provide nearly the street cred that Jay-Z brought to "Heartbreaker."

Of course, Carey always sinks or swims on the strength of her ballads, and "Glitter" includes a passel of ’em. "Lead the Way," "Never Too Far" and the rest are as syrupy, melodramatic, and overwrought as ever--which means that her fans (whom she insists on calling "lambs") may well love them, providing that their affections haven’t been stolen by other divas who can’t pay musical homage to the ’80s because they were still in their cribs at the time.

Either way, the music is overshadowed by and not nearly as interesting as the public drama of Carey’s attempted comeback. The next act in that melodrama is scheduled for tomorrow at 9 p.m. [SEPT. 12], when the singer will give her first post-exhaustion interview to Barbara Walters on ABC-TV’s "20/20."

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The Dream Syndicate, The Days of Wine and Roses (Rhino) * * * *

Eleventh Dream Day, Beet (Collectors’ Choice) * * * 1/2

Eleventh Dream Day, Lived to Tell (Collectors’ Choice) * * *

Dramatically overshadowed by the commercial triumphs of the early ’90s, alternative rock is unimaginable without the indie/college-rock that preceded it in the ’80s, and which was often much more ambitious and creative. Stemming from that era, these three reissues are strong enough to stand with the finest, most frenzied guitar duels ever recorded, referencing giants of the genre such as the Velvet Underground, Television and Crazy Horse while boasting songs that are as strong as those groups’ best.

While singer-songwriter Steve Wynn continues to impress as a solo artist, the delivery of his literary tunes was never more intense or gripping than on the Dream Syndicate’s 1982 debut. Wynn’s slashing attack combines with Karl Precoda’s orgies of feedback to create massive and mesmerizing settings for nervous-breakdown anthems such as "Tell Me When It’s Over" and "Until Lately." And the deliciously devilish "Halloween" was a "Sister Ray" for the ’80s.

This reissue adds eight strong bonus tracks culled from an early single, the group’s first EP and rehearsal tapes, and it’s indispensable for any fan of rock guitar.

For Chicagoans Eleventh Dream Day, "Prairie School Freakout" remains the masterpiece. But the first two albums the group recorded upon signing to Atlantic are no trifling efforts, and Collectors’ Choice has done this city a service in reissuing them.

The band made no concessions to the mainstream on 1989’s "Beet," keeping the focus firmly on the slash-and-burn solos of Rick Rizzo and Baird Figi, who come close to capturing the intensity of their fabled live shows. The following year’s "Lived to Tell" is a bit more hesitant, and the songs are a shade weaker, but it’s still essential for fans of the band and of an era when the underground still cared more about music than marketing.

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Bob Dylan, Love and Theft (Columbia) * * * 1/2

"Old, young--age don’t carry weight/It doesn’t matter in the end," Bob Dylan croons on "Floater (Too Much to Ask)," a track that’s carefully placed smack in the middle of "Love and Theft," the eagerly anticipated new album arriving in stores today.

Sho’ nuff, Uncle Bob: The only thing that matters in rock ’n’ roll is whether or not you deliver the goods. And your 43^rd album does--brilliantly at times, effortlessly throughout, and with that famous biting wit sneering at idolizers and detractors alike.

Virtually alone among the Baby Boom icons of the ’60s, most of whom stopped trying artistically and started resting on their laurels some time in the’70s, the venerated Dylan remains a tireless and consistently vibrant rocker. At age 60, he virtually lives on the road in the midst of a never-ending tour, and for the last decade, he has been in prime creative form, mining his vast catalog and reinventing his songs nightly with a band that ranks among his very best.

The albums haven’t been bad, either: Dark and enigmatic, 1997’s Daniel Lanois-produced "Time Out of Mind" claimed an armful of Grammys and an Oscar. But it was overrated by those critics who called it a "Blood On the Tracks" for the ’90s, and it disappointed fans by failing to showcase the loose and fiery interplay that has marked his recent live shows. (For the most part, the touring band didn’t perform on the disc.)

This time, Dylan produces himself and works with the group he’s been honing onstage--guitarist Charlie Sexton, multi-instrumentalist Larry Campbell, bassist Tony Garnier, and drummer David Kemper--as well as renowned Texas keyboardist Augie Meyers. In the studio, he cuts loose, having good ol’-fashioned fun paying homage to the rockabilly and country-blues that first fired his imagination and his hormones half a century ago, when he was a ducktail-sportin’ punk growing up in northern Minnesota.

Paul McCartney attempted something similar with a later chunk of the ’50s circa the good-time toss-off of 1999’s "Run Devil Run." But that was a rock ’n’ roll covers disc, while Dylan penned most of these 12 songs anew during a two-week period in New York last spring. ("Mississippi" appeared in radically different form in 1998 on Sheryl Crow’s "The Globe Sessions.")

Was Dylan attempting to "say something" about life in these fractured times by commenting on the past? Or was he just amusing himself? Could it be both--or neither?

"All the songs are variations on the 12-bar theme and blues-based melodies," he told USA Today in a devilishly clever quote. "The music is an electronic grid, the lyrics being the sub-structure that holds it all together. The songs themselves don’t have any genetic history. Is it like ‘Time Out of Mind,’ or ‘Oh Mercy,’ or ‘Blood on the Tracks,’ or whatever? Probably not. I think of it more as a greatest hits album, Volume 1 or Volume 2. Without the hits--not yet, anyway."

Dylan’s longtime label Columbia Records does believe it has some hits here, and it’s taken the unusual move of filming a TV commercial to hype the disc. The clip (which began airing on Sept. 3^rd and can be viewed online at www.bobdylan.com) is ingenious for the way that it’s never clear what it’s selling, beyond a certain "Dylanesque" attitude. Set to the joyfully twisting opener, "Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum," it finds Dylan, the ultimate poker face, gambling with a bunch of card sharks as several sultry ladies become entangled in a cat fight.

What are we to make of this clip, of Dylan’s typically inscrutable utterance to the press, and of the lyrics of "Love and Theft"? I’ll leave the parsing of meaning in all of this to the English majors-turned-Dylanologists, who are sure to produce their inevitable theses online. I’ve always preferred the Kerouac/Beats-inspired Dylan to the "meaningful" Woody Guthrie Dylan, and it’s the former that’s in evidence here, indulging himself by unleashing gleeful torrents of words, cracking wise with in-jokes upon in-jokes, and throwing out nuggets of superbly offhanded poetry.

Take this from the disc-closing "Sugar Baby": "There ain’t no limit to the amount of trouble women bring/Love is pleasing, love is teasing, love--not an evil thing." Or this from the surreal "Po’ Boy": "I say how much you want for that, I go into the store/Man says, ‘Three dollars’/I say, ‘Will you take four?’" And then there are the words about aging quoted earlier.

One gets the sense throughout of Dylan toying with his listeners, mixing the profound and the inane in equal measure because, well, life does the very same thing. This has been his modus operandi throughout his career, though many have missed the sly humor. This time, he has the added ammunition of playing on the "momentous" event of his own 60^th birthday, the attendant canonization (remember Dylan glad-handing Clinton and grinning with the Pope?), and Columbia’s efforts to profit from it all.

In any event, rock ’n’ rollers--as opposed to folkies and English majors--know that you can’t and shouldn’t separate the words from the way they’re sung and the music they’re paired with. And regardless of what some might say, Dylan ain’t no folkie.

The best moments on "Love and Theft" are about the subtle but wonderful interplay between that gorgeously homely voice, Sexton, Campbell, and Dylan’s own snaking, intertwining guitar riffs, and rootsy, rolling rhythms that alternately evoke the great rockabilly records from Sun Studios and the pre-war country of artists such as the down-home Carter Family, the tortured Hank Williams, and the swinging Bob Wills (think "Nashville Skyline" revisited).

