New age music had been maligned by many folks who are much more schooled than me. For good reasons, most of the time. The stuff is too simplistic, way too dramatic in a cheesy way, too this, too that. Just like what they say about Danny Elfman's film scores.

Agreed. Abdallah writes some nice, simple piano work. Stuff that would work just fine on its own. But he also feels the need to wash over the good stuff with loads of synthesized strings and other keyboard effects. Way over the top.

And he cribs, which is annoying. That he rips off Andrew Lloyd Webber (listen to "Searching" and tell me that's not a song from Phantom) is worse. I mean, if you're gonna steal, show some taste, right?

On the other hand, that just might be what new age fans want to hear. I can't say. I'm not in that ballpark.

Chunky riffs and tight hooks, pop music that lurches pleasantly from tune to tune. Approaching the ideal of white guys with guitars, with all the baggage that implies.

Sweet stuff, undoubtedly, though not quite as achingly gorgeous as, say, the Cardinal Woolsey album of a couple years back. The Absolute Zeros get bogged down occasionally in craft problems (the transition between song sections can be agonizing), but the basics are good.

Good sound, bouncy and appealing. Just the right amount of kick in the guitars, and a slightly ragged quality to the vocals. Dead on.

In all, pleasing. Not perfect, but a decent disc for a lazy afternoon. Enough punch to convince you to actually get off yer ass, but with a tasty filling that justifies the lackadaisical impulse.

A D.C.-area band which slogs its hardcore along in more of a west coast fashion. Thrashing drum work, cascading riffage and half spoken-half howled vocals. Classic athemic stuff.

Very raw and ragged. Battery often shifts course in the middle of a song, which can be a bit annoying. Still, the gang-shout choruses and impossibly energetic pace make Battery easy to love.

More of an old school approach, with echoes of Black Flag, Seven Seconds, Suicidal and other such bands who didn't share a style so much as a feel. Just enough hook work to encourage singing along while the riffs plow forth.

Simple and solid. It can pay to get back to the basics. Battery easily proves that point.

Punk pop forced through a sludge filter. This package arrived rather unadorned, and the music follows suit. The songs are simple, straightforward and strangely beguiling. Somewhere behind the wall of distortion and muddy recording lie the vocals and some semblance of song structure, but the loopy goop on top is impressive enough.

Swirling in a haze of excessive reverb and pinned recording levels, Beef hurls forth a barrage of anger and cutting social comment. At least, that's what I think I hear. I can't be sure.

An artistic use of the lo-fi ideal. I'm not claiming any sophistication for the band, but by God, this sound really works for this music. There's hooks in them thar roiling clouds, but don't expect to find them by staying in the boat. Gotta get out and explore a little bit.

A touch of the apocalyptic is the crowning bit. This disc may have arrived with minimal fanfare, but it made maximum impact.

The shimmer is the vocal work. Performed by a woman who goes by the name "Nicole". The voice is cool. The music doesn't quite make it that far.

That kinda pop-rock thing, more pop than rock as the album moves ahead. And the more pop this band gets, the more the songs sink into musical cliches. Oh, the singing is nicely fuzzy, but the songs aren't particularly clever or inventive. Comeptetent playing and production, but in severe need of a sense of adventure.

I wish I could be nicer, but there's not much here to recommend. On a couple tracks the guitars start buzzing and I feel a Hammerbox vibe. But I'd much rather hear Hammerbox (not to mention a couple thousand other bands) than this.

A re-issue of an album from 1988, with seven bonus tracks of stuff from assorted compilations, 7"s and the like. Gothic noise, if you weren't already aware. Brighter Death Now is the work of a guy who calls himself Karmanik, and his genius is just as apparent in these early works as it is in his more recent albums.

The breath is the pulse of industry, and the heartbeat the pain of all mankind. Brighter Death Now swoops in on its subjects, clothing them in the tatters of a broken society and then unmasks the whole procedure, revealing soundscapes of agonized futility.

