A few scraps from the table of the kings. There's a version of "My Kantele" (with acoustic rather than electric guitars), the two-song "Brother-Slayer" saga and Hawkwind and Kingston Wall covers.

The overall sound is steeped in that early 70s prog sound. Plenty of references are possible, but I think the organ sounds most like Uriah Heep (a band which perhaps most fully took advantage of that instrument). Just another step for Amorphis, which seems intent on eternally evolving its sound. Just as it should.

While the "Brother-Slayer" set is awfully good, the covers aren't terribly different in style from the originals (perhaps a bit heavier, but come on), and while I like this version of "My Kantele" as much as the one on Elegy, I sure would hope for more goodies.

Good enough for now. But I want more stuff! Soon!

Each band rips through three songs apiece, with the usual punk abandon. Lots of fun doctrinaire politics, which always keeps things interesting.

The Boils are from the Philly area, and here they espouse a stripped-down approach that can only be called old school. Peppy tunes with just a hint of melody. Adrenaline without the guilt.

The Goons sound like Jello fronting Bad Religion. The vocabulary may not quite live up to those standards, but the songs are generally scathing critiques of why we should all give up and kill ourselves now. Pretty cool.

Punks bands that are light-years away from selling out. If you need a dose of what made punk great, check this slab out.

With a dreadful pun for a name, I should have expected it. An album that sounds a lot like a loose version of Sister Lovers (Big Star's album #3, which also goes by the less-interesting name of Third). Sixties-influenced pop that is utterly messy.

The liners state that this was recorded for a whole $17.36. I assume the tape deck or whatever they used cost a bit more than that, but why quibble? Yeah, the songs are disjointed and may rely on one-too-many Dylan or Townsend references. They're still a big load of fun.

Indeed, the lack of professionalism is quite apparent, and that is precisely what appeals to me. This is music, straight from the heart with no distractions in the way. And hell, isn't unrefined sugar so much better than that crap you throw on your cereal?

Compelling beyond all reason. Plenty would assail the horrific playing, singing and production, but I listened past all that and found something even more important: a raw nerve of emotion. Tap into that, and who knows what comes next.

"The Conversation" refers to the Francis Ford Coppola movie, and while no samples have been taken from the movie, "The Bug" has managed to replicate the feelings of paranoia that a viewing of the movie can produce.

The music is more sound sculpture, with very few attempts at conventional construction evident. The one familiar factor is an underlying groove (which doesn't always exist), but the noise on top can get strange.

Just where I like it. This is dark and foreboding stuff, unrelenting in its apprehension. The pieces have been meticulously assembled and this final result is impressive.

I could do with a little more exposition of the noise ideas and fewer loops, but that seems like a minor complaint. A challenging and unrelenting album.

The focus is on the music, as the vocals are almost throwaway at times. Unfortunately, Christ Analogue has very little new ideas to bring to the cold wave (or is it cybercore? I get so confused) table.

Yeah, the execution is fine, with a solid production job providing the requisite sound. But even there, nothing new is happening. I've heard these songs before, it seems, and I've heard them done better. This is just a middling rehash.

Maybe I'm just in a bad mood or something. But this just rubs me the wrong way. Perhaps the inevitable has happened and the stable of talent for this sound has been utterly depleted. Or maybe this album just doesn't measure up. Whatever. In the end, the analysis is the same: no spark.

Perhaps the perfect antithesis of the Christ Analogue disc. Broadly speaking, the bands play the same style of stuff, but where Christ Analogue seemed only to be able to express itself in cliches, Covenant carves out new niches.

And Covenant isn't afraid to mix things up. Sure, the emphasis is on cold-spoken vocals (very Laibach-like, really), but the music shifts about significantly, from dirge-like, pain-filled anthems to almost bouncy, club-influenced dance bits.

Still, I didn't hear quite enough experimentation to thoroughly please me. The Theremin EP was better in that regard, and I wish even more chances had been taken. See, I know how good these guys can be, and this isn't quite their best.

Still, Dreams of a Cryotank is rather impressive, especially the final "Cryotank Expansion" sequence. I only wish the rest of the songs could have tapped more into that spirit.