Listen to how Dylan’s superb singing flirts with the guitar lines in the goofy story-song, "Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum"; how his voice rides the mandolin on "Mississippi" and the dobro on "High-Water" (which is dedicated to Charley Patton), and how he rocks like the bastard son of Gene Vincent "Summer Days," "Lonesome Days Blues," "Cry Awhile," and "Honest With Me." These are perfect pairings of a great band, an inimitable instrument, and truly memorable material.

The only thing that keeps "Love and Theft" from being an unqualified masterpiece is a handful of tracks that find Dylan wallowing in uncharacteristic sentimentality. The smarmy ’40s balladry of "Moonlight" and "Bye and Bye" are so abysmally awful that they could well be parodies, or evidence of the singer’s perverse humor--music like this being the sort of stuff that Sun Records rose up to stomp out.

Whatever the intent, these tracks aren’t easy to listen to, and they detract from what is otherwise a rollicking good time from an artist who, to quote from "Floater" again, "has got more lives than a cat." Missteps aside, for that we are grateful indeed.

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Jay Farrar, Sebastopol (Artemis) * * *

Ryan Adams, Gold (Lost Highway) * * 1/2

Aside from its tendency toward tedious self-importance, my gripe with much of the critically revered alternative country/No Depression music of the ’90s is that little of it packed the tuneful melodicism or the barn-burnin’ energy displayed by now-forgotten progenitors of the movement such as the Long Ryders, the Kentucky Headhunters or Jason and the Nashville Scorchers (to say nothing of earlier icons like Gram Parsons). But while Chicago’s Wilco continues to lead the way in terms of artistic achievements and redefining exactly what this genre is and can be, the latest offerings from two of its other heroes find them reaching new peaks as songwriters even as they continue to search for the right balance between innovation and celebrating their influences.

Jeff Tweedy’s former Uncle Tupelo partner Jay Farrar disappointed many devotees with the increasingly lackluster and monochromatic output of his post-Tupelo outfit Son Volt. Unceremoniously dropped by Warner Bros. in the summer of 2000, Farrar broke up the band, and now he resurfaces here in solo singer-songwriter guise. Thankfully, instead of wallowing in self-indulgence, he’s playing like a man who once again has something to prove.

Farrar does not deviate from his country purist’s devotion to minor-chord melodies, the plaintive wailing of dark lyrics and the ringing of jangling acoustic guitars. But on moving tunes such as "Clear Day Thunder," "Voodoo Candle" and "Different Eyes," he delivers the goods with a passion that’s been missing since Tupelo, and in stepping out from behind the Crazy Horse drone of later Son Volt, he highlights a voice that ranks with Brett Sparks of the Handsome Family as one of the most distinctive that this genre has given us--even if it’s rarely saying anything new.

Meanwhile, former Whiskeytown frontman Ryan Adams continues to suffer from over ambition on his second solo album, striking out as often as he scores over the course of these epic-length double album. One minute, Adams is trying to be a more countryish Paul Westerberg; the next, he’s aping Dylan circa "Blonde On Blonde." Here, he’s Morrissey; there, he’s doing his own derivative take on the Tweedy of "Being There."

At times--as in the jaunty opener, "New York, New York," the sunny "La Cienega Just Smiled," or his version of "Sylvia Plath"--Adams almost lives up to the genius that his boosters are always ascribing to him. But the question for casual listeners and No Depression skeptics is whether it’s worth wading through the many mediocre moments to find those golden nuggets.

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Garbage, Beautifulgarbage (Interscope) * * *

Conceived by Madison, Wisc.-based producer Butch Vig in the wake of the phenomenal success of "Nevermind," Garbage is one of two late-era alternative-rock groups that started as a hype but grew into a band of considerable charm and substance. (The other: Stone Temple Pilots.) And if 1998’s "Version 2.0" was twice as good as the self-titled ’95 debut, then the new "Beautifulgarbage" betters that by double again.

Combining a fondness for New Wave and/or ’60s girl group hookiness and an enduring love of the buzzing, atmospheric guitar hazes and danceable rhythms of England’s early ’90s "shoegazer" movement, Garbage continues to churn out wonderfully catchy, powerfully rocking tunes with amazing consistency. Here, they give us another 13, with only the two shlockily romantic slower numbers ("Nobody Loves You" and "So Like A Rose") falling flat and failing to sound great while blasting from the car stereo.

Otherwise, Scottish singer Shirley Manson delivers maximum sass and attitude as her band of studio wizards lovingly craft the memorable backing tracks. Through it all runs a slyly satirical critique of the dismal state of the current pop charts, with Manson eviscerating prefab products ("Let’s bomb the factory/That makes all the wannabes/Let’s burst all the bubbles/That brainwash the masses," she sings in "Parade") and in general trucking no abuse ("Shut Your Mouth"). With Courtney Love otherwise distracted by Hollywood, rock ’n’ roll badly needs her tuneful energy.

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Macy Gray, The Id (Epic) * * * *

I was talking with a bonafide, Chicago-rooted funk legend recently when the subject of the "natural R&B"/"neo soul" movement came up. The legend was down with the concept of young black musicians returning to sweatier, more soulful sounds after years of slick digital sheen, but she had a serious problem with Macy Gray. "That girl is a stone-cold freak," she said, not for attribution, "and she can [ITAL] not [ITAL] sing!"

Gray should keep these comments in perspective: It takes an awful lot to establish oneself as a serious contender in the annals of funky freakdom (the legend was no slouch herself), and plenty of inimitable vocalists have been accused of not being able to sing when in fact they just don’t sing like anybody [ITAL] else. [ITAL]

Touring behind "On How Life Is," Gray justified the big-bucks hype that Epic employed for her 1999 debut, emerging as a strong and opinionated woman with a very unique voice (a gravelly Betty Boop? Buddy Holliday on an ecstasy bender?) that demanded to be heard. With "The Id," the Canton, Ohio native shows the depths of her talents, proving that she wasn’t just getting by fronting a smokin’ big band. Best of all, she takes time out to laugh at herself, the whole sticky business of sex, race relations, and our culture in general circa the fractured era of 2001.

"Your mama told you to be discreet/And keep your freak to yourself/But your mama lied to you all this time/She knows as well as you and I/You’ve got to express what is taboo in you/And share your freak with the rest of us!" Gray wails in "Sexual Revolution," which has as much to do with the timeless rock ritual of self-invention as it does with let-it-all-hang-out sexuality. (It’s brilliantly paired with a cheeky retro groove that falls somewhere between Donna Summer and Parliament-Funkadelic.)

Ranging far and wide stylistically to incorporate hints of old-school soul, hip-hop, techno, funk, girl-group pop, gospel, and rock, and drawing on contributions from Erykah Badu, Red Hot Chili Peppers guitarist John Frusciante, rappers Slick Rick and Mos Def, Billy Preston, and neo-soul mainstay Ahmir Thompson of the Roots, the album doesn’t boast a single duff track. It is indeed a stone-cold freak-out from start to finish--and I mean that as a compliment, even if Ms. Legend didn’t.

Building on the sounds of the past while blowing the minds of her elders, Macy Gray is a very real heroine for faux and soulless times. (Point of Chicago pride: Gray’s favorite track, the Kurt Weill-sounding "Oblivion," was partly recorded on a portable DAT player in the basement of the Aragon Ballroom, making use of the resident organ.)

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The Handsome Family, Twilight (Carrot Top) * * * 1/2

The third installment of the loose trilogy that Brett and Rennie Sparks began with 1997’s "Through the Trees" (still their masterpiece) and continued with last year’s "In the Air" concludes on a note of cautious optimism with "Twilight" as scattered rays of sunlight crack through the gray storm clouds that finally seem to be parting.

The willfully perverse, wonderfully literate, and cheerfully gloomy duo recently left Chicago to relocate to New Mexico, and both the relatively sunny sounds (which are fleshed out ever more imaginatively by Brett with banjo, keyboards, harmonica, and singing saw) and the slyly dour lyrics by Rennie herald a sort of back-to-nature move, even as they’re nostalgic for the ruined beauty of the city that claimed them as its own.