I think part of the point is to provide a soundtrack to Death. Lives that are already dead, a culture that is slowly committing suicide. The music is unrelenting, but still carefully textured and structured so as to bring off the full effect.

An impressive exploration of the depths of the human experience. Brighter Death Now pulls no punches in plumbing the bowels of humanity. As the back cover says, "I have become Death, the Shatterer of Earth". Couldn't have said it better myself.

Back, back, back we go. Cryptic Cremation would have fit in perfectly with the old school of death metal, heyday somewhere in 1990 or 1991. Completely incomprehensible vocals combined with classically-inspired riffs. A much more creative version of the Cannibal Corpse sound, if you will.

The production is a bit weak, muffled where it should be sharp, and vice versa. Still, the songs come across fairly well, and the stuff is good. There's a bit too much of the "2-3-4 change!" ethic, but that's a hallmark of bands such as Gorguts and Suffocation, obvious inspirations.

Cryptic Cremation does add a bit of the latter-day reliance on melodic guitar lines, but these guys from Quebec are still stuck in the past. Not a horrible thing, but probably not the best possible career move.

A solid disc, though. The playing is impressive and even a bit expressive. The songs employ a good sense of rhythm (important when your vocals do not carry any melody) and there are cool grooves galore. Too bad the clock has passed this place and time.

Bil McRackin called up a couple friends from Vancouver and kicked out an album that recalls D.O.A., Nomeansno and the Ramones. Heavy bass, punchy drum work and an insistence on hooky choruses.

Amusing, if not a life-changing event. Punk with that thick Vancouver feel, something I can never quite get enough of in my life. The songs tend to the generic, but they're energetic enough to get past that small problem.

The lyrics have a nice bite, which makes up for the repetitive nature of the riffage. The sound is kicky enough, with the proper emphasis on the oozin-ahs.

An album for devoted fans of this particular strain. Nothing particularly great, but a fun interlude nonetheless. This is good stuff, even if it is somewhat by the numbers.

The same elements as the Doormats album reviewed in this issue, but more. A heavier reliance on the pop structure of the Ramones and even more emphasis on the throbbing bass and breakneck drumming. More, more, more.

Plus, Gas Huffer is much more about humor (someone out funny-ing a McRackin? Geez). A ton of songs (16 in all), a bramble of wacky amusement. And while the basics remain the same, the songs cycle through a surprisingly wide variety of sounds. Creativity, damnit!

A punk cavalcade that simply keeps on rolling. Gas Huffer has a modest aim, merely to entertain. As always, success. And even more.

Whenever I start to get down about the future of punk music after listening to too many listless pangs of angst, something like this comes along to reaffirm my faith. Gas Huffer doesn't take anyone terribly seriously, and that's why this stuff is so good. A refreshing taste.

Talk about an act that would be lost without the stage show. Whenever things get kinda dull, Gen calls out for members of the audience to come forward and get pierced. Wherever they like.

The music itself has undergone a significant change during the long history of the group. What started out as shlock rock has evolved into a more techno-gothic-industrial experience. This disc sounds an awful lot like latter-day Thrill Kill Kult. With obvious cribbing from Ministry and more.

The best music I've heard from the band, which is not a compliment in and of itself. This is at least listenable, if highly derivative. Lots of posturing in the lyrics, which can get old very fast.

The show is still the thing. Lots of leather and skin, with audience participation. I'd advise you put your money down for that instead of any particular disc.

A big bag of different music styles that all fall nicely into that vagueness known as "rock". The lyrics are most often spoken, or loosely rapped even, and the lyrical content is generally in the form of prose poetry. Sometimes there's a chorus, sometimes not.

The adventurous nature of the music helps to provide adequate background for the vivid pictures brought forth in the songs themselves. The feel is an unusual one; I often got the idea I wasn't quite understanding what I was hearing. Thought-provoking is always good.

Now, while the music wanders about quite a bit, it isn't particularly inventive, just diverse in its inspiration. Still, the lyrics pick up the slack. This is a verbally-driven album.

Strange, and that's good. Great? Probably not, but certainly intriguing.

