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Damn
Sweet The
Dear Janes
Skirt
(Sore Thumb)
One of my greatest musical loves from the latter half of the
’90s is a record called No Skin, the second album by
an Anglo-American, female duo called the Dear Janes. No
Skin came out with little fanfare on Geffen Records, then
Geffen dropped the ball with them (as they did with so many
other artists of the era) and I assumed that that was that.
But it wasn’t, hallelujah, and now the Dear Janes have got
a new album called Skirt out, this time on their own
Sore Thumb label. Skirt finds the Janes’ Barbara Marsh
(the American one) and Ginny Clee (the Brit) singing and plinking
stringed thingies with aplomb, occasionally backed up by (among
others) selected members of Billy Bragg’s the Blokes, an incredible
band in their own right, featuring the latter-day rhythm section
of Shriekback (bassist Simon Edwards is Clee’s husband), Ian
MacLagan of the Faces, and Lu Edmonds of the Damned, Shriekback,
3 Mustaphas 3, PiL and just everyone else who mattered in
England for the past quarter century. Bragg and all the Blokes
get together to add their hearty, humble backing vocals to
the lovely “Ship” (co-penned by onetime Golden Palomino Syd
Straw), and pedal-steel guitar legend B.J. Cole adds shimmery
touches to a pair of tunes as well.
But, ultimately, this is Clee’s and Marsh’s record, and they’ve
created 10 exquisitely written and beautifully sung songs,
each one a keeper, each one a loving take on the sorts of
dark mental and emotional states that we generally don’t like
to look at in loving, exquisite or beautiful terms. Vocally,
the Dear Janes sound a wee bit like Kate and Anna McGarrigle,
when the Canadian sisters are at the absolute top of their
game, although this record’s production (by Edwards and longtime
Peter Murphy associate Howard Hughes) and instrumental performances
are better than anything that’s ever appeared on a Mc-Garrigles
record, with the possible exception of the canon-defining
Matapedia.
Record highlights on Skirt include the aforementioned
“Ship,” the lyrically clever “She Was the Dynamite,” the harrowing
and emotionally raw “Too Much Girl,” and the song-defining,
descending melody line of “This Is Hell,” which will at least
make your trip in the direction of damnation as sweet as it
possibly can be.
—J.
Eric Smith
Alanis
Morissette
Under Rug Swept
(Maverick/Warner Bros.)
 While
it seems unlikely that Alanis Morissette will ever repeat
the staggering success of her breakthrough disc, Jagged
Little Pill, she has nonetheless carved a niche for herself
as one of the more literate angst addicts in contemporary
chick rock. The dubiousness of that stature is underlined
throughout Morissette’s latest effort, Under Rug Swept,
on which she declares her independence from producer-cowriter
Glen Ballard, the man who shaped the sound of her last two
albums. Ballard’s absence is noticeable, because the tunes
on Under Rug Swept have a numbing sameness—Morissette
still knows how to craft hooks, but she overdoes just about
everything, smothering melodies with too-dense arrangements
and, as usual, hammering points home with endless verbiage.
Several tunes on Under Rug Swept have powerful attributes,
from the intense catchiness of “21 Things I Want in a Lover”
to the formidable momentum of the single “Hands Clean.” But
everything good about Morissette’s personal, oddly phrased
songs gets lost amid the bombast of drum loops, chugging guitars
and pounding rhythms. “A Man,” which appears toward the end
of the album, offers a welcome stylistic shift with a dark,
grinding sound that owes a strong debt to onetime Morissette
tourmate Tori Amos, and thumping bass notes from Me’Shell
Ndegeocello spruce up “You Owe Me Nothing in Return.” But
by the time Morissette closes the album with “Utopia,” sung
in a high soprano reminiscent of Sarah McLachlan’s ethereal
style, the therapy-session lyrics and incessant narcissism
have become stifling. Morissette badly needs to break out
of her discomfort zone.
—Peter
Hanson
Nine
Inch Nails
And
All That Could Have Been (Nothing)
What makes Nine Inch Nails fascinating is mastermind Trent
Reznor’s inability to let go of material once he’s finished
it. He crafts NIN tunes to within an inch of their life, making
songs like “Closer,” the old “Head Like a Hole” and the relatively
new, sweeping “The Great Below” memorable for both texture
and drive. NIN are remarkably powerful in concert, and the
live disc mixes old and new effectively, juxtaposing tunes
like the unforgiving “Sin” and the highly textured “March
of the Pigs” with softer songs like “The Day the World Went
Away” and “Hurt.” The disc features Reznor on howl, destructo
keyboard and prop guitar; guitarist Robin Finck; bassist Danny
Lohner; keyboardist Charlie Clouser; and a relative newcomer,
drummer Jerome Dillon. All are equally committed in their
blend of destructiveness and celebration.
You could argue that Reznor is slacking by releasing a live
memento of the memorable “Fragile” tour, but you can’t deny
the creativity and the work that went into this effort. Or
the marketing clout. And All That Could Have Been is
the closing of a chapter and, one suspects, the prelude to
new musical forms by one of the chief sonic architects of
the past 20 years.
—Carlo
Wolff
Richard
Galliano & Eddy Louiss
Face
to Face (Dreyfus)
 With
Face to Face, accordion player Richard Galliano and
organist Eddy Louiss have created a stirring set of duets.
Both have impressive pedigrees as players and composers, and
this set, recorded over three days at a Paris studio in the
spring of 2001, is a brilliant pairing. The sympathetically
matched tones of their two instruments create beautifully
interwoven lines that at times sound like they’re being made
by a single complex, pulsing instrument. The classic Hammond
sound of Louiss anchors the bottom end while Galliano’s melodies
swoop in and around the organ’s middle and upper registers.
The album’s 13 pieces feature elements of jazz, musette, tango,
waltz and blues; Benny Golson’s classic “I Remember Clifford”
intermingles naturally with a couple French songs, a Brazilian
medley by Baden Powell, and a few other choice covers. Originals
by both men straddle tradition and invention with subtle grace.
Since the death of Astor Piazzolla, Galliano has become one
of the primary composers for the accordion. His “Framboise”
evokes his multinational background (he’s a Frenchman of Italian
descent), while “Azul Tango” would make the late master proud.
—David
Greenberger
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