"You can’t see the stars above the city skyline, but sometimes the air shines like gold under the yellow street lights," Brett sings in "All the TVs in Town," though the album tellingly ends with "Peace In the Valley Once Again," a tune that imagines cash machines sprouting weeds as the last shopping mall is finally shuttered.

Of course, the Handsomes being archly ironic Generation Xers rather than granola-munching hippie boomers, they’re somewhat self-conscious about their own good cheer. It’s this tension that fuels the finest moments on their fifth album, as when Brett casually catalogs a life-long list of dearly departed pets in "So Long," from "my dog Snickers who ate Christmas tinsel," to "the family of gerbils who chewed out of their cage," to "the little brown rabbit I ran over by mistake."

"So long, I’ll see you on the other side," the Handsomes conclude. And we fans certainly hope they’ll keep their promise.

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Jamiroquai, A Funk Odyssey (Epic) * * *

Dissipating the energy and the good vibes generated by his 1998 crossover hit, "Virtual Insanity," Jason Kay returned in 1999 with the scattered and thoroughly mediocre "Synkronized," inviting skeptics to conclude that this all-too-obvious Stevie Wonder acolyte with the funny headdress was just another overly hyped British flash in the pan.

Thankfully, "A Funk Odyssey" finds Kay back in prime form, focusing on relentlessly upbeat grooves laced with bountiful hooks and decorated with soulful vocals and only really falling flat on one out of 10 tracks (the heavy-handed "Black Crow"). Sure, his singing still sounds [ITAL]way[ITAL] too much like Stevie, and his lyrics are still populated with Ecstasy-fueled ramblings about spaceships, sunbeams, sunflowers, and such. But the funky drums, chooglin’ rhythm guitar, and squawking synths carry the day and propel your butt out onto the dance floor, making this a prime party disc for a time that sorely needs one.

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* * *

Live, V (Radioactive) *

"I’ve just come down from the mountain a happy man/Turned on the television, should [have] chewed off my hand/I’m sick of all the false glory," that dime store guru Ed Kowalcyk croons with typically hollow bombast on "V," the none-too-imaginatively-titled fifth album by his sorry third-generation grunge band, Live.

A lot of art became instantly irrelevant on Sept. 11, but some sounds that were once merely easily dismissed are now downright offensive. How can we abide by hammy false passion and bottled angst when issues of real concern now weigh so heavily? Instead of Rage Against the Machine, the Clear Channel radio empire should ban the music of these Pennsylvania dunderheads, and MTV should hang its head in shame for airing "Overcome," the new video that pairs Live’s plodding power ballad with footage of the rescuers at the World Trade Center.

Still combining comic-book spiritualism with a merger of Pearl Jam growl and R.E.M. jangle, the quartet barely alters the tired formula of 1994’s breakthrough hit, "Throwing Copper." Passing for "innovation" is a quick, bogus flirtation with trip-hop (Tricky guests); otherwise, it’s business as usual, with laughable philosophizing delivered over music that is so thoroughly generic, it’s impossible to say anything but "ignore it."

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Mercury Rev, All Is Dream (V2) * * * 1/2

Spiritualized, Let It Come Down (Arista) * * * 1/2

Through the heyday of alternative rock, some of the most ambitious music was crafted by bands that were actually part of a much older genre that could be traced all the way back to the Summer of Love. Though it’s been resolutely unhip ever since, the goal of transporting listeners to fanciful landscapes that exist only in the space between the headphones never really disappeared, and modern psychedelic explorers such as Mercury Rev and Spiritualized continue to forge ahead, creating strong new sounds that build on their best work in the ’90s.

"All Is Dream" is clearly Mercury Rev’s answer to "The Soft Bulletin" by arch rivals the Flaming Lips (bandleader Jonathan Donohue played guitar with the Lips circa "In A Priest Driven Ambulance," and Rev bassist Dave Fridmann remains their producer). Donahue has been drawing from his old band more and more since the departure of the Rev’s former frontman, David Baker. But he lacks Wayne Coyne’s charisma and newfound ability to voice his heartfelt emotions, mainly appropriating the surreal imagery, plaintive Neil Young-on-nitrous vocals, and ornately orchestrated "Pet Sounds"-on-Mars productions.

Original or not, "All Is Dream" matches 1998’s "Deserter’s Songs" (a huge hit in the U.K.) for its memorable hooks, especially on the unforgettable "Nite and Fog." It also boasts a varied pallet of mysterious sonic colors, from flute and French horn to Mellotron and bowed saw, and the aforementioned gonzo lyrics. ("What explodes like a fractal/Pops like a lite bulb/Strolls in like Joel Gray/At four in th’ morning," Donahue asks in "Lincoln’s Eyes." Huh?)

Meanwhile, Spacemen 3 veteran Jason Pierce has shuffled the lineup of his new band Spiritualized once again, and on his fourth studio outing, he’s emerged with another rewarding exploration of the area where psychedelic rock intersects with Coltrane-flavored free jazz and transcendent gospel music (though this time, the Pink Floyd album that’s quoted is "Atom Heart Mother" rather than "A Saucerful of Secrets").

Recorded at George Martin’s Air Studios with a new cast that includes frequent Julian Cope sideman Thighpaulsandra, Pierce attempts to burrow deep "into your soul," to quote the closing chant on the opening track. For the most part, he succeeds, though both Spiritualized and Mercury Rev have yet to top their ’90s high points (pardon the pun), "Laser Guided Melodies" and "Yerself Is Steam."

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* * *

’N Sync, Celebrity (Jive) * 1/2

"Do you ever wonder why this music gets you high?" ’N Sync asks while celebrating the "dirty pop" on the opening track of its third album, an attempt to morph from a relatively cute ’n’ cuddly bubblegum-pop boy band into a slightly more "cutting-edge" and hormonally-charged group of fully grown men and bonafide <ital>artistes<ital>.

Actually, "why" is a question too few critics bothered to ask when the band’s sophomore album, "No Strings Attached," sold an astounding 2.42 million copies in the first week after its release in 1999, a feat that the industry is hoping "Celebrity" will duplicate in a year in which album sales are slumping. That accomplishment had less to do with the album as an artistic entity than the effectiveness of a marketing juggernaut stretching from "The New Mickey Mouse Club" (which gave us two future ’N Syncers and Britney Spears) to MTV’s "Total Request Live," as well as the cresting of the sociological wave of Generation Y, the largest group of teenagers since their parents, the Baby Boomers.

The million-dollar question this time out is whether ’N Sync’s fans have grown beyond their pre-adolescent crushes. If the answer is "no," the contents of "Celebrity" are pretty much irrelevant; it’ll sell like Evian in the Sahara. If the answer is "yes," the album’s failure will likely be chalked up to the group’s over-reaching ambition instead of the natural cycle and undeniably finite life spans of all mega-pop fads. Just ask Menudo or the New Kids on the Block, to say nothing of the Backstreet Boys.

Entertainment Weekly headlined its review of this disc "Kitchen Sync," nicely pegging the album’s rather desperate something-for-everybody approach. The grab-bag of grooves ranges from dumbed-down techno ("Pop" and "Tell Me, Tell Me… Baby," the sole track produced by Swedish pop svengali Max Martin) to a parent-pleasing dance rewrite of "Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds" ("The Two of Us"), and from a Pat Boone-style take on silk-sheets R&B (the Rodney Jerkins-produced title track) to the requisite handful of soppy, soggy ballads ("Selfish," "Something Like You").

While the music is scattershot, the lyrics are annoyingly of a piece. When the well-coifed crooners aren’t asking the objects of their affections to believe in them because they’re really, really <ital>real,<ital> baby, they’re complaining about how very, very hard it is to be fabulously rich, handsome, and famous, under-appreciated by critics, and preyed on by shallow women who are only after their Benjamins.

