Departure

It's been a long time and a hard, difficult decision has been made to leave blogger and move to wordpress, to start a new blog under the old name, make a clean slate and in a sense begin all over again. http://benefitsofcoldcoffeemusicreview.wordpress.com/ I hope anyone who has been reading this blog will be willing to move to my revamped site. Over there I've added new features (such as tags, embedded videos and extra pages). I'm bringing over my old reviews one at a time, revising them as I go. I'm using my Nymith moniker and have dispensed with the Monday regime. I have tried to retain the spirit from over here regardless and hope any who check it out will see these things as improvements rather than unnecessary clutter. It was a great journey to make, from my earliest reviews to my final ones, but this blog is now the record of my first apprenticeship. My new blog is the continuing story. Please check it out. I won't be posting here again but I'm grateful for what silent audience I was able to muster this time around. Goodbye. R.M./C.M.

51st... A bitter glass of life

Scary Monsters.

After this, for David Bowie, there was nothing. That's the popular consensus, at least. This 1980 record is given somewhat undue status in the Bowie discography for the simple enough reason that all the fans, left bewildered and betrayed as he spent the ensuing decade in an advanced state of sell-out, were left clutching Scary Monsters as the symbol of genius past, the last true David Bowie album.

That doesn't make the CD first tier, of course. It's a world-weary and cynical affair, a followup and stepdown from his Berlin Trilogy, or if you like, Heroes. To me, it's the other side of Lodger - fixing that record's main flaw, Scary Monsters is a cohesive whole which has a specific road to travel, unlike Lodger, which starts abruptly, takes several violent shifts in direction, scatters itself to the four winds and then just stops. Scary Monsters is technically the better production, even though it's not as much fun to listen to.

David's partnership with Brian Eno had lost its creative spark, so they went their separate ways, Brian to make sound paintings and produce the Talking Heads, David to make music that would be accessible. Gone here are the improvised lyrics and waves of dissonance, and the production only rarely gets out of bounds. At the same time, having survived the seventies, his divorce finalized and all his emotional baggage needing to be unpacked, what took place in the studio was what David later described as "some kind of purge." In direct opposition to the glamorous dystopias and insular characters from earlier albums, Scary Monsters has a sense of the real world and its forceful intrusions upon an artist's inner life.

Of all the captivatingly odd beginnings in the Bowie catalogue, from the heartbeat drum of Five Years to the train sounds to David's starkly intoned "Nothing remains..." on Sunday, Scary Monsters wins the "most astonishing" prize. It's No Game (No. 1) begins with Tony Visconti starting up a tape deck, a quick spin of a noisemaker and then wham! you're accosted by the angry voice of a Japanese lady (Michi Hirota). When David does get in on the act, his voice is as painfully contorted as his body was on the Lodger cover, screaming about revolution, refugees and fascists. Clunky, mangled guitar matches him straight to the end, to his final cries of "shut up!" The song is ugly, plain and simple. It's also totally brilliant, a four minute showcase of David's willingness to go out on a limb.

Up the Hill Backwards is a slab of cacophonous but accessible art-rock. It's pretty obviously a divorce song, but one senses a hangover of civil unrest that infects the whole record. David sings in chorus over all kinds of Bo Diddley beats.

Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) is expansive and claustrophobic (rather like a speeding car). It's also an ominous work, David's voice distorted by an extreme cockney accent and an attitude of cruel indifference to a mentally ill girl. "She asked me to stay and I stole her room/asked for my love and I gave her a dangerous mind/now she's stupid, in the street, and she can't socialize," to sarcastically conclude "well I loved the little girl and I'll love her till the day she dies." The repetitive striking of metal and the guitar licks aid the atmosphere, though it does go on a bit long...

Ashes to Ashes is one of the ultimate Bowie classics, with a shimmering melodic hook and his voice at its fragile best in the confessions of long lost astronaut Major Tom. The beauty of the work is reflected in the video, featuring David in an extraordinary, very European clown costume, suffering quietly through all manner of strange things. The music video never got better than that and new wave never got better than this. The haunting backing vocals, the dignity that carries the chorus and ending refrain "my mama said/to get things done/you'd better not mess with Major Tom," is exquisite.

Fashion is a cynical dance-floor track, filled with the obvious beats and handclaps, while simultaneously provoking a flood of sharp-edged, angry guitar. Ah, if he'd taken Fashion as his cue in making Let's Dance....he'd have made a lot less money.

Anyway... Side Two gets started with the criminally underrated epic Teenage Wildlife. David's powerhouse singing as he unveils a tale of desperation and unhappiness, going from guttural to falsetto, dispassionate to anguished, articulate to incoherent.... It's amazing and I'm puzzled at the song's obscurity.

Scream Like a Baby is too tricked out and effects-laden for its own good, starting strong within the rattled brain of a victim of a totalitarian regime. "Well, I wouldn't buy no merchandise/and I wouldn't go to war/.../and I hide under blankets/or did I run away? The machinery rhythms in the music strengthen the vision, but somehow it doesn't coalesce into anything. It feels like filler when it really shouldn't.

A Television cover! Why wasn't this a single? Devoid of the lyric, Kingdom Come is an excellent slice of pop music, remarkably short and enjoyable. The story it tells is probably meant to evoke negro songs from the plantations, but here the context shifts to the territory of prison camps, gulags and the hopeless endurance of a man who sees no future left for him. Grim.

Stuart Townsend guests on Because You're Young. His riff is awesome, but the track suffers from over-production. It's way too busy for its own good, worked over past endurance. A pity, since there's a good song in there someplace. Visions of war-torn young lives, and the unexpectedly unguarded line "the people I know/people I love/they seem so unhappy/dead or alive..." and Townsend on guitar are all lost, drowned by all this stuff. A pity.

It's No Game (No. 2) plays over the same backing tracks and has the same tempo as the original. No Japanese and no violent guitar. It's a weary, more coherent version of events, all the bile having run out over the past nine songs. David sounds like he's glancing at his watch. He sings his last song, puts on coat and hat, leaves the building. And then he just stands drained in the doorway, looking out onto the street. "So where's the moral?"

No, it's not the last great Bowie record. There were a few more in the offing....

Well, so it's another of those dark CDs I like so much. Enjoy.

50th.... "These dark cafe days"

I've finally done it. Several weeks behind ideal schedule, I have reached my first milestone. 50 fine reviews in backlog, people! Next milestone is, of course, 75 - that's to let me celebrate more often.

Now on to the business at hand. If I'd been thinking about it, I would have picked a more grandiose commemorative CD, but this is the one I really wanted to hear this week.

Blue.

This may be the ultimate singer-songwriter album right here before you. Behold Blue. Behold Joni Mitchell in 1971, writing songs on the guitar and piano, not feeling too great about herself. Having split up with Graham Nash she went on a vacation in Europe and wrote most of the songs for this record, considered her finest work and one of the pinnacles of 20th Century music. The sound of the record is quite spare, yet incredibly unique. Joni tuned her guitar differently to augment her appreciation of jazz chords and also played Appalachian dulcimer in preference to it on some of the tracks. Additional guitarists (such as James Taylor and Stephen Stills) and a drummer help out on half of the ten tracks. Her subject is solidly confessional.

So it's the best summation of the singer-songwriter genre, but what is it that makes it good? There is firstly her supreme talent for songwriting. A Case of You is a fine example not only of her intricate melodies but also of her singing method. Each time she reaches the chorus she approaches it differently, altering what it was before. Her songs are unexpected. It's not surprising that she later tipped over into jazz experimentation but her early work makes for some of the most variated and mature music to fit in the singer-songwriter canon.

The subject of most of the songs written on Earth is love, in one form or another (that statistic was a guess, by the way, but a valid one). Consequent to love songs being a dime a dozen, most of them look pretty superficial and fall into one of two categories:
"I'm in love and it's a sunny day!" (Good Day, Sunshine)
"Some people cry and some people die by the wicked ways of love" (Heartbreaker)
Blue being an honest representation of how Joni was feeling at the time, it is not so easy to sum up. There is an overall downcast feel to the songs - it's a somber record, and a changeover one as her last allowance of a clear-cut, folkish simplicity of style and her first wholeheartedly confessional, first-person set of narratives. And yet, despite the somberness of the record, there's also an ambivalence that is, as far as I'm concerned, genius.

That mixed-up quality is clear from the start with All I Want. First off: her singing is incredible as she speeds through this ridiculously detailed jumble of melodic virtuosity and delightfully confused emotional imagery. It's a love song, homespun and quite ardent but almost the first thing she says is "I hate you some/I love you some/I love you when I forget about me." It's honest and revealing but most of the song is built on idyllic hopes and wishes that, together with the sheer amount of perception crammed in 3 1/2 minutes, makes the mood strangely complex and thoroughly charming.

My Old Man is Joni at the piano for an eloquent, simple vignette of a woman with whom "the blues collide" every time her lover goes away. It does not capture the attention quite as well as the opener, but it builds upon the theme of this first domestic chapter of Blue.

Little Green is somewhat left-field, a beautifully sung guitar ballad whose meaning the lyric does not entirely make clear. The welfare of a child is the focus as Joni wistfully lists what the child shall expect. "There'll be icicles and birthday clothes/and sometimes there'll be sorrow." It has a similar quality to The Circle Game and unlike the others, this song had been in storage since 1967 and so its thematic placement on the record is unsure and yet oddly suited to the recent material.