I've been subjected to a big raft of oldster punx trying to make a comeback with milquetoast albums. What I should have done is simply recommend the Humpers. All that old style craziness and tuneful hooks done right. Just like 20 (or more) years ago.

Alright, so this is better-recorded. The spirit remains the same. The Humpers are a slash-and-burn party outfit, with plenty of old-style rawk pushing the punk right along.

Team these guys up with the New Bomb Turks, and you'd have one of the great punk bar band tours. Fine songwriting, great musicianship and loads of laughs. Not to mention pitcher after pitcher of fun.

Another blast into the future. I'll ride these riffs into the sunset.

More of that glam metal-industrial complex. Chunky riffs that Ratt or Poison would have been happy to promulgate, combined with a full-bore techno rhythm assault. Cheap and easy, and that's just the way I like it.

Been hearing more and more of this sound lately, and that makes a big wad of sense. The stuff makes for an instant reference from old farts like me who remember Hanoi Rocks before Vince Neil "made a little mistake" as well as the Nine Inch Nails devotees of today.

Plenty of straight out theft, both in riffs and soundscape material (check out "Ray" for ample evidence on both fronts). But, see, this is just the pop music of tomorrow. Enough hooks to attract the kiddies, enough guitars to amp up the testosterone, enough "artistic" meddling to please a few critics.

Not great by any standards, I gotta admit that the Hunger has a nice handle on an addictive sound. Empty? Hollow in the middle? Sure. But a tasty treat nonetheless.

Rote pop that manages to grope its way out of mediocrity. The songs are extremely commercial, with all the right flourishes and simple, overpowering hooks. The solos are simple and wouldn't confuse anyone. It's just done so well.

Which doesn't make the music great. The songs are ultimately throwaway, but Kibler is almost gratingly earnest, and the production lends just the right amount of kick. The roots-pop formula has been followed perfectly, and yet the album isn't stilted.

An amazing feat, really. Every time I hear another carefully plotted overdub or too-obvious chord change my skin rankles, but even so, I keep listening, wanting to hear the next song. One of those things that must be destined for big things, I suppose.

At times, Kibler reaches a bit deeper into the bag and whips out some almost-country licks. Like on the title track, which, oddly, is an instrumental. more moments like "Capsule" and I might have really liked this.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but lean blues 'n' boogie was not it. Lambert and the Gnomes (what a great name!) kick out some tight and smooth boogie shuffles, bringing to mind early Robert Cray or the Fab T-Birds before they hit the big time.

For the most part, Lambert keeps the sound simple and doesn't succumb to the temptation of taking his music where it doesn't want to go. Even on a song like "Dirt Brown Pillow", which starts off in an almost glam metal ballad style, he pulls back and settles into a nice folk-gospel groove.

The key to the blues, as far as I'm concerned, is always how well the music connects. Technical virtuosity is nice, but not required. Insightful lyrics are a plus, but don't tell that to John Lee Hooker, whose greatest songs are the sparest. The power is in the delivery.

And Lambert knows how to deliver the goods. The light touch helps the music mainline that much quicker. One of the best blues albums I've heard in quite a while.

Classic country songwriting, produced with all the slickness of today's Nashville. Compromise or inspired collaboration?

Both, really. More of the latter, though a couple songs come off as merely hick pop. Lauderdale's dalliances with rock remind me a bit of Steve Earle, and Lauderdale certainly doesn't shy away from kicking out a pain-stricken song.

More often, though, he simply offers up classic "my girl left me, now-I'm drinkin'--why you kickin' my ass?" country songs. With full digital recording and monster sound that today's boomer country crowd desires. I wish the sound wasn't quite so massive, but Lauderdale's songs are good enough to get past that obstacle.

There a spot in my record collection for folks like Earle, Dwight Yoakam, Foster & Lloyd (etc.), Nanci Griffith, Lyle Lovett and Rosanne Cash. Looks like they'll have to make some room for Jim Lauderdale.

I have been jonesing for a Posies album for some time now. Libido will do the trick nicely.