These two themes simply do not jibe. While millions of young Americans might have been willing to suspend their disbelief to accept that these five lads were not just marionettes under an unseen puppet master’s control, asking them to pity the poor boys for being five of the luckiest marginally talented mook in the history of popular music is simply going way too far. Not for nothing have the ’N Sync dolls been marked down to $2.49 at most local toy stores, while Britney’s faux-Barbie dolls are still selling strong.

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* * *

Stereolab, Sound-Dust (Elektra)* * * 1/2

Since 1996’s "Emperor Tomato Ketchup," avant-garde popsters Stereolab have been more interested in rhythm than melody, and that’s been a loss. The best of their early work (almost everything before ’96) paid attention to both, and the group’s jams were as memorable for their hypnotizing beats as for their insidiously catchy hooks.

The balance is restored on "Sound-Dust." Though the space-age loungesters are still favoring fractured, funky, or jazzy rhythms over the insistent "motorik" rock of their early days, the grooves are paired here with great, big, hum-along horn lines and the patented joyous vocal "la-la-la’s" of Laetitia Sadier and Mary Hansen, restored to their righteous place at the front of the mix.

Recorded in large part in Chicago with longtime collaborators John McEntire and Jim O’Rourke, "Sound-Dust" could stand with Wilco’s "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" as one of the most inventive pop discs of 2001 (provided that the latter ever gets released), evidence that in the right hands, the more esoteric ideas of the "post-rock" movement can indeed be incorporated into darn catchy tunes.

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* * *

The Strokes, Is This It? (RCA) * * * 1/2

Much as the argument would seem to have been mooted by the advent of postmodernism, rock critics love to debate authenticity, and the question of whether our musical heroes are "real" or not seems to matter as much to fans as it does to eggheads. Deep down, we all know that rock is in large part about projecting image and emotion, so the question really is: How good is any band at conveying that, as Johnny Rotten once said, "We [ITAL] mean [ITAL] it, man"?

The answer for the Strokes is that they’re very, very good indeed.

Even before the release of this, their debut album, these privileged young New Yorkers have experienced a huge wave of hype (stemming from an early EP for England’s revitalized Rough Trade Records) and a nasty backlash (courtesy of skeptics who contend that rich twentysomethings can’t possibly have as much genuine angst and talents as poor twentysomethings--as if rockers such as Pete Townshend and Joe Strummer weren’t great just because they were products of the upper middle class). To me, it all smacks of what Nietzsche called [ITAL]resentemente[ITAL], and it’s all irrelevant: The Strokes have released one of the best and most passionate albums this year.

In many ways, singer-songwriter Julian Casablancas (son of modeling czar John Casablancas) is the distaff and distinctly American answer to Justine Frischmann of Elastica. Mirroring Frischmann’s allegiance to Wire and the Fall, Casablancas wears his devotion to the Velvet Underground and the sounds of C.B.G.B. circa ’76 on his sleeve. There is nothing original in the subway rhythms, monotone vocals, and frantic guitars of tunes such as "Someday," "New York City Cops," "Last Nite" and the title track. But the songs are inspired, energizing, instantly infectious and undeniable in their urgency, and Casablancas’ heartfelt depictions of his search for love and acceptance are as compelling as anything by his hero Lou Reed, back when Reed was still writing rock songs instead of musical masters theses.

If authenticity was the be-all and end-all of great rock ‘n’ roll, we’d have never had a Rolling Stones, a Ramones or a Strokes. And it would have been our loss.

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* * *

Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros, Global A Go-Go (Hellcat) * * *

The second effort from the new band fronted by the former leader of the Clash is a quieter affair than 1999’s more assertive "Rock Art and the X-Ray Style"--the dominant instruments after Joe Strummer’s famously gruff vocals are acoustic guitar and hand percussion. But the disc is no less impressive for coming on with a whisper rather than a roar.

Mixing Caribbean, South American, African, Arabic and Celtic rhythms and tonalities, the Mescaleros inspire a passion in Strummer that he hasn’t displayed since "Sandinista!" Lyrically, his political convictions are as strident as ever, but he’s recovered his sense of humor on tunes such as "Cool ’N Out" and the title track. The only thing missing is his former partner Mick Jones’ delicious pop melodies, begging the question: Since the Mescaleros and Jones’ Big Audio Dynamite both wound up with a global melting-pot sound, is it too much to hope that the two might finally reconcile?

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* * *

Smog, Rain On Lens (Drag City) * * * 1/2

Charmingly odd and introspective indie-rocker Bill Callahan just gets better and better--the Tom Waits of Generation X.

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* * *

Chocolate Genius, godmusic (V2) * * *

Barry White meets Mercury Rev, or the Flaming Lips jam with the Roots. Psychedelic soul lives!

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* * *

Baba, Mind Music (Velour) * * *

Lyrically flowing, musically innovative political hip-hop in the old-school tradition of Public Enemy and KRS-One.

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* * *

Melochrome, Stay A Little Longer (Loose Thread) * * *

Lovely, lulling, ambient, Enoesque indie-rock from Chicago.

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* * *

Owls, Owls (Jade Tree) * 1/2

Is emo becoming the jazz-fusion Muzak of a new generation? Or is it just boring and pretentious in its own right?

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* * *

The Start, Shakedown (The Label) * 1/2

One No Doubt is enough, thanks.

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* * *

Quasi, Early Recordings (Touch and Go) * * *

Cool psychedelic-pop noise circa 1993, but the vocals were always a weak point.

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* * *

Idaho, Levitate (Idaho Music) 1 1/2

Oh, the angst. Oh, the pain. Oh, the emotion. Oh, brother.

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* * *

The Murder City Devils, Thelema (Sub Pop) * * *

The new sound of Seattle = the old sound of the Sonics, circa 1966. Raw. Nasty. Turn it up!

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* * *

Jill Jones & Chris Bruce, Two (DAV) * *

Overly histrionic Alanis Morissette wannabe chanteuse, but with just enough good taste to cover Big Star.

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* * *

Karma to Burn, Almost Heathen (Spitfire) * * *

Killer instrumental power-trio/stoner rock. Fire up the bong!

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* * *

Yes, Virginia, there has been great rock ’n’ roll from towns in Illinois other than Chicago. Not much, but there has been some, and these two discs pay homage to two of the prime purveyors.

In general, tribute albums are a concept that has long since been played out, but Zion’s Shoes wrote the sort of timeless (if largely unheralded) power-pop anthems that really benefit from other artists remaking them. Among the highlights here: Matthew Sweet’s "Karen," Shane Faubert’s "I Don’t Know Why," and Don Dixon & Marti Jones’ "Only In My Sleep."

Meanwhile, Rockford’s finest are giving us yet another live album, this one recorded in their hometown in the summer of 1999. Cheap Trick was in prime form at the time, the set list has all the classic tunes you’d expect, and special guests include Slash, Billy Corgan and Art Alexakis of Everclear. But really, isn’t it time these boys gave us some new material instead of the umpteenth repackaging of "I Want You to Want Me"?

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* * *

This Chicago threesome has risen from the underground punk scene to become one of the bright, bold hopes of the "emo" genre, with the ability to sell out mid-sized venues like the Riviera Theatre. But while it can offer a nice caffeine buzz on up-tempo numbers like "Private Eye" and "Mister Chainsaw," it quickly devolves into uninspired mediocrity on slower tunes such as "You’re Dead" and "Another Innocent Girl."

The group seems to be aiming for some middle ground between major label-era Green Day and the late, lamented Smoking Popes (ex-Pope Mike Felumlee mans the drums). But adrenaline is no replacement for the solid melodicism of those groups. It may carry the Alkaline Trio’s live shows, but it just doesn’t cut it on record.