What's really out of place are the backing vocals on Carey. This song kicks off the "expatriate chapter" of the record (I'm serious, this is clearly divided into three parts). The song is snazzy and self-confident as Joni prepares to depart the roughshod bohemian life she's led on Crete. As she plans her departure to nicer climes "maybe I'll go to Amsterdam/or maybe I'll go to Rome/and rent me a grand piano/and put some flowers 'round my room," she thinks with passing regret about having to leave her "mean old daddy" Carey behind. Stills' guitar and bass and nice ways to expand the sound, but those backups are an unnecessary production flourish.

Most of these songs have the ring of prose about them but Blue itself is a poem. Joni was living in California (rock's tenth circle of hell) and this is her poetic glance at its dubious offers. "Well there's so many sinking now/you've got to keep thinking/you can make it through these waves." Metaphors of the ocean and tattoos are used, though for a purpose too obscure for me to grasp completely. Her singing on this one is heartbreaking.

California is the other side of the story, as the expatriate has had her fill of Paris and Spain and looks forward to coming back home. It's the brightest song in this crowd and includes some pedal steel for variety.

This Flight Tonight is the bridge from traveling to being down and out. Love, a subject skirted after the first two songs, can no longer be drummed out. For the first time, a sense of genuine regret and uncertainty greets the wandering heroine as she flies across Nevada and longs to turn around. Still sporting pedal steel, the sound is darker, Joni sounds more distracted. Best of all, though, is the radio cut-in from a song she's hearing on the airplane. For some reason, that's what gives this song its kick.

By the time of River, Joni's singing of being trapped, all alone, rooted in one place with only her self-awareness left. A simple piano accompaniment that sounds at first like a distortion of Jingle Bells enhances the sense of holiday blues. She clearly misses the Canadian winters. "I wish I had a river/I could skate away on/I wish I had a river so long/I could teach my feet to fly." It's one of the most acute cases of regret depicted in music.

A Case of You is, I believe, the first Mitchell tune I ever heard and which left me non-plussed for the longest time. It's one of her best, most ambiguous, lyrics. "Oh I am a lonely painter/I live in a box of paints/I'm frightened by the devil/and I'm drawn to those ones that ain't..." Entirely complicated, she doesn't even sing the same number lines in each verse. It never ceases to amaze me how she fits melodies onto what appears in print so solidly prose. This strange tale of devotion in hindsight compares a man to holy wine, the title referring to how much of him she thinks she can take.

The Last Time I Saw Richard is the summation of every small event in past songs. The contrast is astonishingly simple as it merely tells of a conversation between Joni and Richard where he dismissed love as "pretty lies" and she, the idealist, defended it. And in the present, Richard is settled down and married while Joni's lost in sorrows and cynicism. However, this happens to be the most upbeat downbeat finale I've ever encountered on CD (and a complete reversal of All I Want). "All good dreamers pass this way some day/hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes/.../only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away/only a phase, these dark cafe days."

I have only heard three Joni Mitchell records. Thought all are excellent, Blue is far and away the best of them. With a psychological realism that never takes an easy way out in the complexities of feeling, sparse musical materials, a way of getting the most out of a song and a stunningly emphatic voice, I think this must be the single greatest accomplishment in the realm of the singer-songwriter.

A freelance review

This is not going to be one of my elaborate reviews. Rather, it's going to be a rambling, enthusiastic recommendation to my readers to try something new and track down some Etta James. I myself only got around to her because of hearing about her recent death, so this appreciation is more in line with my earlier epitaph for Lena Horne than any of my usual reviews. Also, I hope some of my readers will appreciate my effort to keep up some level of activity on this blog.

If any of you ever want to send me fanmail or something....

The late Etta James was recording for Chess during the 1960s, when a singer's career was made or lost on the basis of singles. Albums scarcely entered the picture unless you were on the folk scene. Chess Records harboured musicians such as Chuck Berry, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley and Howlin' Wolf. From what I know about them, Etta James was really something else.

Etta James is basically uncategorizable. She'd try her hand at anything, starting in the doo-wop and R&B genres, covering old pop tunes, covering the blues, adapting to soul, rocking out and even succeeding with the GREAT funk-tinged All the Way Down. At the advent of disco, she threw in the towel. "...I wasn't about to try to be like Donna Summer," she later said. This puts her golden period squarely in the 60s, and the Chess 50th Anniversary Collection of Her Best (pictured) is the place to start.

Frankly, Etta's homelife has the sound of a prolonged car crash. Underage mother, unknown father, on the road in the music business as a teenager, putting up with a string of abusive men and stuck with a drug habit almost all her life, Etta was nevertheless tough enough to survive all of what life dished out - and reflect it in her songs. Her tough, wiry, "don't mess with me" voice rings with an assurance that makes you believe all those emotions were being pulled from somewhere in herself. With her best material, you tune in to the joy or pain or recklessness within seconds.

The early selections on this particular CD are mostly made of recycled standards from the 40s. Being meant for crooners, that meant only one thing: schmaltz. Her signature song, At Last, has enough strings on it to make Phil Spector blush. That hardly matters with Etta singing so soulfully, so peacefully. The other tunes, such as My Dearest Darling, A Sunday Kind of Love, Trust in Me and Don't Cry Baby have a similar quality: they should be rather mundane love songs, but Etta refuses to croon, emoting and suffusing each song with an individual aura. It's not all gold. All I Could Do Was Cry has backing doo-wop vocals that sound horrible to my ears, at least.

The jauntier material is nothing if not better yet. If you don't smile the first time you hear Something's Got a Hold on Me, I'll worry about you. What starts as a cheeky send-up of gospel quickly becomes an awesome slice of early rock and roll, while Next Door to the Blues scorches with a sense of defiance and near-flippancy.

The second half of the CD sports a changing sound as music evolved from year to year. Two Sides to Every Story uses the horns and backup singers of classic uptempo soul, rushing headlong through the usual three minutes designated to pop songs. Pushover (one of her biggest hits) takes the same tack but mixes it with a slapdown of a self-assured town "Romeo" that makes for a satisfying story.

With the exceptions of the dirges Stop the Wedding and Losers Weepers, Part One, the rest of the late material is really strong, but first I'll mention the two duets. The early duet was If I Can't Have You (with Harvey Fuqua), a brassy little number with two rather comically opposed voices - Harvey sounds rather fussy, while Etta's all fire and strength. The other duet, In the Basement, Part One (with Sugar Pie DeSanto), is a delightful ode to the party zone. Etta and Sugar Pie compliment each other perfectly and the song shares the verve that Something's Got a Hold on Me had. A fun track.

A live bonus comes with the cover of Jimmy Reed: Baby, What You Want Me To Do. Etta could handle pure blues and judging from this sample, she must have been great to hear live. Messy, simple, weary and fierce (Jimmy himself never could sound fierce, which is why I like him anyway, but Etta's spin is excellent). She uses her voice like a horn at the end, which is enough reason to be impressed by this song.

In 1967, Etta went down south to Muscle Shoals and again revitalized her sound. Tell Mama was her big hit from this era, a strong piece of material, but the real gems are around it. There's the epic (five minutes!) funk influenced All the Way Down, an elaborate tell-it-like-it-is track, all about "boys playing games/changing their names/pulling tricks/getting their kicks/all the way down..." A truly great song and justifiably on the CD. There's an excellent Otis Redding cover, Security, and then there's I'd Rather Go Blind.

I'd Rather Go Blind is probably going to get among my top ten sad songs (and I've heard an awful lot). Everything about this short song is perfectly balanced and it gives me chills, that's how good it is. If I had to choose her definitive song, this would be the one. She sounds like she means every word she's saying, and the simplicity of the words (written by Ellington Jordan, who was a man in prison at the time) strike at the center of sorrow, and I, at least, have never been able to keep any sort of defense in place when listening to it. I feel it every time.

My conclusion is that Etta James deserves to be heard, and so I'm doing my own bit to spread the word, get some people to investigate her so they don't do what I, for the longest time, did: get her confused with Ella Fitzgerald. Do yourself a favour, track her down, give her a few listens and learn what I just learned. A great song has nothing to do with lyrical or musical virtuosity and everything to do with soul. And Etta James had a lot of soul. God bless her for it.

49th... Decadence

Aladdin Sane.

Okay, firstly I am sorry for the lapse. Really. It is unfortunate that I had to fall down over the holidays, but I'm back on my feet now. This review would have been ideal last week, but I was pressed for time and didn't make it, so up it goes now. My humblest apologies.

Aladdin Sane is possibly the ultimate "New Year's" record. An album that rocks and is camp (this in the same year that Queen first appeared on the map); an album that wears the Rolling Stones on its sleeve and refers to all-night parties, champagne, beautiful women, showbiz, insanity, inner-city unrest, world war and the ravages of age. It has incredible artwork. Even the title is cool. It's everything you could want in rock music, combining decadent style with tight songwriting and musical virtuosity. David Bowie's voice, meanwhile, underwent a radical change between the recording of Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane. In 1973, his voice, good as it was before, had gained a whole new vibrancy and assurance.

Watch That Man is an odd choice for an opening salvo, being as the vocals are all in the back. This doesn't harm the song, which is a start to finish rocker that you can dance to (I speak from experience). The song would seem an uncomplicated, glammed-up tune, but the album as a whole juggles glam with soul/doo-wop (courtesy of the backup singers) and what I would describe as cocktail jazz (courtesy of the great Mike Garson on piano). Sonically upbeat, Watch That Man is actually a paranoid scene of party excess gone awry if you listen closely. "A lemon in a bag played the Tiger Rag/and the bodies on the screen started bleeding..."