And if you've been in search of arrogantly overpowering pop music that is as much about killer guitar riffs and drenching harmonies as it is about throbbing sound, well, you might get happy in this place, too. There are some weird references (a complete crib of the guitar line from King Missile's "Gary and Melissa" to open "Supersonic Daydream"--unintentional, perhaps, but spooky nonetheless) which only help to complete the greatness.

Oh, yeah, this is a great album. I could hear that at the start. Sometimes you just know. Libido has a wonderful grip on wrenching the last bit of irony out of a lyric, and after all, pop music without irony is treacle. Stuff you can't keep down for long.

Libido can cure any musical bulimia you're suffering. The songs crash along, shattering illusions all the while. Music of power, grace and extreme cynicism. The perfect tonic for what ails me.

It's been too long. Well, there was the astonishing Shakuhachi Surprise album (a collaboration with Space Streakings), but the time has come for another sermon from the Mount.

The songs are a bit more tightly constructed than on Who's the Hottie, but this semi-reliance on established forms serves only to heighten the sense of unease. Most songs have two or three main melodic elements (and the vocals are almost never one of them). Yeah, still rhythm-heavy (no getting away from that), but with a bit more lunacy from the lead guitar slot.

And there's no getting away from the whole craft concept. Take "Tang Dynasty". The opening sequence builds its dissonance wonderfully, and by the time the song really kicks in, the parts are all in place and functioning perfectly. Intentionally off-key and definitely off-kilter, Mount Shasta plows forth.

A fertile ground for harvesting. Proof that musical competency and more structure surroundings don't necessarily make for dull music. Of course, I use all such terms as loosely as possible. Mount Shasta has climbed out of the Chicago-rock swamp and established a beachhead of its own. The consequences for humanity are unknown as yet.

A gothic spin on the electronic sound. Trip-hop straightened out and drenched in minor-key synth. Quite arrogant and excessive, but endearingly so.

The songs roll along, like waves on the ocean. The sound is kicked up so high, there isn't a whole lot in the way of mood shifting. Like drinking a big load of coffee (or popping a couple tabs of ephedrine) and then proceeding to gobble every downer in sight.

Ultimately too happy to be gothic in any sense, Mulu uses the dark coloring to distinguish itself from an increasing number of acts who ply these waters. Works well enough, though I'm not sure I'd want to listen to this a thousand times in a row or anything.

Nothing too extreme or experimental, Mulu sticks to the electronic basics, adding bits and pieces to make its sound. A sound which is destined to be dated. But why worry about the future, anyway?

So, like, if Pearl Jam would succumb to the industrial revolution and use a kicky rhythm track and loads of samples. Well, actually, there's a bit more going on here, but Kristian Roebling is way too enamored of that whole grunge anthem style of singing.

The songs cycle through a number of hard rock influences, even resorting to sitar and other unusual instrumentation. That stuff doesn't work so, mostly because the songs themselves are written in a stock style.

Any innovation to be found is in the intros and the odd short piece. Once the real songs kick in, it's a ride everyone has been on before. The sound is excellent, even a bit heavy, which is what the stuff calls for, anyway. I just wish the songs had a little more to them.

Because these don't measure up. Not bad, but not original, either. North American Drum and Steel suffers from generic disease. In trying so hard to find a unique sound, the band has ended up sounding like a hundred other bands on the same mission. I've heard that one too many times.

I got a little listing that shows a somewhat different cover. One of them Nazi (or I.R.S., for that matter)-style eagles, which gets a little uncomfortable when combined with the utter inhumanity of the lyric content.

Misanthropic, to the ultimate extreme. Whether sampled or spoken, the lyrics speak to the final elimination of mankind. This album is something of a description of that event.

Very martial and dramatic, with plenty of excessive flourishes. There are some nice soundscape bits, but most of the music consists of battle hymns which really don't fly. Interesting, perhaps, but not fulfilling.

I guess the biggest problem is that the music isn't dark enough to truly explore the ideas put forth by the lyrics. This doesn't even work as a celebration of the destruction of civilization. Just stilted military anthems with nothing to move.