The cover image on the latest high-gloss offering from Aerosmith neatly symbolizes the contents within as a big-breasted cartoon robot mimics Marilyn Monroe’s famous windy subway-grate pose. There is nothing sensual about a woman made of cold, hard steel; she may be perfect, but she certainly isn’t warm, sexy, or alluring, and neither is the music of these tired millionaire sell-outs.

Once again, the veteran Boston rockers trot out their generic blues-rock grooves and sophomoric sexual puns, tarting them up with a big, bombastic production by the Boneyard Boys, Mark Hudson and Marti Frederiksen. The producers also collaborate with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry as co-writers on most of these tracks, although it’s never quite clear why it takes four people to write hollow dreck like "Drop Dead Gorgeous," "Under My Skin" and the tongue-tied rap, "Outta Your Head."

To be fair, the drooling ballad "Jaded" and the psychedelic foray "Avant Garden" are marginally better than anything on 1997’s "Nine Lives," which is probably the band’s nadir. But the fact remains that the always eager to pander Aerosmith of the new millennium has less in common with "Rocks" and "Toys in the Attic" than it does with Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys.

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"Punk as an attitude was meant to break out of the status quo, to throw away old, tired ideas and ideologies," proto-punk legend Wayne Kramer writes in the liner notes to this hard-rocking compilation. According to the former MC5 guitarist, the Internet is the new punk frontier, and this disc is intended to draw attention to a new web site (www.musicblitz.com) that features free MP3 downloads from a variety of rockers, including many of the legendary axe-slingers on this somewhat schizophrenic but consistently hard-rocking effort.

Among the highlights: former Voidoids Robert Quine and Ivan Julian reuniting with Richard Hell on "Oh," a new offering from Stooges great Ron Asheton ("Dead End Street"), snarling toss-offs from the new combos fronted by Dee Dee Ramone and Johnny Blitz (Dead Boys), and of course Kramer himself ("Crawling Outta the Jungle").

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Plenty of hip indie rockers pay homage to the groundbreaking synth-pop band Kraftwerk, but few come as close as the English quartet Ladytron to matching the pioneering Germans’ mix of innovative electronic soundscapes, ultra-danceable beats and unforgettable pop melodies.

Based in Liverpool, boasting members who are of Bulgarian and Asian descent, and occasionally singing in French, Ladytron is the perfect pancultural pop band for the new era of a Europe without borders. As with the best of Stereolab, songs such as "Playgirl" and "Mu-Tron" are simultaneously nostalgic for the space age bachelor pad music of the ’60s and forward-minded in their incorporation of rave rhythms and computer technology. Throughout a gripping 14-song debut, Ladytron proves once again that indelible melodies and motivating rhythms are bound by no one era or national origin.

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By virtue of their indie-rock roots, the Indigo Girls have always been cooler than most in the legion of crooning, acoustic guitar-strumming Lilith Fair warblers. But Amy Ray outdoes herself on her solo debut, turning up the volume and rocking out with a passionate conviction.

The targets of Ray’s wrath range from specific sexists (Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner, whom she accuses of patronizing female artists in "Lucystoners") to sexists in general ("Hey Castrator"). She also pays homage to activist friends who’ve passed away in "On Your Honor." But if you’re thinking that any of this bogs down in political correctness, you’re underestimating the strength of the music.

On various tracks, Ray is propelled by Southern rockers the Butchies and the Rock-A-Teens, as well as a supergroup comprised of Joan Jett, Kate Schellenbach and Josephine Wiggs; former Sugar bassist David Barbe and dB’s guitarist Chris Stamey share production duties. Ray never sacrifices the melodies of the Indigo Girls at their best, but to these ears, the music and the message are all the more gripping for the hard-rocking settings.

Though this notorious performance artist can be torturous on stage, her latest recording is a gripping set of intentionally outrageous electro-punk.

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* * *

Lorette Velvette, Rude Angel (Okra-Tone) * * *

Spiritual sister to the North Mississippi All Stars, this Southern belle brings a little pop, a touch more punk and considerable vocal wallop to her brand of indie blues.

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There seem to be two kinds of rock fans: Those who find live performances by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band to be "transcendent, rejuvenating, life-affirming baptisms in the rock ’n’ roll river of life!," and those who find all such jive to be insufferable hokum.

This reviewer falls in the latter camp. For that reason, live documents of the Boss’s sweaty onstage workouts have always left me cold, bloated as they are with his infamous monologues and wall-of-sound arrangements that are over-inflated for maximum arena bombast.

Recorded at Madison Square Garden last summer, the new, double-disc "Live In New York City" is the aural accompaniment to the HBO concert special that premiers on April 7. It follows in the tradition of the "Live 1975-1985" box set, mixing some performances that are inarguably energizing and dynamic with others that will just leave you thinking, "I guess you had to be there (but I’m sorta glad I wasn’t)!"

The worst example on the "debit" side of the ledger is the lengthy shtick during "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" as the Boss morphs into a gospel preacher man and introduces his bandmates as if they’re the eight Apostles. The biggest credits are the gripping renditions of "American Skin (41 Shots)," Springsteen’s moving anthem about New York shooting victim Amadaou Diallo, and "Land of Hope and Dreams," which became a regular encore as the reunited E Street Band trotted around the globe on its 1999-2000 world tour.

The CD also includes six songs that aren’t on the HBO special, including a fine "Jungleland" and a still overblown "Born in the U.S.A." Whether or not all of this warrants the $25 price tag depends on your level of Springsteen fanaticism--and whether or not you already own the bootlegs.

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Chicago pop maven Kevin Junior has delivered on the promise of 1999’s "Gospel Morning" with a heartbreakingly beautiful collection of orchestrated anthems that evoke Nick Drake recording with a "Pet Sounds" production and orchestra.

Both of those comparisons are over-used in the indie-rock underground, but the sophistication of Junior’s songwriting, the playing of his bandmates (several of whom used to comprise the local psychedelic-pop band Lava Sutra) and the lushly layered production actually justify the hyperbole for once. If the band could only elevate its live show to match the standards of its recordings, it could be a group for the ages.

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Returning after a four-year absence, the good Dr. Alex Patterson proves he’s lost none of his ambient/psychedelic appeal, delivering a dub-heavy set of entrancing grooves that benefit for the Bjork-like vocals of singers Aki and Nina Walsh.

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New Jersey’s finest grungemeisters thunder back with another gripping set of garage-rock anthems for Chicago’s Victory Records, ably produced by Monster Magnet’s Phil Caivano, and boasting a louder roar than a lion with its tail in a blender.

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Better than you’d think, but they’re no Banana Splits.

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The illegitimate daughter of Iggy Pop and Courtney Love.

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As leader of ’70s glam heroes Mott the Hoople—the band that gave us "All the Young Dudes" and provided the missing link between David Bowie and Lou Reed—Ian Hunter was famous for acerbic lyrics, Dylanesque vocals, and anthemic melodies driven by searing guitars and boogie-woogie piano. On his first album since 1996, he goofs on morons, American spies, and good Samaritans. Usually, venerated elders who tell us they "Still Love Rock and Roll" are just bragging, but Hunter delivers in fine glittering style.

The Television vet can’t sing to save his life, but he has few peers in inspired Stratocaster string-bending.

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Not as vital as "People Who Died" or <ital>The Basketball Diaries<ital>. But pretty darn close.

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At 43, newly wed and a proud papa to boot, rock’s most talented gloom-meister is reportedly happier than he’s ever been; indeed, "Love Letter" might be the most straightforward, unironic declaration of untainted emotion that he’s ever delivered. But fans should fear not: The balance of Nick Cave’s first new album in four years ranks with the most gorgeously tortured music that he’s ever produced.