I think one AC/DC clone with "Dirt" in its name is enough. I mean, not only does Dirt Cheap utterly steal that Aussie metal blues vibe, but they rip off Dirty Looks, too.

And, strangely, the sound pops out at times, which then reminds me a lot of D.A.D (does that ring a bell for anyone?). Except, see, the songs just aren't that interesting.

There are plenty of references to cards in "Casino", and with other titles like "Highway to Madness" and "Heaven and Hell", well, the guys don't even try to disguise their theft.

Come on, dress things up a bit. Just a little. Really. Please. I mean, if you'd try just a little, I'd give you some credit. Unfortunately, this is plagiarism in the worst way.

You know those movie posters that advertise descriptive blurbs as praise? Like where someone has called a movie a "screwball comedy", and the press people think that's a compliment instead of simply a statement of the movie's genre. Well, that sorta thing is all over the press for Fleshdevils, and it worried me a bit.

These guys are a power trio from South Africa, though they could be a power trio from Detroit and I don't think the sound would be much different. The main groove consists of pile-driving beats and oddly ethereal hard rock style of singing.

At least until the chorus breaks in, which is where the Fleshdevils exhibit a nasty tendency to sound like post-Diamond Dave Van Halen. Ouch.

While there are quite a few unusual tendencies exhibited by the band, the music still ends up in the same AOR sound. I'm exactly sure how this happens, but it does. And whatever potential the Fleshdevils have has been sucked into the L.A. metal machine.

Dreamy pop, tres Smiths and Echo and the Bunnymen. I haven't heard anything like this in quite a while. That is always a good thing.

The liners list out a catalog for the band, referring to this single as "nice". While that isn't the most descriptive bit possible, it fits. The Garlands aren't out to rock the masses, but the songs have something to say and the music complements the lyric ideas well.

The guitars are perhaps the most impressive feature, moving endlessly and yet not overpowering the proceedings. Garlands knows exactly what it wants to sound like, and the band members have obviously toiled long and hard to get here. Quite impressive.

When Holt Hopkins opts to put on a country-rock hat and belt out a few, he can be quite impressive. When he gives in to some unknown demon and starts playing that wanky faux-funk (think the New Bohemians) on his guitar, he's somewhat less so.

Luckily, Hopkins toes the straight line more often than not, and the result is a mostly satisfying album. Hopkins voice is quite expressive, and he's got a pretty good range, considering the way he sings.

And, like I've been harping, his basic songs are much more satisfying than the somewhat syncopated patter songs. His side players are quite good, filling out the sound nicely.

All he needs now is consistency. That should come with time.

They may be Swedes, but the members of Mental Crypt have put together a technical-sounding rendition of death metal that is highly reminiscent of the most recent Suffocation and Death albums.

The production is very sharp, which brings out the strong playing and fairly complex songwriting. No room for error, and Mental Crypt executes well.

Not terribly innovative or anything, the band does know how to kick the sound along. There is hardly a dull moment in the four songs, and while Mental Crypt isn't blazing a new trail, at least this is a nicely policed version of an older path.

Steve Million could easily have given in and made this album a happy-jazz toss-off. On the surface, it's easy to hear many of the rhythmic references that made (and makes) lounge music so annoying. But instead of dumbing down, Million takes the baseline and continuously expands his musical ideas until he has full fleshed out whatever notion troubled him at the start.

The piano is Million's instrument, but he lets his sides (including Ron Vincent, Chris Potter, Michael Moore and Randy Brecker) take their fair shots at his compositions as well.

In fact, this flexibility in arranging and songwriting is what makes Million's work so impressive. The only song in this collection he didn't write is the title track, which extends his streak of bad cliches for album names. Good thing he doesn't write lyrics, I guess.

Of course, the playing here more than obliterates the need for words. Million and his mates seem comfortable whatever style they're playing, and that easy feeling translates into a wonderfully smooth sound that isn't cloying in the least. It's nice to hear a mainstream jazz album that doesn't pander to the masses.

A gawdawful sludgy racket. Imagine really unfocused punk-pop songs with about five tons of distortion laid on the tracks. Alright, so no one knows what's coming or going. As long as we all have a good time.