Aladdin Sane is tonier, a sophisticated mixture of jazz piano, Japanese rhythms and WWI ruminations (based on the literary source of Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies). The centerpiece is Mike Garson's avantgarde piano solo - dissonant yet, as you become familiar with the song, strangely melodic... The song cuts through the extravagances of pre-war society to land in the fractured madness of war itself. The subtitle (1913-1938-197?) puts this as squarely in the Cold War as in the First and Second World Wars. As for Aladdin Sane, he hardly exists on his own record. He's more a phrase than a person. That makes this one of the best, and certainly the most elusive war song ever penned.

Drive-In Saturday is one of the great underrated Bowie tracks, a song drenched in vibrancy. Doo-wop, fabulous percussion, saxophone, scat singing, bombast and space-age synthwork at its finest abound. The story is of a post WWIII landscape, the denizens of a land "where once it raged, the sea that raged no more," watching old movies, fondly remembering the days of Twiggy and Jagger, trying "to keep formation/mid this fallout saturation." I haven't figured out what it all means, but it's wonderfully glamorous and melodramatic.

More eclecticism on Panic in Detroit, with congas and whooping female soul singers backing a riff-centric slice of rock and roll that caves in to dissonance in the end. This one has David relating a story of inner-city chaos, police crackdowns, anarchist celebrities and their fans.

Cracked Actor is full-throttle raunchy blues-rock (with the harmonica fed through an amp) from first note to last. Ornate glamour is cast aside and the debauchery of an aging film star is dragged right out in the open. It's quite the savage little piece, but it still rocks like hell.

Time is the album's resident epic. Garson's piano is pure cabaret glory, Mick Ronson is finally let off the hook for a solo, David's at his theatrical best... Time is drama of the highest order; it's almost camp, but ambiguity saves it. What starts as pure theater ("Time/he's waiting in the wings/he speaks of senseless things/his script is you and me") expands to include fear ("Well, I look at my watch/it says nine twenty-five/and I think, Oh God/I'm still alive") and a very strange attachment ("...perhaps you're smiling now/smiling through this darkness/but all I have to give/is guilt for dreaming"). If you can make sense of all that, more power to you. And when I count the great lyricists, David Bowie is right up there with the usual folkie suspects.

Doo-wop makes a flaming comeback with The Prettiest Star, an old tune he had first recorded in the early seventies. This remake actually fits perfectly into the Hollywood trappings, despite being written somewhere on Gloucester Road. It's a sweet little interlude, and sports an endearing guitar riff. The "bop-bop-ba-oo" line is suspiciously similar to the one in his later showbiz-draped love song Absolute Beginners. Light and frothy though the song is, it's still delightful.

Then there's...Let's Spend the Night Together. Did he really have to cover the Stones? The good first: it rocks. Okay, now the bad: the synth overplays its hand and becomes plain obnoxious. Also, this is not a hammy Stones song and so it doesn't adapt nicely to the glam treatment. Lastly, the song isn't sophisticated enough to fit in. It doesn't make the cut anymore than a cover of Long Tall Sally or My Generation would. Yet oddly, his late '73 cover album Pin Ups was a stunning exercise in adaptation. Maybe David just needed practice...

The Jean Genie does something different, taking a classic blues riff (I'm a Man, anyone?) and vamping up a completely new lyric to make a swaggering, sophisticated slab of New York City blues-rock. The characters could have walked out of a Velvet Underground song, the lyric strangely surrealistic and the title a forgivable pun on French writer and criminal Jean Genet.

Lady Grinning Soul concludes the record with a genuinely romantic ballad. Mike Garson aims for Chopin and Liszt, Mick Ronson adds a flamenco guitar bridge and David's voice is at its most delicate and ethereal. The lady in question is a woman so perfect she seems to leave men in rapturous uncertainty as to her very existence. At the end of the song, piano, voice and Ronson's electric guitar all soar away in a breathtaking finale.

As amazing a rock album as Ziggy Stardust was, Aladdin Sane - its American counterpoint - bests it through sheer eclectic pizazz. It can be forgiven a small misstep. Next year, David would best himself again with the even more elaborate, extravagant Diamond Dogs. Then, realising he'd taken pure rock as far as that angle would go, he spun off into blue-eyed soul, looking for a new approach. He got it, too. He melded soul with the inexpressive machinery of krautrock and came up with Station to Station. And it only took him three years to get from here to there!

I call that impressive.

48th... Few "loyal knights" left here...

Mirror Blue.

(Apologies for having to call in sick last week)

All Richard Thompson fans start their tribute reviews with a variation of this line: "I can't understand why this guy isn't more popular." The praises have been sung: great songwriter, great singer and great guitar player, insanely prolific and always of high quality. He's been at work since the late 60s and so there must be an album for every mood (I don't even own a tenth of his output, shame on me). If you're new to his work, drop everything and buy Action Packed: Best of the Capitol Years, as fine an introduction as you'll get.

So why isn't he more popular? I'll attempt an answer.

1. Bad timing. Richard started at a time when great guitar players were making their reputations, and he was on the wrong side of the fence. Folk just doesn't have that big an audience compared to rock, and so he always got the level of notice accorded to folkies - in the grand scheme of things, not a lot.

2. Richard's always had a black sense of humour, cropping up at odd moments, frequently blunt, off-colour and off-putting. If you don't have a cynical bone in your body, you probably won't like this guy.

3. Emotional cynicism. I got my first Thompson CD while witnessing a marriage break apart and ever since I've considered him the bard of divorce. His steady theme is love and he examines it from every conceivable angle, most of them pessimistic. When love is real (which isn't often), it costs. When love is not real (more often), it still costs. And you thought Leonard Cohen was depressing....

4. There was some damn fine music being released in 1994, debuts from Katell Keineg and Jeff Buckley among other stuff. Mirror Blue should have been released a year earlier, but there were reshuffles at Capitol and releasing and promoting Richard Thompson became a backburner priority. When the album came out even the critics didn't like it, claiming Mitchell Froom's production got in the way of the songs. I don't see it myself. But what does annoy me about Mirror Blue (that title's a quote from Tennyson, by the way) is Richard's cagey distrust of his audience. He can't trust them to handle a good, heartbreaking ballad, so he throws joke songs out to ruin the feeling. This happens twice. His earlier release, Rumour and Sigh, has the same problem.

Things start out in restrained manner; For the Sake of Mary is driven as much by percussion as guitar and takes a rather unexpected tack - there aren't that many devotional love songs in the Thompson canon, but this is one of them, focused on the nitty-gritty changes that have to be made to look after someone else, and the emotional trip-ups that can get in the way of the best intentions. "For the sake of Mary/I keep the flame/I don't want to be the villain again/she's had her bad times and it's shook her about/I don't want to take the easy way out." There's some great guitar here, as a sample of what's to come.

That's a distorted washboard you hear at the opening of I Can't Wake Up to Save My Life, a delightful rocker that best shows off his weird sense of humour. It's about a man who's done (unspecified) things that "make [his] dreams go bad/like Borstal boys coming home to Dad..." The imagery is choice; funny and dramatic, whilst the ridiculous situation heightens the inherent truth of the song.

MGB-GT tackles the car song with easygoing charm and some fabulous middle eastern flourishes. The happiest fellow you'll meet on this record spends all his time tinkering with his automobile. The man responsible for all the percussion is called Pete Thomas and he's brilliant - the messy drumroll tossed in at the end fits the song perfectly. Delightful stuff.

The Way That It Shows features the stormiest guitar playing herein as Richard contemplates the moment when an adulterous woman finally fives the game away. The passion-wracked guitar coda stands in direct contrast to the clinically observant verses.

Easy There, Steady Now is toward the top of my list standouts here. That's Danny Thompson's double-bass backing the manic, flurried guitar; the verses are hazy, lost in the visions of wandering at night in an empty town. There's more to it than just booze and a femme fatale...the music is too silvery bright, the narrative too impressionistic, the narrator too unconcerned....

King of Bohemia is Richard and an acoustic guitar. Lyrically he contemplates the case of a "refugee from the Seraphim," a girl who's been broken by the world. "Let me rock you in my arms/ I'll hold you safe and small," is how the song starts, and he sings it so gently you're liable to pause and draw breath, but in the end there's no conclusive evidence that he can help this wounded creature. The song is so spare that it sits uncomfortably in the midst of Mirror Blue.

Shane and Dixie is a rock and roll pastiche about a pair of bank robbers. It's a rather crass and obvious story as Shane decides to secure their fame by a suicide pact - the only hitch is that Dixie thinks he's nuts. It's funny, it's in bad taste, it's a throwaway and there is no reason it has to follow King of Bohemia in the running order. For shame.

Mingus Eyes is something of a mantra, slow, soothing and unsettling. There's a darkness at the heart of this song - it's thin on content but thick on atmosphere.

I Ride in Your Slipstream shares the pace of Easy There and does away with verse-chorus procedures. It's somehow even more disconcerting, as this narrator is a married man saying some rather odd, inscrutable things....

All the stops are pulled out for Beeswing - a delicate, expertly written ballad featuring a gorgeous melody, fiddle, flute, concertina, Northumbrian pipes, mandolin and the acoustic guitar. It's a tale of lost love, tackling the irrevocable conflict between love and freedom, and justly considered one of his best songs. Richard lets the poet out for the descriptions. "Brown hair zig-zagged around her face/ a look of half-surprise/like a fox caught in the headlight/there was animal in her eyes."

And then he does it again! Fast Food is a blunt satire directed against a target that's never deserved it more: "Water down the ketchup, easier to pour on/pictures on the register in case you're a moron/.../sugar, grease, fats and starches/fine when you dine at the golden arches." It's actually funnier to read than listen to, but there's some cheeky strands of folk music threading through it. The question is why did it have to follow Beeswing?

Mascara Tears is an attempt at heavy metal, angst-ridden and out of place. Yet there's a certain fascination in it just because Richard doesn't usually indulge in those sort of emotions, and also since it's about a self-destructive couple savaging each other...

