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The
Major Lift
By
Erik Hage
It’s
best not to look at Madonna’s career in terms of actual
music, but as one long and often successful battle against
obsolescence. And it’s truly remarkable how long she has been
waging this war. There was the Sex book of 1992, the
pairing up with electronica whiz William Orbit in ‘98—hell,
even the Britney smooch of 2003 succeeded in keeping her on
the collective pop radar.
Those examples show that Madonna typically wages this battle
in one of two ways: She either pushes the boundaries of sexual
titillation (this goes back to her floor-humping “Like a Virgin”
performance at the inaugural MTV awards in 1984), or she pads
out her identity with a fringe hip phenomenon (Kabbalah, voguing,
the aforementioned Orbit). And what a genius move to ward
off derision regarding her Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction
by having Iggy Pop and the Stooges perform “Burning Up” and
“Ray of Light” at the ceremony. (Your moment of zen: Justin
Timberlake in the front row, bopping his head and trying to
act into it.)
But the Parises and Britneys have pushed Madonna’s sexual-titillation
approach beyond the envelope’s outer edge, in effect neutralizing
it. (What did Wallace Stevens write? “That generation’s dream,
aviled/In the mud, in Monday’s dirty light.”) It’s strange
then to see Madonna on the cover of Hard Candy in scanty
S&M gear (yawwwn), surrounded by garish pinks. As to the
album: It’s simply another Timbaland (abetted by protégé Danjahandz)
and Neptunes album with yet another woman singer plugged into
the equation. The former crafts the best track here: the lead
single “4 Minutes,” a snappy, horn-flecked romp through dance-funk
terrain, with Justin Timberlake proving to be the more prominent
singer. As I said, it’s not about the music; nevertheless,
this formulaic, obligatory album shows that this might be
a Waterloo in her battle against obsolescence.
Mariah
Carey, an actual singer, rode in on a whole other agenda
years ago by showcasing octaves designed for both canines
and humans, and by occasionally digging into impressive gospel
terrain. On 2005’s hardly impressive The Emancipation of
Mimi, she turned to hitmakers the Neptunes, Kanye West
and Jermaine Dupri (you’re seeing the theme here, right?),
and on E=MC2 she turns to Danjahandz (yes, the guy
from Madge’s album) and Swizz Beatz as well. “Touch My Body,”
a bright, pleasing dance-pop single, made news by hitting
No. 1 and outdoing Elvis Presley’s record of hits (a meaningless
distinction in such a weak market). Strangely, Carey is still
martyring out her long-gone divorce (from record mogul Tommy
Mottola) on “Side Effects” (it ain’t pretty as she nears 40),
and she staggers a bit on the dance-club numbers. But on stripped-down,
yet expansive ballads, she is still master of the form, as
the final track, “Wish You Well,” attests. A true singer is
refreshing in a desolate pop landscape.
A long time ago, before I was born, Tom Petty formed a country-rock
band called Mudcrutch. Petty took along two members
of that band to create music history as a solo artist, and
the other two guys, Tom Leadon (brother of former Eagle and
Flying Burrito Brother Bernie) and Randall Marsh, sat around
developing deepening empathy for Pete Best. Getting the old
unit back together is far from an act of philanthropy, though,
as a dead-serious, blistering version of “Lover of the Bayou”
attests. The song was a standout on the Byrds’ 1970 Untitled
album. That scorching country-rock era of the Byrds points
to the intention of this album, and longtime ally Mike Campbell
sounds like he’s unbound as he levies smoldering psych-rock
solos against the roots-rock. Feeling his way back to the
hippie country-rock of a long-time-ago California inhabited
by the Burritos and Byrds (Mudcrutch cover “Six Days on the
Road,” if that’s any indication), a bass-playing Petty finds
delightful new purchase.
Portishead,
along with Massive Attack and Tricky, were a defining band
of the mid-’90s trip-hop sound of Bristol, England. On Third,
they pretty much fly in the face of the upper-class, ambient
noir they created, as the deadly drone of “We Carry On” and
rapid-fire Krautrock of “Machine Gun” attest. Third
confronts, challenges and forces the listener into difficult
places: the morose and spooky “Small,” the dungeon-rattling
prog-electronica of “Silence.” This is the sound of seaside
Bristol after all of the hipsters have left town and the clubs
have shuttered their windows. Beth Gibbons’ hollow tones provide
little comfort, and Geoff Barrow’s arrangements crawl up inside
you in a discomfiting manner. Like a Thomas Pynchon novel,
this is a difficult pleasure at best—but pleasure nonetheless.
If you’re looking for something to lift you out of the existential
trench that Portishead have cast you into, then Flight
of the Conchords is just the thing. This New Zealand
comedy duo are well known to watchers of HBO, and this album
culls 14 songs from the first season of their series. These
intelligent satirists take the Tenacious D theorem and apply
it to music that is actually listenable. (It’s on alt-king
label Sub Pop, which should say something about the intended
audience.) And whether reveling in hip-hop (“Hiphopopotamus
vs. Rhymnocerous,” which proclaims: “Sometimes my lyrics are
sexist/But you lovely bitches and hoes should know I’m trying
to correct this”) or hilarious Franco-pop (“Foux du Fafa”),
there are real songwriting chops beneath the sly humor. Just
try on “Bowie” for size, and hear them explore the numerous
gestures of the titular figure in dead-on, hilarious fashion.
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