The most important thing when faced with a disc like this is to simply record my visceral reaction. And I like the stuff. The sound is hideous, rendering the underlying songs almost impotent, but through the haze comes a vision of greatness.

Of course, that assumes Pie knows what it is doing. I think this mess is by design, and I like it lots. That, of course, is why any album I really like sells about 50 copies, mostly to the drummer's grandma.

But I do really like Pie, and while the sound is utterly oppressive, the overall effect of the total music package (I think I just invented that phrase) is stunning. Sure, your eardrums will bleed and your head just might implode, but if you survive the first couple of songs, things do mellow out (relatively), and your entire perception of the world will be changed. At the very last, you'll discover a massive craving for dried apricots.

Don't ask.

The reason Americans don't understand Britpop is that most of us are incapable of appreciating and understanding the usefulness of juxtaposing happy-sounding music with really morose lyrics. Americans tend to miss the point, like when Youth for Christ named Matthew Sweet "Musician of the Year" for his decidedly anti-deity anthem "Divine Intervention".

And then there's Plastiscene, whose two main songwriters (the brothers Gisborne, oh how British can you get?) were born in England but moved back to the U.S. during childhood. Talk about an utter mess. Plastiscene plays sarcastic pop tunes, but instead of whipping out the pure pop feel, the music undercuts that with enough starts and stops that apparently are supposed to signal "irony ahead".

The hooks aren't very good, and there's way too much of that faux -funk wank groove (I've heard way too much of that this week, by the way) to kick the tunes into overdrive.

The music is competent, but generic, and while the lyrics are sometimes interesting, the whole package doesn't fit. Plastiscene has its heart in the right place. Now all that needs to happen is for the head to follow.

There's plenty of music crammed into the grooves of this single (six songs in all), and the main unifying factor is utter discord and madness, executed at breakneck speed.

And, actually, right before the band abandons all rational hope and kicks each song into overdrive, the sound is pretty cool. Yeah, so none of the instruments seem to be on the same planet, much less the same page. There is something I can't quite put my finger upon rolling about here.

But then the need to impart a hyperspeed chorus break in, and I'm left with the sound of a sloppy hardcore band (though this hardly describes the band fairly).

I think there are a few jokes being told, but perhaps the only joke is one me. I like too much of this to rip it, but when it comes to an overall motive, my brain cannot compute. Certainly fascinating.

He's already got a catchphrase: Garagefolkrocknroll. I like that. While all you hear on this disc are Rob Skane and his guitar (imagine that!), the sound is pleasantly dirty (this almost had to have been recorded live to two-track or some other simply scratched up a bit), which lends a pleasant fullness to the sound.

Skane sings about whatever seems to pop into his head. Mostly personal tales, it seems, with a few little bits of observation thrown in for good measure. He's got more attitude than your usual "guy with a guitar", and that gives his songs a nice bite.

He gives a special shout out to the original Gotham fearsome foursome, Kiss, and there's a bit of a kinship I can hear. While Skane is a bit more subtle than the greasepaint boys and doesn't crank out tune like "Love Gun" and "Lick It Up", his music is acoustic rock, not folk. electrify him and give him a band, and he would probably sound a lot more like Ace Frehley than Paul Simon.

Am I getting weird already? Sorry. I like the way Skane punches out his songs, not worrying about how he is supposed to sound. His style, attitude and intriguing songwriting make this album a nice breath of poisoned air.

When I got this package, I wasn't sure how it had made its way to my door. Two blues CDs from a label I'd never heard of before. A couple days later, I saw the Epitaph (must be them cataracts acting up again or something) on the case and this made more sense.

What makes less sense is that while T-Model Ford has spent almost all of his 75-plus years in Mississippi, he sounds like he belongs on Chicago's southside. In fact, his delivery and guitar playing are highly reminiscent of John Lee Hooker.

If you're gonna emulate someone, well, John Lee is as good as anyone. But this is an interesting example of how the blues have traveled in the past 50 years. With the advent of the cheap record player and the 33 1/3 album, just about anyone could (and can) afford a decent blues collection. And one listen to the Alligator Records roster will show how diverse even the Chicago blues community is nowadays.