After that burns itself out there's the beautifully theatrical coda: Taking My Business Elsewhere. A soft, echoing, darkly amusing song. There's something of the lullaby in its melody. You know the scene: the lovelorn sap bores the waiter with his woes after his girl fails to show. And yet it manages to captivate once more. It's the icing on the cake.

Stats: of the 13 tracks, only three could count as love songs, and only one had genuinely happy people as subjects. That's about the average ratio. Thompson's World is broadly pessimistic, featuring a cast of cruel and adulterous women, with men as losers, nerds and borderline nutcases. Every now and then comes a tender portrait of a damaged woman, or decent men surface to alleviate the gloom - these characters shine the brighter in their surroundings. All of it is oddly true to life.

Musically, this guy is a treat. Richard Thompson never gets old, he's always creative and expressive, finding new stories to tell, new angles to take. For some reason most of his catalogue is out of print. Did you know his debut album is reputedly the worst selling record Warner Bros. ever released? So if you've never heard him before, check him out. I most highly recommend it.

47th... Interior lives

Ladies of the Canyon.

Come Thanksgiving, for some reason I always get a hankering for the music of Joni Mitchell. She just seems suitable to the occasion.

In 1970, Joni Mitchell really came into her own. She'd already won a Grammy for Clouds (only her second album) and was taking the music world by storm on the strength of her songs and her ability to arrange them. Clouds was Joni unaccompanied - Ladies of the Canyon shows her expanding her repetoire; her lyrical subjects pointing ahead to albums such as Blue and For the Roses; musically beginning to experiment with jazz. Joni was getting ambitious, and this album is a perfect balance between the phases of her early career and therefore a recommended starting point.

Each of the 12 songs would make an excellent poem, and some could easily by imagined as short stories. Joni always had a pleasantly "literary" quality which, of course, explains her appeal to me. However, she also had several key musical qualities: her arrangements and her voice, which would play with the words, never singing all the verses in one manner. It's never predictable, listening to her sing.

Morning Morgantown starts things off with genuine charm, though it's almost unbearably twee and precious. "We'll find a table in the shade/and sip our tea and lemonade/and watch the morning on parade/in morning, Morgantown." There's affection and enthusiasm in her style, and it's quite charming.

Things become more dramatic and somber with For Free, a piano ballad and a glimpse of the kind of confessional reportage that came into its own on For the Roses. A singer-songwriter who plays for money sees a man on a street-corner who performs for free. In her ensuing comparison, there are shades of guilt, anger, regret, resignation and sorrow - all the great dramatic emotions underscored with taste and sophistication. And at the end, as the piano fades with her voice, the "one man band" takes over with his clarinet. It is sublime.

Conversation switches back to guitar with some light percussion and more jazz flourishes during the overlong coda (this time on pipes and saxophone). Three characters: a sympathetic waitress, an unhappily married man and his wife. You can tell where that's gonna go, but Joni ignores a conventional story and focuses on the smallest of thoughts and actions. Told through the waitress' view, everything is skewed in shades of gray. The overlapping barbershop harmonies and false cheer of the ending are kind of annoying though.

Ladies of the Canyon (Laurel Canyon, I presume) paints a picture of certain bohemian women who make the place their home. The melody is lovely and the harmonies much nicer this time. Unfortunately, the vision is cloyingly sentimental - the hippie dream for female artisans, which is nice but not especially interesting in the album's context.

Willy is a short and unadorned song for piano. Since she was apparantly in love with Graham Nash at the time, it gets attributed as an ode to him. Whatever the inspiration, it is this track that points toward the style and subject of Blue most clearly. "But you know it's hard to tell/when you're in the spell if it's wrong or if it's real/but you're bound to lose/if you let the blues get you scared to feel/and I feel like I'm just being born." Her voice is so expressive that the point comes across with remarkable subtlety.

The Arrangement starts slowly, piano filling time, waiting close to a minute before Joni starts to tell the latest story. In relatively few lines, her voice cutting through to the essentials, she lays bare the empty, purposeless life of a man who has won the rat race. And what now? she seems to ask. Who cares if you've won? Isn't your life worth more than its setting? Standout, just for conveying so much in under three minutes.

Rainy Night House has lovely piano and some cello, but the melody is unmemorable at best. Dwelling on the simple details of a quiet encounter which I've heard is about Leonard Cohen. I have not confirmed this, but everyone knew everyone back then and she does describe him as "a refugee from a wealthy family" and "a holy man on the F.M. radio," which sounds about right. Unfortunately, the song is done in by its dull melody.

The Priest is much better, returning to guitar and some percussion. This one hearkens back to old balladry; it sounds like something Fairport Convention or Pentangle would have been comfortable playing. A highly dramatic song, though the story is again internalized (most of the songs are) as a woman and a priest sit in an airport bar, talking and observing. Fascinating stuff married to a highly memorable melody.

The only truly sad song is Blue Boy, as a man's depression and a woman's idolizing completely destroy their relationship. It's Joni's expressive singing that makes the song so tragic; she sounds as unhappy as if it happened to her.

So of course, Big Yellow Taxi is compensation to cheer everyone up. It sounds like Joni trying to write a dumb pop song, though she wrote it about the destruction of the environment and how "you don't know what you've got till it's gone." It's a cute joke song, it jives, and that's all. For some reason, it's also a classic Joni Mitchell tune, and its popularity is beyond my understanding.

Woodstock is another classic, but not as she wrote it. Upset over having to miss the festival, she wrote an idealized vision of the event and turned it into a dirge. Amazingly, she utilized keyboards, which add to the strangely haunting sound of the longest track on Ladies of the Canyon. After Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young heard it, they seized the tune to cover and got a hit. And since they had been at the event in question, their rocking version was closer in sound and spirit to what actually went on. Either version: the chorus is dynamite and the song is better than 9/10ths of what played in the Woodstock film. So I think, anyway.

Another classic is the final song, The Circle Game, which has CSN&Y on backups, some say - though the credits say it's the Lookout Mountain United Downstairs Choir (which is so patently ridiculous a name that it's got to be a cover-up for something). The song is much more serious, a clear-eyed observation of a boy growing up, passing through the seasons with a carousel as metaphor for time "until the last revolving year is through." Reminding the listeners of time and mortality at the end of her record...it's a pretty good reminder, if you're at all sensitive to the thought, to immediately be off and doing something worthwhile with the rest of your day.

Ladies of the Canyon is a great album, and if you want an idea what the singer-songwriter genre had to offer in the 60s and 70s, my advice is to postpone the James Taylor and start with a Joni Mitchell recording instead. This one will do nicely. To those who already know the CD, this review functions the way all my other ones do: as a token of appreciation, my online tribute to the fine music of this world.

46th.... "Long distance salvation"

Nebraska.

This is dangerous music. 3 A.M. music. It is among the darkest, most haunting material I've heard, ranking with up there with Berlin and Pink Moon. It is not suited to casual listening - it's stark, makes no compromises and is uncomfortable to hear. It's also shockingly good.

Consider the facts: Bruce Springsteen in 1982 was a major phenomenon, an American rock and roller, a talented songwriter and lyricist, ambitious enough to tackle the "concept album" with Born to Run, and popular enough to be seized by the media as the latest hype.

He also scored major production values. Then along came Nebraska. Bruce had a 4 track cassette recorder and busily made the demos for his next album. He'd play guitar and harmonica, like the Dylan of old, livening it up with organ, mandolin, glockenspiel, tambourine and some well placed Echoplex. The sound was classic American folk, describing and protesting the hardscrabble lives of ordinary working class men, though cast in an almost unrelieved gloom.

Well, Bruce tried to develop the songs with his E Street Band in the studio, but the result just didn't seem right. He re-recorded the songs solo, but that didn't work either. The magic was on the original cassette; so started the hard work of cleaning up the tape and releasing Nebraska on vinyl.

It still sounds like a demo on CD, but don't worry about the sound quality - there's no distracting tape hiss or crackle and if it sounds a little obscure or rough at the edges, that is its glory. It is a demo. The music has nowhere to hide and neither do you.

With a tired out harmonica and exhausted voice, the album starts somber and unhurried. Nebraska is based on the true killer Charles Starkweather, who took his fourteen year old girlfriend with him on a killing spree. Asked why he did it, on his way to the electric chair, he says "I guess there's just a meanness in this world." Glockenspiel carefully steps into play, staying a respectful distance from the mike. It's not meant as a macabre song. It's simply honest.

Atlantic City is the vision of a confused young man watching the violence and chaos of the world and struggling to stay ahead of it, out of it, beyond it. Eventually, however, he can't get by honestly anymore... The pace quickens for this song, and Bruce sings his own backups in harried fashion, flubbing the chorus at the last second, giving a sense of urgency and messiness to proceedings.

Mansion on the Hill is a soft spoken childhood memory of a beautiful house overlooking a small town. But while the children can play in the road and listen to the music from the parties, the mansion's gates remain ever closed. Despite the evocation of class differences, the memory is peaceful rather than bitter and it makes for a necessary interlude.

Johnny 99 is a rarity on Nebraska, a rock song. As the story of a desperately poor man sentenced to 99 years in prison, it calls for immediate comparison with Dylan's protest ballads, against which it can hold its own as an excellent song. Oddly, by repeating a line from Atlantic City: "I had debts that no honest man could pay..." it invites other comparisons as a sequel to or companion piece - proof of how common the situation is.

Highway Patrolman is the story of Joe Roberts, an honest man struggling with the economy and his no-good brother Franky, trying to keep him in line and when he fails, having at last to choose between family and the state.... With quiet dignity, the story is told and it makes an unforgettable highlight.