The sound has evolved once again. Many times, actually. The Red Aunts still rely on stripped down punk ravers, but these songs are so much more cohesive than what the band has released in the past. Musical anarchy has merged into an uneasy truce between definable structure and the impulse to turn tail and scream "fuckit!"

Playing to the band's strength, the songs feature as little instrumentation as possible, often relying on a single riff or drum line. The melodic ideas are simple, but more importantly, they're easily identified. No more cataleptic romps through the vagaries of "true punk spirit". This stuff is, dare I say it, sophisticated?

Aw, hell, now I've screwed everything up. But then, I wasn't expecting a Red Aunts album that was this commercial. Now, everything's relative. They're not going to head over to the studio and back up Celine Dion any time soon. But then again, the carefree days of random music violence seem to be in the past.

It's always interesting to hear a band find a newfound joy of craft and focus, no matter how greasy the sound remains. Amazing what some serious songwriting work can do. Most impressively, though, the Red Aunts keep alive their appreciation of an unrestrained performance style. Yeah, this is far technically superior to anything that has come before. But the excitement level remains high, thus perpetuating the legend.

A couple guys from Roguish Armament and Hoops McGraw of Dog Eat Dog. The result is somewhat expectable: Hardcore hip-hip, albeit with a cool early-80s feel.

That is intended, as the album relates the story of a son trying to rediscover his father. There's plenty of travel to the land of the 70s as seen by a Vietnam vet, as well as the current realities for the son. Definitely a dark view.

The grooves are thick and heavy, befitting the subject material. Yeah, there are Rage moments, but this is a more contemplative project. The idea is to explore the inner, as well as the outer, realities.

And the Shining Path succeeds. By keeping the music simple, but the surrounding ideas complex, this is a work that manages to get a message across. Not exactly a happy trip through memory lane, but a fascinating journey nonetheless.

Following established form, Spahn Ranch follows up its Architecture album with a set of remixes. Folks like Astralasia and David Harrow, as well as band members Matt Green (who does three) and Athan Maroulis take aim. Unlike many remix projects, however, this one works.

The songs generally are completely reworked, which I feel is all-important. If you're gonna do it, do it, y'know? And, indeed, the deed has been done here.

Five songs are given the treatment (many have more than one, for ten tracks in total), but each mix creates a new song. Some of the elements are still around, but these mixes are new creative grounds. Remix albums can be hairy. This one provides a great bang.

Much the same influences as the Battery release I got in the same package. Mid-80s hardcore, with an emphasis on personal beliefs and rolling riffage. Speak 714 generally makes its point in two minutes or less (another connection to the past), so it doesn't shift around so much. The base, however, sounds very familiar.

The vocals are hidden a bit in the mix, which is very guitar heavy. The riffs themselves aren't particularly impressive, though I do like the way they're slashed out. Intuitively, with little care for technical perfection. Not sloppy so much as impassioned. Always better, in my book.

A wonderful aggro attack. This puppy flies past in a spot more than 20 minutes, but the rush lasts longer. These slices of philosophy aren't terribly sophisticated, but they get the job done. Well.

I had to warm up to this one a bit, but once there, I was in the spell. Speak 714 doesn't truck much with subtlety. And, well, that's perfectly okey-dokey.

Minimalist grunge tunes, songs which often rely on muted guitar and vocals, at least until the meat kicks in. Anthemic fare which doesn't shy away from artistic arrogance.

The first four songs are titled "Songs we despise". The last four are "Songs we despise less". The formula remains the same: grunge licks employed sparingly, with many dynamic shifts.

Just doesn't turn the trick for me. The only song I dug was "Intermission", which is much more a loopy pop song (with some cool side noise) than anything else. "Fred" provides a nod to Hammerbox, but only a pale one.

Nothing for me. Perhaps I've heard it all too many times before. Perhaps I didn't hear that "spark" I like to hear. I don't know, really. All I can say is that I didn't find my groove.

Hope Nicholls and friends at it again. Strangely, this puppy is even less accessible than the Invisible disc I reviewed ages ago. Oh well. If someone's willing to foot the bill, I'll take a ride...