The Bad Seeds stand tall as one of the most subtle and diverse backing bands in rock history, expert at painting finely nuanced backgrounds on which Cave can splatter his blood and bile-soaked tales of loss and redemption. Here, the invaluable contributions of frequent sidekicks Mick Harvey and Blixa Bargeld on guitar and Warren Ellis on violin are further augmented by the heartbreakingly beautiful harmonies of Kate and Anna McGarrigle, whose soaring vocals provide a lush contrast to Cave’s low grumble.

There are no left turns here a la "The Boatman’s Call"--Cave has staked out his melodramatic turf, and he isn’t about to reinvent himself. But "No More Shall We Part" finds him in top form, adding another handful of classics ("Hallelujah," "God Is in the House," "Oh My Lord") to his deliciously dark oeuvre.

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Pompous, preening poseurs wanna be Guns N’ Rose so bad they could kill, but GNR was never this pompous. Pathetic.

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Chicago’s answer to psychedelic gods Spiritualized. Derivative? Heck, yeah! But Spiritualized is MIA, so somebody’s gotta do it.

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No reason to be sorry, Ms. Jackson--your latest is as good as anything you’ve ever given us.

Arriving four years after her last multi-platinum offering "The Velvet Rope," the seventh solo album by the sweetheart teenage actress turned sultry grownup dance diva Janet Jackson arrives in stores today, and fans are certain to think it was worth the wait.

Jackson has now officially eclipsed her famously troubled brother in the superstar sweepstakes--unlike Michael’s, her music stays in touch with dance-pop’s cutting edge, even if it rarely breaks new ground. But Janet hasn’t been without troubles of her own: She is currently estranged from Rene Elizondo, the husband she denied she had through much of their decade-plus marriage.

Anyone who expects soul-bearing catharsis on "All for You" doesn’t really know Jackson that well. Sure, there are a handful of barbed tracks that seem to be aimed at ol’ Rene: the snarling "Son of A Gun" and the on-my-own-now anthem "Truth" are the angriest that Jackson has been since "Rhythm Nation 1814."

Still, it’s important to remember that she was an actress first, and that musically, she watched as her brothers were schooled in the old-school showbiz ways of Motown. Like Diana Ross, Ms. Jackson only shows us the briefest glimpses of her personal life, and we can never be entirely certain that she’s genuine about what she’s sharing.

This isn’t a complaint: Jackson’s act is as appealing as any in pop or R&B, and most listeners are willing to suspend disbelief, especially when she’s whispering sweet nothings in their ears. The newly single singer is clearly ready to get it on, and she says so numerous times in the sort of raunchy language that we’re more used to hearing from the likes of Lil’ Kim. (Take <ital>that<ital>, all you pretenders to the throne!)

The climactic ending of "Love Scene (Ooh Baby)" and the come-ons in "Would You Mind" alone will probably account for a couple of million sales to the male fans who adore her. Meanwhile, the secret of Jackson’s success is that women will be buying, too, because she retains her self-respect while she’s doing her seductive sonic striptease. With Janet, there’s never much doubt about who’s really in control.

Yes, Jackson’s chirpy voice is a limited instrument. But as in the past, she’s smart enough to get the most from it, relying on longtime collaborators Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis to craft red-hot funk jams as well as gorgeous ballads, and turning to the more cutting-edge producer Rockwilder for a techno vibe on five of the 20 tracks.

The album is not without problems. Like "The Velvet Rope," it bogs down during the indulgent and often insensible "interludes" between songs. And guest Carly Simon’s wooden attempt at rapping a bit of "You’re So Vain" in the middle of "Son of Gun" is simply embarrassing.

Overall, though, "All for You" is prime Janet, and that’s all we can really ask for.

Electric Wizard, Dopethrone (The Music Cartel) [3.5 stars]

In rock-starved times such as these, the underground movement dubbed "stoner rock" consistently delivers the biggest head-banging rush since the early’90s heyday of grunge. If Monster Magnet’s "God Says No" represents the best new entry from the American side of things, the latest from the self-professed "ultimate British cosmic sludge doom band" is certainly one of the finest gifts to cross the Atlantic in quite some time.

"Legalize drugs and murder!" the trio urges in its liner notes, but it’s just playing the classic Black Sabbath role of heavy-metal doom-mongers: Song titles such as "Funeralopolis," "I, the Witchfinder" and "Barbarian" sum up the H.P. Lovecraft-on-downers world view. In any event, the goal of a band like Electric Wizard is to seek transcendence through what Baudelaire called "a systematic derangement of all the senses"; more than drugs, this group relies on massive volume, the hypnotizing powers of its lead guitar and serpentine bass, and the unrelenting pummeling of its monstrous drummer. Rock on, boys. Rock on.

CST

Eric Clapton, Reptile (Reprise) [1.5 stars]

Anyone who’s followed the arc of his long career won’t be surprised to learn that Old Slowhand avoids any heavy lifting on his latest studio outing. Marginally better than his lite-rock efforts in the ’90s, this laidback blues sampler is still the kind of disc he could record in his sleep--and that’s what these 14 meandering, lugubrious grooves are most likely to inspire in listeners.

Reuniting with many of the players from last year’s "Riding With the King" (minus, unfortunately, B.B. himself), Clapton indulges in a fair amount of pure hokum, including "Broken Down" (it’s really difficult to accept this Lexus-endorsed millionaire comparing himself to a busted junker) and "Travelin’ Light" (another tune by the author of "After Midnight," perhaps the worst bar-band cliche that Clapton has given us; he should be barred by law from ever covering J.J. Cale again).

The only thing that somewhat redeems this disc are the instrumentals. It is hard to completely discount Clapton when he’s smart enough to just shut up and play his guitar, but once again, "Reptile" reminds us that he’s at his best when serving as a sideman for more inspired songwriters. Left to his own devices, he’ll stray toward easy listening even when he’s trying for stripped-down gutbucket blues.

Dave Matthews, Everyday (RCA) [2 stars]

Hey, all you hardcore Dave-heads: I hate to ruin your highs, man. But if you haven’t heard yet, your hero has made a matchbox twenty record.

Bummer! Or is it?

If the now-on-hiatus Phish retains the artistic edge in the post-Grateful Dead arena jam-band sweepstakes, the Dave Matthews Band is clearly the economic champ.

DMB (as the fans say) is the most efficient and lucrative touring machine that the music industry has produced in the last 15 years. Last summer, it sold a staggering 170,000 tickets for two shows at Soldier Field, then returned a short time later to sell out a few gigs at the Allstate Arena. And every one of its albums has gone platinum-plus.

None of this has been enough for the South African-born troubadour. Apparently, he covets the mainstream pop airwaves, over and above the considerable support he already gets from adult rock radio. Now, Matthews wants to go head to head with the N ’Syncs and the Britney Spears.

Arriving in stores today, his fourth studio album "Everyday" (RCA) is the tool that he’s crafted for this ambitious task--a leaner, meaner DMB record designed with the explicit purpose of grabbing pop’s brass ring. As such, it is full of hummable lyrics, gentle grooves and pleasantly jazzy instrumental sounds. But then so is a Christopher Cross disc.

DMB fans know that the bandleader had already crafted one album with his longtime bandmates and producer Steve Lillywhite, then scrapped those sessions because they were just "more of the same." Seeking to pull himself out of a mild depression and growing alcoholism--all of it carefully detailed in the current Rolling Stone cover story--Matthews entered a songwriting collaboration with the middle-aged hack-pop tunesmith Glen Ballard, the man that bands like Aerosmith turn to when they’re short on inspiration. (Ballard also co-wrote many of Alanis Morrissette’s songs of twentysomething female angst.)

Shock! Horror! "Everyday" is a DMB disc where most of the songs average three minutes. (This from a group that can play three songs in an hour onstage). And there’s barely a solo in evidence from endlessly wanky violinist Boyd Tinsley or windy sax man LeRoi Moore. Dave has also traded in his famous jangling acoustic guitar in favor of a jangling electric guitar--as if there’s much of a difference. (He’s still no Jimmy Page.)