However, it's why I call Nebraska 3 A.M. music. Its atmosphere is all pervasive in the nighttime and you may find yourself questioning the validity of life to music like this. State Trooper is an echo-laden meditation, driven by one endless, simple rhythm. The power it derives comes from the poetic vision of driving at night and by an almost suicidal fear creeping into the last lines. "Hey, somebody out there/listen to my last prayer/hi ho, silver-o/deliver me from nowhere," before vanishing in a beautiful but lunatic howl....

Used Cars is another childhood memory, far more bitter, as the boy (maybe the same one, who knows?) remembers the humiliation of his father buying a used car, though he "sweats the same job from mornin' to morn." The bitterness seems trivial by itself, but surrounded by the adult cast of Nebraska, this childish resentment is no relief.

Perhaps it all got a bit much for Bruce, since he threw in a rewritten State Trooper as the Chuck Berry car trouble tune Open All Night. The effect is delightful, as imagery from the former song indicate it's the same New Jersey turnpike seen from very different eyes, with plenty of new images to keep things interesting. Instead of howling, it ends with scat singing. Maybe Bruce had a sense of humour. I lifted this review's title from the lyric: "lost souls callin' long distance salvation."

My Father's House takes in a final child perspective, as a nightmare turns to comfort, a real life turns to failure and things which should have been resolved are left undone. It's about as sober and haunting as it sounds.

Reason to Believe seems to be attempting to sum up the album. The characters continue to suffer through their hard lives by futilely finding something to believe in - just to get them through another day. It's a dismal but honest ending that sits just as uncomfortably in the listener's mind as the first song did.

I can't compare Nebraska to any other Bruce Springsteen album, as I haven't heard any. It demands to be heard at night, preferably with lights out. In that way its true companions can be found among such disparate CDs as Berlin and Songs from a Room; The Idiot and The Boatman's Call; not to mention Tom Waits' early works. However, to listen to such songs in their element is to be absorbed in their moods, so proceed with caution. If you're not prepared, you'll be left devestated rather than in catharsis. Naturally, I recommend it highly.

45th... The values of England

Unhalfbricking.

This album is one of the most influential I've ever heard. It (with The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan) was my door into folk rock. From the entrancing beauty of this little CD a place was made next to art rock that led me to discover or re-discover such artists as Drake, Mitchell, Cohen and the Thompsons.

In 1969, the album rather marked a tragic turning in the band. Two months prior to release, a car crash killed drummer Martin Lamble (Richard Thompson's girlfriend Jeannie Franklyn also died). While Fairport Convention continued, they dove straight into traditional English folk tunes and left this brief, beautiful era for good.

Besides Lamble, not even 20 years old, the band at the time had Ashley Hutchings on bass; two guitarists/odd instrumentalists, Simon Nichol and Richard Thompson; and Sandy Denny, taking over the lead vocals after the departure of original singer Iain Matthews. It's Sandy who's the star of Unhalfbricking - she invented the nonsense title; it's her parents, Neil and Edna, pictured (in Wimbledon, no less); and it's her coolly restrained yet incredibly warm voice that you'll first notice when you hear the record.

The material is, shall we say, eccentric? Several loopy covers of obscure Dylan tunes, one traditional ballad, two songs each from Sandy and Richard's pens. Somehow they mesh into a beautifully structured, cohesive record where a gentle humour offsets and heightens the grace of the serious songs. And if I was asked what I found so attractive about folk, I would answer twofold: grace and a powerful quietude.

Genesis Hall contains both those elements; a tale of injustice, prejudice and the oppression of the poor. Restraint is evident everywhere, from Richard's lyric, which refuses to exaggerate, to Lamble's drumming, steady and sure, rising to accent the drama without overwhelming it. There have been many self-assured opening tracks on CD. but the only one I can think of to match the somber expressiveness of Genesis Hall is Nick Drake's Time Has Told Me.

Si Tu Dois Partir is one of the most affectionate Dylan covers to grace the list. "If You Gotta Go, Go Now" is sung in French, in a careless harmony. It's like a lovable bunch of partygoers: they laugh, smash the wineglasses, forget the lines and substitute "la la las" and sing together. It's a very peaceful, goodnatured song - heaven knows what it's actually about.

Autopsy is a Sandy Denny original. It begins at a swift tempo, driven along by guitars before slowing down for an extended, jazzy section featuring gorgeous guitar work. Sandy takes up a clinical study of a depressed, perhaps self-involved friend. Compassion is masked under cautionary advice. Vocally, perhaps Sandy's best showcase herein and fascinating to hear on multiple levels.

A Sailor's Life may seem at first too long. The trick to appreciate its length (11 minutes) is to take it as a painting with each note as a stroke of paint. You can hear the prologue, the ship setting out, the waves rolling, the space, Sandy as the tragic heroine of a ballad of near fable-like simplicity, her voice causing chills before she sinks from sight and the sea takes over completely... Unhalfbricking's center, plus, there's great Thompson guitar and it's a one take recording.

Side 2 gets off to a rollicking start with Cajun Woman. Dave Swarbrick guests with spirited fiddle (he also guests for Si Tu and Percy), he'd later join the band proper. Handclaps, slide guitar, "ba-ooms" a-plenty and a fun lyric from Richard. "He grew up in the bayou with a Bible round his neck/and never loved a woman in the way you would expect." These fellows had a sense of humour, and know when to lighten the mood.

Who Knows Where the Time Goes is Sandy Denny's signature song, one she'd been in the habit of performing the past few years, introduced to the world at large by Judy Collins. "Sad deserted shore/your fickle friends are leaving/ah, but then you know/it's time for them to go/but I will still be here/I have no thought of leaving/I do not count the time..." Sandy could do amazing things with covers. but it's in her original material that her voice best shines. A luminous song.

Rounding out the album with Dylan. Percy's Song. Another dramatic prologue, but overall very formalistic, with the verse and chorus endlessly intertwined. A story of outrageous injustice. a man in a car crash sentenced to 99 years in prison for manslaughter. Myself, I've always speculated (superfluously) if the judge presiding didn't lose someone in that crash...

Million Dollar Bash is the last comedy, Dylan's word soup served up in style with Swarbrick on mandolin and a few men in the band chiming in for the raggedy verses. The party from Si Tu Dois Partir in English and a great way to cap off an incredible record.

Fairport's finest, one of my my favorite CDs, and probably in the top five best "folk" albums ever made.

44th... Ghouls passing in the night...

Juju.

You are looking at the album that inspired this whole darn fest of gothic delirium. I hope you've enjoyed the show. Cut and wrap!

Siouxsie and the Banshees were the original goth band of the new wave. They beat Bauhaus to the punch with an inspired post-punk '78 debut. Interestingly, both Siouxsie Sioux and Peter Murphy turned out as gifted singers once they'd learned how to do it. Juju is the critic's pick for best Banshee record. In 1981 they had their classic lineup: Siouxsie to sing in imperious, angry tones; Budgie the spectacularly talented drummer, who favored a tribal rhythm; Steven Severin the bass player, contributing style and atmosphere and several lyrics; and John McGeogh the guest guitarist. This forms the dead center of the McGeogh trilogy, the Banshees' creative peak. But where Kaleidoscope and A Kiss in the Dreamhouse were highly experimental, Juju was pretty straight. It was a guitar propelled bad dream, a parade of ghouls in the night. Men, women and children are all implicated - even the television is a vehicle for evil. Juju sounds only one note, but the band is fiercely proud of that note and plies it well from start to finish. You could call it variations on a theme.

Spellbound is the instantly memorable single, and a popular, much loved tune. The subject is uneasy - children being possessed - but the relentless propulsion of guitar, bass and drums (getting a unique sound from so typical a set-up) makes it more fun, and more commercial, than anything coming afterwards.

Into the Light is the momentary hesitation, hovering on the edge between light and dark. Siouxsie sounds less like she chooses the darkness and more as if she's set on an irretrievable collision course with it. The die is cast; the claustrophobia inherent to this track dogs the whole album and it becomes quite impassioned. The random hisses and angular guitars give a sense of musical overflow.

Arabian Knights casts aspersions on the Middle East, ranging from "a monstrous oil tanker/its wound bleeding in seas" to its treatment of women "kept as your baby machine." Budgie's heavyhanded drumming redefines primitive and the chorus has a shimmering, diseased beauty that points the way to A Kiss in the Dreamhouse.

Halloween is a thrashier, punkish affair and Siouxsie hearkens back to her old toneless singing style. Memories of "a childish murder" casts doubt on the innocence of children. It's not one of the strongest tracks - frankly, it feels a bit gimmicky.

For sheer attitude, Juju has no better than Monitor. Siouxsie has some great howls and the music is so impressive that it's even better the second time round, when it repeats in encore fashion. "His face was full of intent/and we shook with excitement/then the victim stared up/looked strangely at the screen/as if her pain was our fault/but that's entertainment." Good God, what are they watching?

Night Shift is something of a sordid epic, the band in top form, crafting a wall of sound punctuated with squeals of feedback. Visions of the morgue, a sense of nausea, a narrator irredeemably in love with a murderer - and this isn't even the most distasteful song. That's just ahead.

Sin in My Heart is one of the Banshees' best rockers and eschews any lyrical incidents in favour of more of Siouxsie's howling. Not a whole lot can be said about it but it's not filler by a long shot - it's the only fun track on side 2.

Head Cut is about exactly what it says: severed heads, both real and plaster, not to mention the shrunken ones. Even the Banshees' had their limits - this one's a black comedy, maniacally cheerful, and the darkest Juju gets for that reason.