And this ride is a no-frills trip to loud land. Heavy bass, crashing guitars and Nicholls's patented sneer. Disjointed, ragged and most definitely malodorous. The pieces don't come together in every song, but when they do, well, the result is pretty amazing.

That's the old Fetchin' Bones formula. I think this piling on technique worked better on Toploader than here, but this album does have its moments. Greatness has been missed, but the aspirations are breathtaking to behold.

I'm still mystified as to who thought this would sell 100,000 discs, much less a million. That's a horrible aspiration of course, but when you've got the cash behind you, it's got to enter the mind sometime. Oh well. Like I said, I'm happy to enjoy the ride.

Not brothers, but two guys who play sparse, contemplative instrumentals. Drums, guitar and the odd extra bit or two. Kinda like a stripped down Dirty Three (?!?).

And that formula works just fine. The playing is often inexact, lending a highly improvisatory feel to these tunes, though with the tape loops and such in the background, I have a feeling these songs were carefully constructed. In any case, the effect is a haunting sound, one that seems to emanate from the subconscious.

Tren Brothers would have to shift up a bit more to make a full-length sound more than mere noodling. As a seven-inch, though, this music pulls all the right switches.

Melding electronic music with the sort of instrumental stuff bands like Pell Mell kicked out, Ui shows that a plethora of effects and studio gizmos can still manage to create a rootsy, laid-back sound.

Rootsy in the most experimental of worlds, of course. These songs are quiet, by almost any relative measure, but they are intense. The rhythm work is intricate and involved, and any line placed over that underlying bone is carefully constructed to contrast and compliment.

For all this planning, these songs sound loose. That's what I meant by rootsy, I guess. the sound is generally organic, though there are moments where a more sterile feel has been intentionally added. Again, highly crafted, but it sounds easy.

Lots of lines, crossing and dancing about each other. Ui manages to bring a human face to this endeavor, which is much harder than it sounds. One of the more intriguing albums I've heard this year Way too much here to even begin to properly describe. Quality, quality.

Sure sounds like a Brit-punk act from the early 80s. Anthemic choruses, spit-hurled vocals and a sounds that almost forgets there's a bassist in the band.

Nice and bouncy. Angry stuff that doesn't stop for any reason. All the hallmarks of the sound. There's really not much in the way of innovation, but hell, the vibe is cool enough.

A bit generic, probably due to the relatively punchless production, but a nice slice of anarchist angst nonetheless. A punk's punk, for better and worse.

Hell, it's only been 2 1/2 years since the Uzeda 4 EP crashed out. The album is right on time. Ahem.

This Sicilian foursome has been through all sorts of trials from the beginning. Different Section Wires came out as fast as it could. The Albini man lent his hands to the knobs, which probably lent to the harshly cold environment. The songs struggle mightily to escape the silence, and when they finally break through, pandemonium.

And since Uzeda specializes in tightly-controlled explorations of noise pop, the restraint shown on this disc is amazing. Each part, drums, bass, guitar and vocals, operated within its own little sphere. Sometimes the pieces work together, and sometimes they don't. Wonderful happy pain.

Faint constitutions may walk away now. Do not attempt this ride. Uzeda demands complete immersion, and the ride may damage your very soul. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Yes, another Mick Harris project. One that is particularly well-suited to the Wordsound stable. More throbbing, almost throttling beats, so thick and painful continuing is barely an option. But press on, I must.

Harris is the indisputable master of crafting electronic beats and making them speak for themselves. His problems almost always come when he tried to match those beats up with some sort of accompanying music. Here, he really doesn't bother. There are some nice keyboards and bass work, but strictly tied to the beat. No fucking about.

Which leads listeners deeper and deeper into the dark. That is, after all, what this journey is about. How far will you go. How far can you go? Do you dare at all?

When he focuses on the beat, Harris is at his best. The Weakener is almost single-minded in that approach. Ipso facto, dinnae dunno, you get the idea. Now boarding.