None of the above are <ital>bad<ital> attributes. This famously flatulent group was in desperate need of editing, and losing the instrumental excess simply focuses the spotlight on Matthew’s trademark gruff vocals and lilting, serpentine hooks. The result is DMB’s best album, though the worth of that statement is relative--at its core, this is still just empty easy-listening Muzak, and certainly nothing to get overly excited about.

Ballard did little to improve the hyper-romantic Hallmark card banality of the lyrics. "I know I’ll miss her later/Wish I could bend my love to hate her/Wish I could be her creator/To be the light in her eyes," Matthews warbles in "Sleep to Dream Her." DMB: the musical equivalent of "Sleepless In Seattle." Ugh.

Like Metallica when it shifted from thrashy speed metal to alternative radio-friendly ballads, the Matthews Band is sure to alienate a circle of the hardcore faithful here, but it’s a gamble the boss is willing to take. If the masses of Generation Y join their Boomer parents in digging these innocuous Whole Foods-hippie ditties, Uncle Dave is poised to become the biggest act in America.

That might not be such a bad thing. At this point, anything would be better than the Backstreet Boys.

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Stephen Malkmus, "Stephen Malkmus" (Matador) [1.5 stars]

I do not mourn for Pavement. If there has been a band in the last 10 years where the critical-elitist hype was more out of proportion to the actual sounds on album and on stage, I missed it. (O.K., maybe Tortoise. Name another. Yeah, Beck, sure. But still….)

Pavement (which we all knew was 90 percent Malkmus) was capable of moments of skewered pop bliss--the much-celebrated indie anthem "Summer Babe (Winter Version)," or "Cut Your Hair," its bid for a Weezer-like alt-rock single--but sifting through the mountains of sheer self-indulgent sludge to find those shiny golden nuggets was never quite worth the effort. And the same is true for Mr. M’s solo debut.

"Stephen Malkmus" creates the impression that its auteur (pictured on the cover in classic slacker fashion wearing an Underdog T-shirt) crafted a handful of great hooks but forgot them when it came to record. You could argue that this is an improvement over Pavement, which simply couldn’t be bothered to learn those hooks. But the end result is the same: an album of sketches of could-have-been songs, supremely unsatisfying in their ragged ramblings, with lyrics that aren’t nearly as engaging (or witty, or postmodern, or <ital>whatever<ital>) as Malkmus thinks they are.

A sample tossed-off couplet from the man who would be indie-rock’s David Foster-Wallace (if not Thomas Pynchon): "You’re such monumental slime/Let the punishment fit the crime/We’ll tie you to a chair/The house music will blare/And turn your ears into a medicinal Jell-O." Substitute the half-baked wankery of "Stephen Malkmus" for "house music" and those words will finally ring true.

John Frusciante, "To Record Only Water for Ten Days" (Warner Bros.) [1 star]

And speaking of half-baked… Red Hot Chili Peppers fans who might be attracted to this effort by the sticker on the cover noting that Frusciante is that band’s guitarist should be forewarned that this solo effort has a little less than nothing to do with the catchy funk grooves of those long-running and still-chart-topping bad boys.

Dedicated to winning a reputation as the American alternative-rock version of Syd Barrett, Pink Floyd’s famous founding madcap, Frusciante has delivered a collection of sketchy, poorly recorded, extremely wigged-out demos detailing the view from inside the loony bin (whether imagined or from real experienced remains open to debate). While there are some undeniably potent explosions of psychedelic-rock guitar, those solos simply don’t support the lameness of the rest of this effort.

The BellRays, Grand Fury (Upper Cut)

"Maximum rock & soul," the BellRays call their music. They brag that it’s like being kicked in the gonads by James Brown, and that ain’t just idle boasting. Underground stalwarts on the Los Angeles rock scene, the quartet actually has much more in common with the hard-rocking sounds of Detroit in the mid-’70s, when bands like the MC5, Iggy and the Stooges, and the Amboy Dukes married heavy-metal intensity with Motown’s soul and groove.

A sassy, sexy African-American with a voice that burns like a flamethrower, BellRays singer Lisa Kekaula is an imposing presence onstage and on the band’s sophomore album. She revels in the righteous indignation and social outrage of tunes like "Too Many Houses In Here" and "Stupid Fuckin’ People," blowing up the bus rather than taking a back seat to anyone. Imagine Aretha Franklin or Chaka Khan reincarnated as punk-rockers. Meanwhile, her husband, bassist Bob Venumm, keeps the rhythm-section hitting hard and fast over Tony Fate’s slash-and-burn guitar. Power to the people.

To The Maxx

Loraxx, Yellville (Automatic Combustioneer)

Harnessing her fury in a different though no less potent setting is Arista Strungys, lead singer in the Chicago trio Loraxx. (The name is a nod to an environmental crusader in a book by Dr. Seuss.) Recorded by Steve Albini (Bush, Page and Plant, Nirvana), the band’s sophomore album packs the short, sharp shock of 11 tunes in 20 minutes, and it’s a logical progression in an abrasive brand of noisy art-rock that includes the late, lamented Jesus Lizard and Albini’s own Shellac and Big Black.

Strungys powers cathartic explosions such as "Dusters" and "22" with a shredding guitar style and a vocal roar that evokes Joan of Arc screaming while being burned at the stake. She’s a galvanizing frontwoman, but the band’s real strength lies with bassist Santosh Isaac and drummer Elliott Talarico. Like the mighty Jesus Lizard, Loraxx grooves with the subtlety of James Brown’s best rhythm sections, yet hits with the power of a pile driver. Albini captures it well—this is the sound he does best—but the band should be experienced live to be fully appreciated.

To The Maxx

Luna, Live! (Arena Rock) [3.5 stars]

Indie-rock darlings through most of the last decade, Low and Luna are both bands that have been devoted to exploring the power of subtle gestures--whispered vocal melodies, slyly intoxicating chord progressions, and enigmatic lyrics--as well as extending the legacy of the late, lamented Galaxy 500, pioneers of a sound that some have dubbed "slow-core."

Luna singer-songwriter Dean Wareham was Galaxy 500’s leader, and he’s been cursed with having everything he’s done since measured against that high-water mark. Though it has never made a bad record, Luna has never captured the elusive spark of Wareham’s old band, mostly because its studio efforts have often seemed too pristine and reserved. (It’s a fine line between subtle and uninteresting.)

"Live" finds a new version of the band running through some of its best songs ("Bewitched," "Puptent," "Tiger Lily") at two shows in Washington, D.C. and New York in 1999 and 2000. The quartet plays as if it has something to prove (Luna is currently without a label) and the polite veneer of the studio albums is replaced with a potent urgency that underscores the power of the band’s low-key tunes.

Meanwhile, the Duluth, Minn. trio Low reunites with Chicago producer Steve Albini on its latest effort for the local Kranky label. Though the band is sometimes dismissed as a mere Galaxy 500 clone (critics include the members of Galaxy themselves), "Things We Lost in the Fire" is a masterful disc that finds Low expanding on the languid, dreamy sounds of the past with lusher, fuller arrangements and an even darker lyrical bent.

"When they found your body/Giant x'es on your eyes/And with your half of the ransom/I bought some sweet, sweet, sweet, sunflowers/And gave them to the night," goes the opening of "Sunflower." The rest of the album unfolds like an aural version of "Fargo," and it’s every bit as haunting hypnotic.

Less Than Jake, Greased (No Idea) [3 stars]

Though it was already being packaged and commodified long before Dick Clark ever laid his grubby paws on it, the concept of teenage rebellion in rock ’n’ roll has never seemed more ersatz than it does in this era of carefully calculated outrage (thank you, Limp Bizkit and Eminem) and sub-Playboy/Playgirl sexual pandering (Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, N ’Sync, et al).