Last of all is Voodoo Dolly, which wastes the opportunity 9 minutes gives it; instead of a long, involved lyric, we're given a few opaque verses and a whole lot of "listen!"s. Musically, it holds up best at its most restrained. It's probably my fault I don't appreciate it more; I just don't find the notion of voodoo dolls all that frightening.

Overall, I would have to disagree with those critics (hell, I almost always do), as Juju is far too limited in scope to stand as Siouxsie and the Banshees at their very best. Good as it is, their next album would be better still.

43rd... The occult, or a pub band gets carried away...

Black Sabbath.

No credit is given in this CD for "lyricist" and I would have presumed the lyrics to be made by Ozzy Osbourne, simply because he's the singer; however, it turns out that the lyrics on this CD were made up by the bass player. As far as that goes, I'm convinced the man couldn't write. Compared to... anybody... on my blog roll, this guy (and by extension Ozzy) comes across as a subliterate caveman. Therefore, I shall not be quoting a single line from this one. Call me a snob if you like.

Historically, by taking the guitar-heavy blues-rock of Cream and turning it into sludge, dismissing everything the 60s stood for, this 1970 album was adored by disaffected youth, panned by the critics and stood as the birth of heavy metal. Rarely are influence, enthusiasm and criticism all perfectly understandable, but in this case I can see where everybody was coming from.

There's no denying Black Sabbath's influence; there's no denying that the cover art is October dynamite, or that they improved significantly on future records. I would argue that their overlong medleys are where this record really shines, giving them time to wander down any alley they choose, earnestly crafting a soundscape that escapes the more tightly reigned in songs. In that way also, Sabbath becomes an inverted Cream. In a way, they even pioneered the "morbid concept album" that I've been celebrating this month.

Who's who: guitarist Tony Iommi, provider of all the fireworks; Terence "Geezer" Butler on bass as well as lyrics; drummer and percussionist Bill Ward; and Ozzy for harmonica and singing - the latter of which is incredibly distinctive, but quite ugly as well. His voice matches the words he sings, and this gives the listener a choice of interpretation: is the narrative clunky because it's an Everyman incoherent in the face of dark powers, or is it actually a tripping college boy, overtaken with admiration for Aleister Crowley, gone off his nut? Take your pick.

The band keeps it simple, managing to name itself, its debut and its introductory song all Black Sabbath. The opening soundtrack of rain, thunder and tolling bell (think of a funeral) is by far the best part of it, as soon the guitar kicks in, running its dirge-like riff into the ground while the band mutters around Ozzy's paranoid encounter with ultimate evil. Eventually this becomes interminable, at which point the band finally loosens up and rocks like hell, stodgy riff thankfully left behind in the ensuing melee. For menace, nothing beats Ozzy screaming for help as if he really means it, but the good and bad on this one lean heavily against each other.

The Wizard, at four minutes, is the shortest track and an anomaly. The harmonica is what you'll remember; the song is out of place, as the mysterious wizard goes around making people feel happy. Word has it that it's talking about the group's drug dealer. Dealer or benevolent magician as it may be, taking the peril from the equation really messes up the effect and leaves this song as filler to my ears, despite its memorable riff.

First of the medleys is Wasp/Behind the Wall of Sleep/Bassically/N.I.B. It gets off to an agreeably rocking start, though Ozzy's first lines are good for a wince. It evens out pretty soon and the use of imagination helps fill in between the lines - something about being put on trial in dreams. Guitars pause, leaving Bill Ward to fill things out and fade into the next scene. Focus goes over to the bassist, soloing into a handy bridge for the next Ozzy-led bit. The only problem with this segment is Ozzy shouting "oh yeah!" and putting a crimp in the atmosphere. Otherwise, it's quite appealing; it's got jive and energy, it's a love song from Lucifer and the musicians are all in top form. Standout.

Side 2 tries for some sort of social commentary with Wicked World. It's also high on energy, but again, there's something constrained in the layout. It does have a gorgeous bridge, assuming a psychedelic bent that ends in an Iommi solo. Nice touches like that really liven up the proceedings.

Fourteen minutes is given to the last act, which is much too long (the other was only ten!). A Bit of Finger/Sleeping Village/Warning. It's got acoustic guitar and a jew's harp to start, and the best lyric by far, an evocative and sadly short fragment before it's back to the usual suspect: heavy metal. Again, the music wanders about, hooking onto a riff, a tune, before moving on, getting a new tempo, cutting back to the last bit and expecting you to keep it all straight. Ozzy gets back into the game, this time with a diatribe against the devil as a woman. At least, I think that's what he's on about. It's not as good as the N.I.B. segment was, going on much too long, though when the group gets into an uptempo place, the result is good music.

Without further adieu, the whole record ceases there. Verdict? It's always good to hear a groundbreaking musical act, but to equate groundbreaking with genius would be a mistake. Black Sabbath was a nifty idea, but in my opinion, one deeply flawed in execution. I'd say if you're looking for heavy rock with claustrophobic and occult tendencies, you'd be better off trying their follow-up Paranoid, or Bowie's Man Who Sold the World. If you want the best of the guitar rock groups of the era, Led Zeppelin's the real deal. But then, I'm less than ideally suited to Sabbath, placing so much weight in lyrics. This still comes recommended as a necessary excerpt in the history of rock.

42nd... gnash those teeth and watch the bones...

Bone Machine.

In 1992, it had been about five years since Tom Waits had released a studio album (Franks Wild Years), when he stepped into the Prairie Sun Recording studios in C.A. and created this monster album of songs every bit as morbid and frightful as the cover art indicates. He sang it in a voice that could be called ugly and just as easily (well, to some of us) be called beautiful. He even released two music videos, primitive accompaniments to an album made with as few instruments as possible (often just percussion, guitar and some upright bass); music stripped back almost to the bones. Yes, he recorded and produced it all in a studio, but did so in the cellar - complete with cement floor and hot water heater. As Tom said "it's got some good echo."

The punchline: this most difficult music, the darkest chapter in his career and not something to sit easily on a person's mind, won the Grammy for Best Alternative Music album. Isn't that nice?

People new to the music of Tom Waits, however, may well be inclined to shut it off before they reach track five, since Tom makes you work for the music. The most punishing tracks are lumped together right at the start (except for In the Colosseum), and only after that can a certain amount of "entertainment" be had.

Earth Died Screaming is where it begins, mostly with percussion that sounds like rattling bones - it would be plain silly, except the imagery invoked is...well... "and the great day of wrath has come/and here's mud in your big red eye/the poker's in the fire/the locusts take the sky." Did I mention his way with words? The transfer from his indifferent account of apocalypse to the impassioned chorus is even more unsettling.

Dirt in the Ground is classic Waits in the ballad style, the piano and clarinet and upright bass making it beautiful to hear. It's also a treatise on how death undoes all of life's meaning and Tom sounds absolutely wounded to sing it. "What does it matter, a dream of love/or a dream of lies/we're all gonna be in the same place when we die." It doesn't get any better.

Such a Scream is not as bad as it may sound - it's music as cacophony, percussion and saxophone vying for your attention while the lyric goes on almost tunelessly about a bizarre, possibly invented woman.

And then there's noise. Very interesting, but it might be a bit much for the unwary. Persevere! All Stripped Down is the first entertaining song - it's infectious, catchy, Tom sings it in a ridiculous high pitch and it's even got elements of a rather surreal kind of love song.

Now things are alright. That doesn't mean it's any happier. Who Are You is the bleeding heart ballad of the set (Tom has a stable of characters in his world, guises donned for whatever the next story is). Who Are You sneaks in a perfect reference to bones, deliberately tying it into the concept, despite the song being addressed to a duplicitous woman. Sung with such sincerity, filled with telling details and antagonism, it's an immediate highlight.

The Ocean Doesn't Want Me is a monologue, briefly recited as a man contemplates drowning, hungers for it, yet is turned back at the last by a faint unease. I defy you to listen to it and not get chills.

Jesus Gonna Be Here is standard acoustic blues, and damn! does he ever replicate the style of the old bluesmen. Unfortunately, I don't much care for the repetition of the blues so this song, of them all, really leaves me cold.

Contrast with the piano driven A Little Rain, a world weary yet comforting intermission. Loss hangs over the fragmented characters of the song, yet the narrator assert "a little trouble makes it worth the going/and a little rain never hurt no one."

In the Colosseum is mainly a tour of carnage and a lot of drums, played by someone humorously called "Brain." Tom plays chamberlain and conundrum and the song leaves a bad taste in the mouth, as any contemplation of the Roman games should...

At this point, I remember thinking I had the album pegged, I knew the themes and how it all tied together. Well, in fact I didn't know anything about it, because Goin' Out West was next. A fuzz drenched guitar rock track (still with only upright for the bass) with a lyric so overly macho that it becomes the only comedic passage. There's still some menace, but no death and the song comes as both a relief and a shock.

Murder in the Red Barn is the best song to sum up Bone Machine - it's got his all-in-a-day's-work recital tone, it's got a banjo (!), percussion (including what sounds like a rocking chair) and upright bass and that's it, and the lyric is monumental. Here's just a snatch of the enigmatic happenings: "someone's crying in the woods/someone's burying all his clothes/now Slam the Crank from Wheezer/slept outside last night and froze." There's at least seven pertinent characters and a ton of confusing events. It's great. You'll never figure it out.

Black Wings sports a fuller sound with two guitars, maracas and a music solo that allows you to draw breath. A western, starring a dark angel type of cowboy awash in Biblical imagery. An exceptional interlude, "and the fenceposts/in the moonlight look like bones."