All this is tangential to the issue of Mr. T-Model Ford, however. The sounds on this album varies wildly (most of this was done in a studio, but a few tracks were cut), but the spirit of the blues is alive and well. For all the suffering in his life, T-Model Ford seems intent on using the blues to sing songs of joy. Most of the time, anyway.

Wipe away all the strangeness, though, and what is left is a fine blues record. Something I'm always happy to hear.

The second set of blues coursing through the mighty Epitaph distribution pipe. I'm not sure if I got the title right, but that's what it seems to be. Perhaps someone will set me straight.

Twenty Miles utilizes the same instrumentation as T-Model Ford, guitar and drums, but instead of recruiting extra sides, the Bauer brothers (Donovan and Judah) play this straight. Sounding as rough and raucous as an old Flat Duo Jets album.

As you might guess, this isn't really much of a blues album, although there's plenty of slide on the guitar and plenty of pain in the lyrics. On the other hand, I haven't heard such an inspiring barebones rock album in ages.

Flaying the air with wild riffage and waves of distortion, Twenty Miles cuts to the quick, stripping rock and roll to the minimum. And that minimum can be quite uplifting when done correctly.

As it is. Twenty Miles could have easily gotten sidetracked into one particular mode or another (drum and guitar only allows so many possibilities, you know), but instead the brothers Bauer use their limitations as a liberating force. Impossibly fine.

Punk with a real pop sheen. The lyrics are completely silly, particularly the "Ballad of Sid". But, hell, it's not like the cover and the title were a hint of where the U.S. Bombs sympathies lie.

Sounds a lot like old Social D, though the energy level is lacking. Oh, it's all very presentable, and I think that's the problem. This is punk you could bring home to mom. And no one wants that.

Mildly entertaining, but not much more than that. More inane than annoying, the U.S. Bombs merely prove that you can be a punker until you die. It's only the quality of the music that suffers.

The press notes that epitaph doesn't sign many unknown bands. Of course when Lance Frederiksen and Tim Armstrong produce, well, that makes such a decision easy.

Union 13 plays a version of catchy hardcore (breakneck verses and anthemic choruses) that is fairly intoxicating. And, of course, being from East L.A. they have to sing a few tunes in Spanish. Fine by me. It's about time all those pink-shirted suburban punk kids got a clue.

For such an accessible style, Armstrong and Frederiksen have kept a slightly rough edge on the sound. This makes everything just that much more palatable.

Some of the riffs do seem to crop up again and again, and I think Union 13's future lies in poppier material. But there's time for evolution (remember NOFX's early stuff?). This is a good start.

The second Epitaph outing finds VGS running in place. Oh, the usual skacore abounds, and these guys are about as good as it comes. And hell, the shows are great. But I wanted more.

Perhaps it's just because I've been hearing this sorta thing from these guys for so long. I think they've been hearing it a bit too long as well, because there are a few too many cliches imbedded in the music. The guys have done it before, they've done it again, but it all seems too similar.

All that whining aside, this is a fairly good album. But when compared with the Blue Meanies album (reviewed last issue), well, it pales. This is easy stuff for the masses, and I thought I might get a little something more.

Workmanlike skacore. VGS has done better and will do better. This is fun, but nothing to get all hyped about.

Xorcist has always been the ultimate merging of goth, cold wave and techno. There's plenty of stuff wandering past all the time, and the synthesis of the various components is sheer genius.

Nothing changes here. The usual lush sound prevails (though the beats do seem a bit weak at times), and the gorgeous soundscapes are amazing to behold. Suffice to say, if you haven't heard Xorcist, you have no idea how good this can be.

Few can make experimentation sound so accessible. While fans of electronic music are notoriously hard to impress, I've never heard anything but praise for Bat's music. The mere fact that so many disparate people swear by Xorcist is telling.

This is one of them "enhanced" CDs, and since I now have CD-rom, I'll give you a run-down on that stuff. First, the thing is set up to run off a web browser, so there's so no compatibility problems. Lots of cool graphics, and a few interesting little tidbits. My guess is this stuff is basically from the Xorcist website (I guess I could check that out, but I'm a bit lazy), but it works as a kind of extended liner notes.

Class all the way. How could I expect less?