The just-past-puberty punks in the Donnas and Less Than Jake know the score. With their fondness for ’70s kitsch, they could be accused of being nostalgic for a time they never even experienced. But I prefer to think they’re playing with the sounds and cultural obsessions of the past to comment on the present--and I hear them having a rip-roarin’ good time while doing it.

"Turn 21" is the most polished and tuneful Ramones-style offering yet from the four Southern Californians who comprise the Donnas. Over a relentless backbeat and wall of buzzing power chords, the girls just barely mask their own insecurities by bragging of their sexual conquests ("40 Boys In 40 Nights," "You’ve Got A Crush On Me"), taking another page from Joan Jett and the Runaways in the process, and illuminating another of their influences with a heartfelt cover of Judas Priest’s "Living After Midnight." It’s all as intoxicating as a supersize bag of Skittle washed down with a 64-ounce bottle of Jolt.

Meanwhile, the Florida ska-punks in Less Than Jake gleefully deconstruct those so-bad-they’re-unforgettable show tunes from "Grease." Though we have three decades worth of warped perspectives here--with ’90s punks reimagining a ’70s vision of a ’50s that never really existed--the band’s hyperspeed demolitions of "Summer Nights," "Beauty School Dropout," "We Go Together" and the rest only underscore that a hammering 4/4 rhythm and a heavily attitudinal punk sneer belong to no one time period or age group, and they never really go out of style.

CST

Jennifer Lopez, J. Lo (Epic)

Jennifer Lopez has become a pop-culture industry. With all of the buzz about her acting ("The Cell," "The Wedding Planner," the immortal "Anaconda"), her high-profile tabloid romance (will she still love Sean "Puffy" Combs if he’s sent up the river?), and what she does or doesn’t wear to awards shows, her music has become an afterthought.

In fact, though her hype machine is ubiquitous, her label Epic Records refused to provide reviewers with pre-release copies of her sophomore album "J. Lo," which arrived in stores yesterday.

The reason for Epic’s reluctance is obvious: "J. Lo" is an unfocused, schizophrenic affair that wouldn’t attract much attention if it wasn’t the latest offering from the former Fox Fly Girl turned Magazine Cover Dream and Sexpot of the Moment.

The first single "Love Don’t Cost A Thing" and several other tracks packed toward the top of the album are generic, glossy, big-budget dance-pop products in the multi-platinum mold of Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, et al. The mechanized beats hammer away, the bombastic hooks blare out, and Lopez warbles and croons with little distinction. Only the lyrics set these numbers apart.

"Think I wanna floss, I got my own," Lopez chides a muchacho who’s trying to buy her love, marking what may be the first mention of dental floss in a would-be anthem of female empowerment. Elsewhere, on "I’m Real" and "Play," Lopez interrupts her innocuous teen-pop rhyming to interject some very adult cuss words, apparently in a misguided attempt to prove that she still has street cred.

It’s as if Zowie from "Sesame Street" suddenly got Tourette’s Syndrome.

"Play" is one of several tracks that are absurdly, unapologetically derivative of Madonna. The soggy ballad "Ain’t It Funny" is so close to being an aural Xerox of "La Isla Bonita" that the older diva could rightly demand co-songwriting credit--though she’d be wiser to distance herself from this sad, soggy ballad.

The aforementioned tracks contrast uneasily with encores of the Latin soul sound heard on 1999’s "On the 6." The rhythms of Lopez’ native Puerto Rico only reappear late in the album on songs like "Si Ya Se Acabo" and "Carino," which samples Cuban percussionist Mongo Santamaria.

These attempts to inject some fiery passion are too little, too late, and they sound as if they’re being delivered by another artist entirely. Maybe they are; Lopez’ recent appearance on "The American Music Awards" found her barely moving her lips while somebody’s vocals blasted on the backing track.

There are several ways to look at the scattered nature of this album. The more generous are to say that Lopez was too distracted by the commitments of superstardom to concentrate on her music, or that Epic Records, in hedging its bets, insisted that she cover as much stylistic ground as possible. (There are no fewer than eight different producers for these 15 tracks, including Lopez’ beaux, Puffy.)

The harsher view holds that Lopez and her handlers know that "J. Lo" is little more than another souvenir for her fans. If that’s the case, perhaps there should be two ratings here, one for image and one for art.

Cover photography: 3.5 stars (I love the "pimp-mama" shot of her in shades and a fur coat). Music: 1 star.

CST

Monster Magnet, God Says No (A&M)

As that wise old sage Nigel Tufnel once said (insert Cockney accent here), "It’s a fine line between clever and stupid, really." Rarely has a band danced along that divide with the style and grace of Red Bank, New Jersey’s Monster Magnet.

In these guitar-starved, pop-dominated times, the underground movement dubbed "stoner rock" marks a welcome return to the values of classic ’70s metal: hard-driving rhythms, massive, irresistibly catchy guitar riffs, and a wildly hedonistic celebration of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll via lyrics that are stoopid (which is to say, good dumb fun) as opposed to stupid (which is just plain bad, like, say, the mountains of teen-pop drivel).

To date, stoner rock’s best contenders for a mainstream breakthrough have been Josh Homme’s post-Kyuss outfit, the Queens of the Stone Age (though they vehemently reject the stoner tag), and Monster Magnet, who, after iconic ’70s originators like Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, and Deep Purple, have done the most to shape the nascent genre via influential, acid-drenched offerings such as 1991’s Spine of God and ’92’s Tab.

With their last album, 1998’s Powertrip, Monster Magnet shed some of their psychedelic trippiness in favor a streamlined, hot-rodded brand of metal largely inspired by auteur Dave Wyndorf’s musings on the Capital of the Weird, Las Vegas. A rock ’n’ roll lifer (he made his debut with Shrapnel in the late ’70s playing Ramones-style punk while dressed in a Sgt. Rock army outfit), Wyndorf seemed to be going for the big cash-in with a more "radio-friendly" sound. But despite relentless touring with anybody who’d have them (Marilyn Manson, Metallica, Aerosmith, Kid Rock), Monster Magnet never cracked the multi-platinum pop stratosphere.

With God Says No, Wyndorf and crew seem to be saying, "Fuck the mainstream!" Instead, they dive deep into the murky bong waters of their early days while retaining the focused crunch of their A&M records (thanks in large part to alt-rock mixer Alan Moulder, who’s worked with the Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails). The band surfaces with its strongest recording yet—a full-blown psychedelic freak-out that is nevertheless eminently hummable.

Wyndorf has learned well the vintage Sabbath/Purple formula of Heavy + Hooky = Gloriously Anthemic. As guitarists Phil Caivano and Ed (Atomic Bitchwax) Mundell unleash riffs that are the aural equivalent of a rampaging rhino, the boss conducts a virtual tour of stoner-rock styles, ranging from the straightforward stomp of "Melt" to the organ-driven garage-band rave-up of "Heads Explode"; from the violent Stooges groove of "Doomsday" to the twisted Robert Johnson-on-’shrooms blues of "Gravity Well," and from the Eastern drone of "Cry" to the drum-machine S&M sex fantasy of "Take It."

Cynics might charge that Wyndorf is smirking at us via lyrics like those in "Kiss of the Scorpion," which finds him portraying a randy sex-god/satyr. "You’ll swim in the sweat of a million orgies/You’ll live in the fire of the sweetest hell/A pit of souls who raise a mortal sun/Give your lips to the kiss of the scorpion!" he croons in the chorus, before howling, "It’s time to suck the cock of the fire god!" as Mundell launches into a powerful six-string orgasm.

Of course it’s dumb, but that’s what’s great about it. "Iron Man" and "Smoke on the Water" are dumb; comic books like Heavy Metal and those of Wyndorf’s hero, Jack Kirby, are dumb, and a heck of a lot of great rock ’n’ roll is really, really dumb. It’s a fine line between clever/stoopid and stupid/stupid. But Monster Magnet makes a joyful noise at an all-night party on the right side of the split.

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