Piano balladry makes a final flourish on Whistle Down the Wind, about a man who has remained all his life out in the prairie. You can feel the lachrymose desolation. David Hidalgo of A Hawk and a Handsaw guests with accordion and violin, adding to the lugubrious sense of lost time.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up is an astoundingly quick attack on the adult world by a very disenchanted youth, putting down the rat race, the superficial comforts, the futility "nothing out there but sad and gloom." Since everyone on record so far is either damaged or dead, it's perfectly in keeping with the concept. Simple song, just more bass and guitar, yet very catchy.

Let Me Get Up On It is a percussion experiment that doesn't even last a whole minute and has an inaudible lyric. What was the point? It's Tom Waits' world - stuff like that is part and parcel for him.

That Feel is notable for being co-written and with backing vocals from Keith Richards. It's an ode to "the one thing you can't lose," some indestructible feeling that - apparently - can survive everything on Bone Machine. So you're not left in the lurch; you're bid farewell with a teary sing-along.

That is that. That's Tom Waits at his most consistently morbid, more or less. There's far more to Waits' World than this bag of bones though. There are diners and waitresses, musical theaters helped out by Alice in Wonderland and William S. Burroughs (not, alas, at the same time), sailors, booze, true love, crime and rain. Lots of rain. Any one album is only the tip of the iceberg with this guy. If you're just starting out and like the sound of this one, by all means try it out.

41st... A non-linear gothic drama hyper-cycle

Outside.

The heading of this post is the subtitle of this 1995 outing from David Bowie. After his notorious 80s slump, he came out with a fine set of 90s albums before taking up retirement in the early years of the new millennium. Properly titled 1. Outside, first in a proposed trilogy, is the most ambitious of the 90s products and the finest. Considering that Scary Monsters is overrated and Lodger daft, I would be willing to call Outside his best album since "Heroes."

A word of warning: unless you are tremendously fond of William S. Burroughs, Kathy Acker or the cyberpunks, do NOT read the booklet or you'll be put right off. Those who like that kind of thing are in for a treat. The concept involves... fear of the millennium (the story is set in 1999), madness, suicide cults, grisly performance art, a "detective professor," the art murder of a 14 year old girl and maybe some aliens. A sample: "Yea. I remember Ramona. She set herself up as the no-future priestess of the Caucasian Suicide Temple, vomiting out her doctrine of death-as-eternal-party into the empty vessels of Berlin youth."

So comes 74 minutes in a musical style that critics sometimes dismiss as a grunge send-up. The band? Brian Eno the sound painter came up with his usual bag of "treatments and strategies," while no less than Mike Garson reappeared with his expressive piano playing - and David Bowie always got the most out of his sidemen. Notable on guitar is Reeves Gabrels, whilst longtime bandmate Carlos Alomar retains the rhythm guitar. There are others I won't go into.

1. Outside is a film in sound - so dim the lights and concentrate.

Cinematic fade-in, as if the music has been going on for several minutes, piano tinkling away as if in some futurist lounge or lobby. It's called Leon Takes Us Outside. Who is Leon? Perhaps the shadowy ghoul who graces the back cover? His is the first voice you hear, muttering key dates. Martin Luther King Day. August. 1999. Midwinter. Etc. Unsettling as it is, it serves purely as a segue from silence.

Outside is where things begin. One minute of this was all anyone needed to know David was back at the top. If this is grunge, it's filtered through layers of art-rock. Again a confusion of dates, "now/not tomorrow/yesterday/not tomorrow." What does it all mean? No idea, but the bleak and melancholy atmosphere, the stately and sweeping music carry you past the enigma. People say Nathan Adler, private eye, was David's latest persona, but I disagree. It's not Adler who narrates these songs. He'll show up much later.

The Heart's Filthy Lesson owes a lot to Nine Inch Nails. Grunge guitar abounds, but the moodsetter is in fact Garson's piano, pounding into your mind one minute one minute, then backing off and becoming frail and silent. It was an unlikely single with a sepia toned, nightmarish video I'd advise you track down. Rather than play the death cult up for all it's worth, this anonymous narrator is divided, relishing the tangible sickness of his world and life, then severing off to cry "oh Patty/I think I've lost my way." Whoever this Patty is does not get into the liner notes. Nor does the narrator, for that matter...

A Small Plot of Land changes tactic. Mike Garson leads the relentless rhythm section as the narrator points to another victim, this one a man with "two innocent eyes," spat upon and resented. The music takes on the electronic voices and stamping of a crowd, the title perhaps referring to the small plot on which the man loses his life....

There are segues placed strategically across this album, all voice acting done by David, of course. They form chapter breaks, in my mind. Segue - Baby Grace (A Horrid Cassette) is the narrative of the 14 year old, perhaps tape recorded as her final, drugged up testament before being murdered. Oh, there's music to these segues for texture, but scarcely as a comforting distraction. Meanwhile this child has the wizened voice of an old woman...

An explosion cuts the cassette off and leads into one of the only full rockers on the record, Hallo Spaceboy. Broken snatches of pre-recorded voices thread in and out of a soundscape with pummeling drums and guitar jumping from one speaker to the other. If it's not about aliens or astronauts, then it must be the most abstract, hallucinogenic event in the "story."

Mike Garson once said The Motel was his twenty-five-years-later version of Lady Grinning Soul, and if you want beauty in a soundscape where little can be found, this is the reprieve. The exhausted, desperate reprieve. The hero seems almost sane, recognizing the limitations and artifice of the world around him.

I Have Not Been to Oxford Town finds him in jail for the murder of Baby Grace. The funky, if angular, rhythms make this one of the most appealing songs included - it's even got handclaps, the old standby of accessibility. This is where Nathan Adler steps in, leading back into the hazy storyline while the one in jail ruminates on his position.

No Control is a direct follow-up: "Stay away from the future/back away from the light/it's all deranged/no control." The music on this record is so dense that it's euphoric to listen to but beyond my ability to describe, so I must focus on the dread, the obsessive blending of past, present and future, the fear of powerlessness and the mystery of who exactly the narrator is addressing.

Segue - Algeria Touchshriek takes time away for the soliloquy of an old man. There's enough in this clip for a good short story, but it's a brief note with no apparent relation to the plot at hand. It does prove that the whole cityscape is crazy: "My shop sells aid shows off the see saws and empty females."

The psychotic chapter comes next. The narrator is back, the pace picks up and carries him forward in a frenzy. How'd he get out of jail? We'll never know. The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty) encases his mad, broken ravings, his sudden fear and distaste towards women rising to incoherency, hinting at lab experiments.

Segue - Ramona A. Stone/I Am With Name is segue and song combined as sheer lunacy. With a voice like a cyborg and sporting a bad mid-life crisis, Ramona is like a nightmare, yet there's something vain and theatrical about her as well. The segue overlaps into music made of assorted industrial noises. There is applause. Someone screams out. The narrator becomes unintelligible and the musings of Nathan Adler intervene, turning this into Outside's harshest song.

For Wishful Beginnings, I will say little. It's a testament to David Bowie that he could make so distasteful a character pitiable. It's his singing that allows this excessive postmodern gothic to be believable.

We Prick You shows the narrator split in two by his madness. Schizophrenic phrasing, fantasies of violence, memories of incestuous desires, and yet, pulling against these terrors is an obscured line that repeats through the song until it becomes benevolent. Musically, this fractured psychosis is amazing to hear.

Taking a needed break from the threatening, sex-ridden monster the narrator's become, it's time for Segue - Nathan Adler. His monologue ties Ramona, Touchshriek and Leon together (sort of) while again failing to identify the narrator or that mysterious extra character. David voice-acting a hard-boiled detective somehow comes across as deeply funny, it's so over-the-top and out of place.

I'm Deranged is breathtaking. David's singing on this drawn-out lament for sanity is shiver-inducing. It also functions as a key moment of self-realization for the presumed protagonist.

Things take an abruptly sunny turn with Thru' These Architects Eyes. "All the majesty of a city landscape/all the soaring days in our lives/all the concrete dreams in my mind's eye..." The tune speaks of a degree of peace, despite the bitter railing against his actual job. It's an about-face so startling that it's difficult to make sense of. It's the most Musically, it's the most upbeat the album's been since Oxford Town, but there's still that manic edge; perhaps his madness is not shed, it's simply taken another form....

It's time for Segue - Nathan Adler again. 27 seconds to drum up the real connection between Ramona and Leon, not that it's all that shocking. Not worth the addition? Then why is it there?

As if 70 minutes were not enough, David decided to re-work the song Strangers When We Meet from his Buddha of Suburbia album. Having no part in this violent "hyper-cycle" it's out of place, as if a window has been thrown open. Though a sad song, it seems warm, healthfully wistful and full of life coming on the heels of Outside. It could be interpreted as a philosophical nudge, David's way of saying "this was a simple theater presentation and I am just a songwriter."

However, the greatest aspect of a concept like Outside is the width of interpretation. I took the first person, linear approach but you could take the "non-linear" sub-title to heart: for example, it could end with Oxford Town. Or you could take to the notion that the songs are told through multiple viewpoints. You could even do it over in Jungian style, if you were so inclined.

If you've a mind to skip the concept and enjoy the music, that's also an option. It's how I did it the first time. Any way you parse it, it makes for great music and a good story, if fully aware of its own derangement. Maybe that's why there wasn't a 2. Maybe remaining in a world like that for so long would be too much of an effort.

It left one incredible CD, anyway. And it gave me a devil of a time trying to find the words for reviewing it.* This is not music for all tastes and your mileage may vary. If this review sounded unpleasant, I'd advise you skip this CD and check out a different 90s effort, such as Hours or Black Tie White Noise, which are much more pleasant.

Stay tuned for next week's October inspired nightmare.

*Hence much Tuesday editing...

40th.... Dark obsessions and death knells

From Her To Eternity.

There was once an Australian rock group called The Birthday Party - I have not heard them, but I like to imagine their music as a bracing, volatile extravaganza of darkness so terrible it had to either split or consume its creators. Whether this myth is true, the band did split and from the ashes, in 1983, came Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Nick Cave believed himself a poet, appreciated the stylings of gospel music as well as rock, was a heroin addict and appears to have been fascinated by America's myths of violence. He had the idea for a new band, and together with fellow Birthday Party-er Mick Harvey, came up with the Bad Seeds, the original line-up of which included Barry Adamson from Magazine and Blixa Bargeld, the howling frontman from Germany's Einsturzende Neubauten. The band's debut in 1984 set up a clear sound and purpose. Angular, post-punk thrash with plain old noise thrown in for the hell of it, the music sounds menacing, dangerous at close quarters. Nick is at the center of all proceedings, shrieking and contorting, proclaiming like some manic prophet of the damned...

So October is my month for psychotic music. And Nick's first record was his scariest; slowly but surely a sense of melody, balladry and even tenderness crept into his bleak worldview, leading to a run of eloquent, finely wrought and somewhat mannered albums in the 90s. In the beginning his gothic tales are unrelieved by beauty, grace or mawkishness. Everything that comes on From Her to Eternity is ugly and brutal.

It begins with silence. Then the silence gives way to a cover of Leonard Cohen's Avalanche. In an ironic shift, where the original had no drums on it (Leonard was probably still traumatized by what his producer did to So Long, Marianne) Nick's rendition is driven by lengthy drum rolls that rush up to your ears like the tide. The original functions as a cold put-down to a lover's pretensions; Nick's emotive and controlled delivery sounds like he's fighting the urge to strangle her. This ranks up there with the best cover songs of all time: it completely reinvents the song.

Cabin Fever! is one of the best examples of noise-rock I can think of. It's a destructive song; it's letting the beast out. Blixa's influence is clear, especially as Nick lets loose with his best contortionist screaming, choking on the awful details of life at sea. It's a highly ominous and deranged, somewhat brilliant and tuneless monstrosity. The best part is either the horror movie piano (like a primal, sped up Sense of Doubt) or the suggestion at the end that the ship and crew sank a long while ago....

Well of Misery slows the pace to a crawl, based on the old chain-gang song - a line is sung and parroted by the band in somber, deadened tones. The gothic version of a well and bucket: "it swings slow and aching like a bell/and its toll is dead and hollow." Driving over the music is the percussion equivalent of a flogging. You get five minutes of mind-numbing repetitions in the lyrics, the bass line and the rhythm, alleviated only by the branches of harmonica and other noise in the band.

The classic From Her to Eternity is next, and it's a prime example of the Bad Seeds' abilities: as soon as the drums sound, you know something bad is going to happen. Random machine noises emphasize the violence of the narrative: an obsession so throttling that murder is the only way out.

The album on reissue is hereby cut in half to include a single of In the Ghetto. It's a respectful rendition and points toward the impassioned balladry of later years. Unfortunately, 1: Nick is a great singer, but he is no Elvis and 2: Mac Davis was no Nick Cave. It's just too simple to fit in with the literate ravings found elsewhere.

The flipside of the single was The Moon is in the Gutter, a bluesy vignette of city slum miasma. "The moon is in the gutter/and the stars wash down the sink," is good imagery. "The moon blind my eye with opal cataracts," is not so good. But it is an example of Nick's habit for overwriting. Oh well. Listen for a cut in from Wordsworth!

Those songs are curios, but they do make a difference to the pacing and restore lucidity just when you thought he couldn't do anything but froth at the mouth. It's back to the album proper with Saint Huck. "If you wanna catch a saint/then bait your hook/let's take a walk." Now this is punk. Nick plays devil's advocate, taking American icon Huckleberry Finn, luring him into the big city, dragging him to the bottom and annihilating him there. Who did this Australian think he was? The band drives forward relentlessly, alternating spare claustrophobia with heavier rock, and who can forget Nick's yodel once they've heard it?

For percussion, Wings Off Flies utilizes a man either nailing a picture or a coffin... Nick sing-speaks this one like he's at a poetry reading in someone's cellar. Musically, it's no great shakes, but it does have black humour going for it.

At a whopping nine minutes, A Box for Black Paul is the outstanding moment - after a mob kills Black Paul, Nick relates the details, sometimes with vitriol, sometimes with plaintive sympathy. "Who threw the first stone at Black Paul?" The song progresses quietly enough, showing the witnesses to have no pity for the dead man and as it continues, the story takes on a supernatural tinge. Paul's last words are a perfect touch and the reserve in both music and singing makes this last track the very best.

Because this is the reissue, there's a live version of From Her to Eternity attached. In 1987, Cave fan Wim Wenders made a film called Der Himmel Uber Berlin, known in English as Wings of Desire. The Bad Seeds showed up for a performance at the end of the film (they were one of the highlights, by the way) and their fiery rendition of this song holds up well against the original.

In the 80s, when all the old guard of rock music were selling out and becoming insufferable, it was left to the underground artists to make the decade seem worthwhile. Nick Cave was among these groups, and while I can't advise any but noise-rock aficionados starting with this CD, I have to admit it's a far more visceral experience than his later work. The secret to liking his music, I've found, is to buy into his worldview, to believe his visions, at least for the duration of the visit. Do that and you've got some awesome listening experiences ahead of you, not least of which is this frightening original statement.

39th... The return

Fashionably Late.

Among the practitioners of folk music, there were few 70s acts who were as dark and challenging as the music of Richard and Linda Thompson. When that partnership dissolved in the early 80s, Linda, who was beginning to suffer from hysterical dysphonia, retreated from the scene. After her solo debut in 1985, there was silence.

In 2002, to the delight of the folk community, she returned with album Fashionably Late, an ironic but positive title for a collection of songs that capture the great singer in the same territory she'd previously mapped out - there's a hearkening to the themes of the old English ballads that is, if anything, more pronounced than it was back in the 70s, as if the more time passes, the further back she reaches for inspiration. The mood of the album is therefore antiquated and gloomy, the latter enhanced by the subtle touch of frailty in Linda's voice.

Despite her long absence, no one had forgotten her and the guest list for Fashionably Late is stunning. The greatest presence is her son Teddy Thompson, who co-wrote several of the songs, sang backups and played acoustic guitar. Daughter Kamila also contributed backing vocals. Folk singer-songwriter Kate Rusby, Rufus Wainwright and sister Martha, Richard Thompson, Dave Pegg from Fairport Convention, Danny Thompson (no relation) contributing his fabulous double bass.... Even Philip Pickett of the New London Consort gets in on this act! Linda got the red carpet for this one. When a legend returns, this kind of turnout should always result.

Dear Mary is one of those "you'll get your comeuppance" songs. Its great comfort is in the gentle harmonising - the whole Thompson family is here and they blend beautifully. Richard even contributes some lovely electric guitar to the piece. With some tasteful percussion, it starts the record off properly.

Miss Murray takes for its subject the death of a lonely woman and is properly a dirge. Kate Rusby contributes childlike backups that provide a deep poignancy concurrent with the sorrows the lyric tells of. Linda's voice gathers strength and clarity as the song progresses; the end result is exquisitely moving.

All I See comes close to folk-rock. It's got drums and keyboard and electric guitar to sport a much fuller sound. Teddy wrote the piece, which might explain it. With the Wainwright siblings backing her, this dirge manages to be exquisite as well, taking that cliched old chestnut about pining away despite the crowd and making it sincere once more.

Nine Stone Rig is based on an old (and faked) Scottish ballad. It's got all the prerequisites: rivalry, murder, dying for love... It's extremely spare, just some great acoustic guitar from John Doyle, and Danny Thompson's basswork. With its stormy swiftness it forms an excellent change of pace.

Happy songs are few and far between on Fashionably Late. Actually, No Telling is the only one that qualifies. An old beggar at the end of the line is saved by hearing a love song. If that sounds corny as hell, believe me, it's not. It's actually an exceptional moment of deliverance amid the scattered stories of failed human lives.

Evona Darling is an adaptation of a Lal Waterson tune called Yvonne Ah Darling. It's a duet with Teddy and the opposite of Dear Mary. This cold young woman is predicted a future of redemption.

That's it; now pleasantries are cast aside and it's back to sorrow and misfortune.The Banks of the Clyde features Northumbrian small-pipes. A woman reminisces about going astray in London and how much she longs for Scotland and her mother's arms. But there will be no fresh start in this song, merely a cold, dismal, aching retreat from a life which has failed her. Singularly depressing song.

Weary Life picks up the pace with crumhorns, mandolin and drums. The last woman longed for family ties, and this song cruelly slaps down that wish with a pessimistic view of married life. Nobody's happy, though this one does have a bleak humour.

The most amazing song is Paint and Powder Beauty, a humane and tragic account of a lady of the night. Linda's best singing is on this one. She never falters, it's a time capsule to Linda as she was and is absolutely breathtaking. But better still is the string arranger: Robert Kirby, returning to the field "for the first time in 25 years." He once arranged the strings for Nick Drake, and has lost none of his talents. These twin facts make Paint and Powder Beauty the most stunning song herein.

It ends with Dear Old Man of Mine, an empty room kind of song. She sings; Teddy plays guitar; Kamila backs her voice. It was hearing this one song on internet radio that made me buy this CD. It is a haunting piece of work.

Folk is a niche market and, sadly, it's only those who are already invested in it who will pay this sort of album any attention. What a comeback. Now I need to find a copy of her follow-up, Versatile Heart.